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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
haechan sloppily jerking himself off in front of a mirror as he watches the video he took of you sucking him off is all i can think abt right now — kay
he’d keep looking back and forth from his screen to the reflection wondering why you weren’t there with him. you should be on your knees, a fist full of hair in his grip, his other hand dutifully slapping your cheek when you come up for air. & he can nearly hear you gagging if he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, his fist acting like a vice. he’d tease himself too, watching how fucked out he can get on his own hand. then he’ll start sending videos. at first it’s just a peek — something for you so save in a personal collection. but the closer he is to cumming, the more he wants you to see him. see what you do to him. the thoughts, the video, it’s all too much, and it’s making him dizzy. the hollowing of your cheeks on the video as you suck the last of his cum down your throat has him painting his own chest in white. ropes of it emptying onto any spare inch of pretty tan skin. and then he’ll send a final video. he’s puffing breaths between bitten-up, swollen lips, soft cheeks tinged a pale pink - sticky cum glistening from the camera light. his voice is hoarse & gruff when he speaks, “baby, look- all this wasted when it should be in you.”
now y’all,,, i always thought of haechan having a high sex drive. before he fucks you, he likes to make you cum by eating you out first. he likes to slide his cock in when your pussy is practically soaking and clenching from overstimulation. he can go rounds and he knows you can too,, knowing you will tell him to stop if need be, vocalizing your safe word.
speaking of vocalizing, he loves when you’re verbal. he loves hearing his names leaving your throat and all the pretty sounds you make as he pleasures you. and if ure a hyuck stan you know that mf has a praise/degrading kink, it’s not news!!!! not only does your praises boost his ego but he gets off of it, he loves when you call him your good boy or when you tell him you’re making me feel so good, it rly sets off his submissive side bc you can’t tell me haechan isn’t a switch bffr
now… haechan’s kinks would be bondage, masochism, and orgasm control,,,, THATS WHAT I THINK. and it would be both ways, he loves being tied up and so do you. haechan isn’t afraid to try new things in your sex life, he trusts you and you trust him. sex is all about mutual respect and trust in your partner. he’s also not shy to ask to try new things and doesn’t get butt hurt when you tell him no. bc he loves you too much and cares for you. he doesn’t mind using toys but you both rarely do. he doesn’t prefer using them. he also wouldn’t care if you use them, he actually thinks it’s hot as fuck bc you once told him you only think of him when using them. and with watching porn, he watches them but he has a lot of videos of you guys to watch and jack off to. both of you like to take videos occasionally during sex, he loves when your ass is up and he’s ramming inside you with his phone in his hand and flash on, seeing you creaming his cock with your juices and your ass bouncing each thrust. ofc the videos are saved in a very hidden album in both ur phones.
aftercare w haechan is urs and his favorite. after you both calmed your breathing down and cooled off your sweaty bodies after lying in bed cuddled up together, you both make your way to the bathroom. haechan would order you to pee while he sets up the shower to the right temperature, then grabbing you both clothes and setting it on the counter. it’s a nice hot shower to relax your muscles. he always washes your hair for you and you first. sharing a few kisses here and there like the cuties you are. washing your bodies with a cloth, he hands you the cloth to clean around your center bc he knows it’s still sensitive and he doesn’t want to make you uncomfy. after you both are clean, he would make you his famous ramen as you both share a bowl of rice while watching a kdrama that you both started together on netflix.
[23:33] The sweet taste of caramel has you smiling against Haechan’s soft lips, savoring every small moan and whimper he lets out. His hands roam your sides, soon wandering under your shirt in his attempt to pull you closer. Arms around his neck, you can’t help but entangle your fingers in his soft and fluffy locks. You gently pull at his hair, a pleased feeling spreading in your chest when he breathes out a soft gasp, hands freezing in surprise and his grip on your waist tightening.
The movie plays on in the background, long forgotten, drowned out by the sinful sound of his lips on yours, the heat between you two slowly rising. His delightful, melodic moans grow louder as you straddle his hips, his hips meeting yours halfway when you grind down on him. He tugs at your hoodie, a brief warning before he pulls it up, bunching it up at your chest, waiting for you to pull away before taking them off. Goosebumps rise all over your body and you’re not sure if it’s because of the unexpected coldness from the sudden exposure or because you and Haechan have never gone further than where you two assumed the other drew the line.
His lips leave yours and you shiver, a whine caught in your throat as you realize his lips trailing kisses on your jaw, leading all the way to your neck. He bites down, surely leaving a mark that’ll last for a while and you whimper in surprise, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
“We can stop this here, baby,” he murmurs, breathing heavily.
You shake your head, ghosting your lips under his ear before pulling back to see his face. “No, no. I- I want to.”
He’s hesitant, so worried, wanting to make sure you have no regrets. He looks at you, his big, doe eyes staring into yours, asking you all the questions he does not voice out.
“I want you,” you whisper breathlessly.
Hands snaking around your thighs, he stands up, your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, as he makes his way to the bedroom. When he lays you down on the bed, he kisses you ever so softly, like he’s treading on thin ice but you kiss him back with so much passion that he thinks falling into the water, drowning in your feverish kisses and warm embrace would be even better. His hands roam your figure gently, like he’s afraid of breaking you, whispering praises and showering you with compliments.
His lips dive back into yours, shamelessly taking your breath away, but you think if this is what it means to be drunk in someone’s love, then you’re not sure you ever want to be sober again.
riding haechan nice and slow, just grinding down on him with your hands on his chest. and at first it felt good, really good, but it’d feel even better if you just went a little bit faster. and haechan makes this known when his fingers tap on your hips.
“baby, i promise it feels really really good, heavenly even, but please can you go faster?” he has a pout and you so badly want to laugh and kiss him, but it really wouldn’t be like you if you didn’t tease him first.
“want more?” you bat your eyelashes at him, leaning back so now your hands aren’t on him and instead on your thighs.
“yes please yes.” he whispers, leaning his head back.
“hmm i don’t know,” you move your hips in slow circles now, holding eye contact. “i think i really like this pace.” your hands slide up your waist to cup your tits, playing with them.
“please.”
and as much as you live to tease him, depriving your ears of his beautiful whimpers won’t do.
your eyes are closed and brain fogged, all of your able consciousness transferring itself from a dream-state to reality. the room is bright behind your eyelids, and sunshine warms your sticky body from under the bedsheets, you’re bare from the waist down.
becoming aware that you’re naked, you recall a reason from the night before, but it isn’t until you open your eyes that you can piece the puzzle together.
your heart drops when you don’t recognize the frame on the wall, or the humidifier in the corner, or anything in the room at all. you were terribly drunk last night, and you fear that your influenced brain may have made a mistake.
you turn over in the bed, knees bumping with another being. he shuffles at the touch, and you quickly recognize his face, now educated with who he is and why you’re here. you’re no longer scared, but rather relieved at the sight of him.
he’s gorgeous. pink dyed hair messily clinging around his forehead and over his pillow, and similarly pink lips are parted in an ‘0’ shape above his chin. his collarbones are sharp against his skin, proving him to be shirtless beneath the blanket—and it’s unaware to you that you’re the one who wears it instead.
one of his arms supports the weight of his head between the pillow, and the other one is extended toward you, ghosting the shell of your waist, almost like it was draped around you during the night.
as if he feels the burn of your gaze through his tired state, his eyes flutter open, squinting from the light and the headache of his hangover.
‘hey’ he speaks out to you, deep morning voice sounding frail in the position of his throat, just above a whisper. his fingertips just barely graze your skin, like he wanted to grab your hip and pull you closer, but chickened out halfway through the movement. “hi” you respond quietly.
there’s a moment of silence as you look into his eyes, an unspoken question being conveyed between the two of you. you shuffle closer, switching from your pillow, to joining his head on his own.
your nose brushes his, faces now just centimeters apart, and you wrap an arm around his soft and bare torso. his eyes glisten in the morning sunshine, and his breath halts in his throat, anticipating your next move after move, all while his heart is beating fast in his chest.
“what did you convince me to do last night?” you question, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively. he follows your movements, his toned bicep now brushing against your back as he embraces you. “nothing you didn’t want to do.” he playfully responds, once again brushing your noses together.
he wins a giggle out of you as your flirtatious heart beats loudly in your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you admit, “from the party, to here, to what happened after.” your lips just ghost over his, speaking right into his mouth without forming a real kiss.
his fingertips graze your neck before gliding down your body, all the way to your hip, giving it a little squeeze. “well lucky for you, I remember it all quite clearly,” he lowers his hand just a bit further, now massaging the skin of your ass, “should I remind you?”
“I don’t know,” you reply hesitantly, your own hands finding home on his biceps where you stroke the muscle, “I have homework to do today.”
donghyuck continues to knead the soft skin of your ass, his head dipping into your neck to suck on the skin there. “you can do it later.” he says between kisses, and you gasp when he grinds into you, the hard outline of his cock rubbing over your bare core, nothing but the cotton material of his boxers between the two of you.
you suppress a moan with another response, “you don’t have to remind me,” you whine when he grinds over you again, the outside of his boxers now stained with your essence, “it probably wasn’t that good if I don’t remember it.”
donghyuck cackles from next to your ear, biting it softly before returning face to face with you. he grasps your throat and chin, grinding his hard cock into you for a third time. “should I ask my roommates how good it was?” he presses an open mouth kiss on your lips, tongue dipping inside to taste your own. “you were loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood, angel.”
“okay,” you finally moan loudly when he kisses you again, tongues pressing against one another in a hot-white-need, “remind me then.”
[8:46 am] Donghyuck intently chews on two random pieces of candy you had popped into his mouth, trying to figure out their flavors.
“Strawberry and Watermelon!” he guesses, catching your jaw drop in affirmation, laughing when Donghyuck fist pumps the air in self victory.
“Give me a hard one this time,” he implores, growing in confidence, eyes already closed and ready when he’s taken aback by a familiar peach scent followed by your soft lips pressed against his own, a lingering taste of your lip balm when you slowly pull away.
“So what’s your guess?” you ask with a coy smile.
“I think I need to try that again,” he proposes, tugging you closer,as your eyes narrow playfully.
Kiss. “One more?”
Kiss. “Again?”
Kiss. “Last one?”
“You still have to guess,” you giggle, pulling away before he could deepen the kiss any further, and a small whine slips past into a pout before he reluctantly gives in.
He draws his brows to feign deep thought yet his eyes wander back to your lips. They were soft, pink and completely tempting in the way you were subconsciously licking them in heated anticipation and Donghyuck matches responsively with a restraint bite of his lips.
“Hm, well it tastes sweet,” he thinks aloud, tipping your chin towards him as his thumb studies the curve of your lips while his own hovers teasingly close. “Just the way I like them.”
You suggestively raise a brow at him. “Want another taste?”
“Yes please,” Donghyuck hastily breathes against your mouth before closing in and indulges on the familiar taste of the peach lip balm you like so much and how they part to let him delve deeper, a shy moan slipping out muffled by his own low moans. He pulls you unto his lap. His hand’s eagerly sprawl upside your body landing on your bare waist under your shirt.
“So what’s the verdict?” you ask, breathless.
“You,” he groans quietly into your mouth. “You taste good, baby.”
I feel like haechan is the type to tease you about how good youre feeling even though his body is literally on fire.
Hes cooing at you and telling you to take it easy, when he rlly wants to nibble on your neck so his whimpers don’t escape, and it feels so good he needs something to bite down on.
His hands on ur hips to ground himself. Nothing in his mind but youu. and the promise he made to always take care of you first.
So he bites his lip every time, except for in missionary. He can’t have you seeing him so lost in it. so he kisses you..
But the truth is
he’s literally whiny from start to finish… top to bottom. He just doesn’t realize it because he’s drowning in pleasure.
So he’s usually saying,
“I’m not a moaner”
…
“uh huh..” you say, immediately averting your gaze.
You know he’d try to glue his mouth shut if you argued.
── the white lines in the parking lot are crooked. you’ve noticed it before—the one between your space and the next curves ever so slightly, like the painter had grown careless toward the end of the job. you’ve learned to angle your car to match it. haechan hasn’t.
it’s a thursday night when you find his black sedan sprawled over both spaces, the hood angled like it’s posing for a photo no one asked for. he’s taken yours—your number painted in neat white digits on the asphalt—without hesitation, without apology.
you stand there in the still, cold air, keys heavy in your hand. somewhere above, muffled by concrete, you hear his laugh. it’s the kind of sound that feels like someone has tapped you on the shoulder without warning—light, but irritating in a way you can’t shake.
by the time you drag yourself upstairs, the laughter has moved into the hallway. he’s there, outside his door, hood up, scrolling on his phone like the building belongs to him.
“you’re in my spot,” you say.
he looks up, one eyebrow lifting. “pretty sure asphalt isn’t personal property.”
“it’s numbered,” you point out, holding up your key fob like it’s proof of something meaningful.
“yeah, well,” he slips his phone into his hoodie pocket, “you weren’t using it.”
it’s still strange sometimes, living across the hall from him. you’d known who he was before you moved in—not personally, but in the way everyone vaguely knows an idol. you’d seen his face in subway ads, grinning under flawless lighting, and in those hyper-edited music videos your younger cousin wouldn’t stop replaying. now he’s just haechan from across the hall, the one who leaves his laundry in the communal dryer too long, who forgets to take in his packages until they pile up like building blocks, who sings under his breath while checking his mailbox. he’s almost normal until you remember he isn’t.
the hallway smells faintly of burnt toast—probably from his kitchen. you imagine him leaving bread in too long just to annoy you. he smirks like he can tell you’re thinking something unpleasant about him.
“i’ll move it tomorrow,” he says, already turning his key.
“tonight,” you correct.
he glances over his shoulder, grin widening. “i like you better when you’re mad.”
the door shuts. the faint click of his lock lingers in the quiet, leaving you with a dozen things you could have said but didn’t.
ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
the elevator dies on a monday morning. no warning, no apologetic email from management—just a limp, handwritten sign taped crookedly over the buttons that says out of order in smudged marker.
you stare at it for a while, as if the sheer force of your glare might coax it back to life. twelve floors suddenly feels like a punishment rather than a home.
“guess we’re walking,” a voice says behind you.
you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. that voice has a particular way of wrapping itself around a sentence, casual but smug, like he’s already certain you’re going to disagree.
haechan steps up beside you, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyeing the sign. “what’s the matter? afraid of a little exercise?”
“afraid of having to listen to you for twelve floors,” you say, pressing the stairwell door open.
he follows, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the concrete steps. “don’t worry, i’ll slow down so you can catch your breath. you can thank me later.”
“i won’t,” you reply, but you already know he’s smiling without looking at him.
the stairwell smells faintly of dust and something metallic. your footsteps echo in an odd, hollow rhythm that his somehow syncs with, even though you’re both pretending not to notice. by the third flight, he’s humming under his breath—a melody you recognize from one of those overproduced comeback teasers—and you hate that you know it.
when you reach your floor, he holds the door open for you with an exaggerated bow. “ladies first. can’t have my favorite neighbor collapsing right outside her apartment.”
you step through without looking at him, but your pulse is a little too quick for the climb alone.
it’s nearly midnight when you push through the glass doors of the lobby, the air outside still clinging to you—warm, heavy, and faintly carrying the smell of grilled meat from the restaurant you just left. you’re not drunk exactly, but your balance has softened, and the world seems slower than it was an hour ago.
the elevator is still out, the crooked out of order sign hanging stubbornly in place. you’re about to open the stairwell door when it swings toward you, and there he is—haechan, or 'hyuck' - you've learned —blinking like you’ve just woken him from a dream.
“evening,” he says, drawing the word out. there’s a pink flush high on his cheeks, and his grin looks lazy, loosened.
“you’ve been drinking,” you say.
“so have you,” he points out, leaning on the doorframe. “you’re holding your shoes.”
you glance down. you are. the straps had been digging into your feet all night, so you’d given up on dignity three blocks ago. “i didn’t feel like suffering for fashion.”
he chuckles, low and warm. “that’s a shame. i was going to say you looked nice tonight.”
“you’ve never said anything nice to me before.”
“i complimented your hair once.”
“you said it looked less terrible than usual.”
“still a compliment.”
you push past him into the stairwell, the smell of his cologne trailing after you—something sharp but not unpleasant, like citrus just before it’s cut. he follows, his steps falling in time with yours even though you speed up just a little.
“i’ll walk you up,” he says.
“i don’t need an escort.”
“i know. but it’s late. and you live in the apartment right across from mine, so really, this is just me walking home.”
the stairwell feels narrower than usual, and the fluorescent lights overhead make shadows bloom in the corners of his face. by the eighth floor, your conversation has drifted into the kind of nonsense that’s only funny when you’re both a little buzzed—arguing about whether cereal counts as soup, who’d win in a fight between a pigeon and a rat. you laugh without meaning to, and it hangs in the air between you, light and dangerous.
at your door, you pause, keys in hand. he leans against the wall, watching you with that same easy, half-asleep smile.
“you sure you don’t need me to inspect the place for intruders?” he asks, tilting his head toward your door.
“i think the only intruder here is you,” you say, sliding the key into the lock.
he grins. “then i’m already inside your head. rent-free.”
you roll your eyes but don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. the door swings open, and you step through. he stays leaning against the wall for a moment longer, gaze lingering like he’s waiting for something. only when you close the door do you hear him head to his own, whistling that same tune from the stairs, faint through the wood.
the doorknob had been loose for weeks—wobbling in your hand like a tooth ready to fall out. you’d been meaning to fix it, but meaning to do something isn’t the same as doing it.
this morning, it’s suddenly solid again. the screws are tight, the turn smooth. you test it twice, then a third time, like you’re trying to catch it in the act of failing.
when you open the door, haechan is just stepping out of his apartment. hoodie, ball cap, a paper bag swinging from his hand.
“you break into all your neighbors’ places,” you say, “or am i just special?”
he doesn’t slow his pace. “if you’re asking if i fixed your doorknob, you’re welcome.”
“i didn’t say thank you.”
“you were about to,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with that quick, infuriating smile.
later that afternoon, you walk back from the café down the street with two coffees in hand. you tell yourself you only bought the second because they got your order wrong and you don’t like caramel.
you knock on his door. when he opens it, he looks suspicious.
“i don’t drink caramel,” he says.
“i know,” you reply, handing it over.
“so this is…?”
“a bribe,” you say. “for future illegal home repairs.”
he takes it, still watching you. “i could get used to this.”
“don’t,” you tell him, turning to head back across the hall. but you hear the click of his tongue, and somehow you know he’s still smiling when you shut your door.
ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
the storm hits without warning. rain hammers the windows like a drummer gone mad, and the building lights flicker once, twice, then die altogether. darkness fills your apartment, thick and heavy, smelling of wet concrete and ozone.
you fumble for a flashlight and curse under your breath when it slips from your hand. that’s when you hear it—soft thumping from the hallway. hesitation. footsteps that are familiar, too familiar.
“you’re awake,” haechan says, voice low, carrying through the dark like it belongs there.
“i could say the same,” you answer, gripping the flashlight like a weapon.
he’s leaning against the wall outside your door, the hood of his sweatshirt half fallen back. his hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, and for a second you catch yourself staring longer than necessary.
“want to come upstairs?” he asks. the words are casual, but his eyes are something else entirely. “candles, a better view of the storm. you can keep your flashlight.”
you hesitate, then follow him, letting the familiar banter ease the tension. on his couch, the room is small and warm, lit by the trembling glow of scattered candles. shadows dance across his face, making him look like someone you’ve only ever half-known in photographs and social media clips.
for a while, you don’t speak. the rain drums against the windows, and the air smells faintly of coffee he brewed hours ago, forgotten. then he hums a low tune, one you recognize from the stairs the night the elevator broke.
“you hum inappropriately loud when you think no one hears,” you say.
“i hum inappropriately loud when someone does hear,” he replies, leaning closer. the shadow of his smile stretches across the candlelight. “it’s… more fun that way.”
you try to turn your attention back to the window, to the storm, to anything that isn’t him, but the words stick in your chest. the warmth of the room, the closeness, the teasing edge in his voice—it all presses against your nerves like static.
“why are you like this?” you ask quietly, not really expecting an answer.
“like what?”
“like… everything. annoying, impossible, way too charming.”
his eyes soften, then glint with mischief. “maybe i just like you noticing.”
the pause lingers, heavier than the storm outside. and for the first time, you realize the elevator, the stolen parking spots, the petty arguments—they were all just prelude.
ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
the elevator is still broken. again. you curse under your breath as you push open the stairwell door, half-expecting him to be there. he is. of course he is.
“late again,” he says, smirking, as if punctuality is a personal affront.
“you could say the same,” you snap, stepping past him.
“i could,” he replies, stepping closer. the space between you narrows, the walls echoing with the hollow rhythm of your steps. “but i like to keep things interesting.”
you spin on your heel, toe catching the edge of the step. he catches your arm—lightly, but enough to make your pulse skip.
“careful,” he teases, voice low. “wouldn’t want you to fall before we reach the top.”
“i don’t need saving,” you say, tugging your arm free, though your hands are shaking just a little.
“you might,” he murmurs, leaning closer. the air between you tightens. you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint tang of his cologne, something sharp that makes your chest flutter.
the argument dissolves into something smaller, softer, more dangerous. words falter. you both stop mid-step, too aware of the other’s proximity.
“you know,” he whispers, almost a question, “we could just… skip the rest of the stairs.”
you bite your lip, trying to focus on the concrete beneath your feet, but it’s impossible. his hand hovers near yours, not touching, and your stomach knots in a way that’s equal parts annoyance and want.
for a moment, you both stand there, suspended between irritation and something unspoken. the air thrums with it, and you can’t tell if it’s the storm outside or him that’s making your heart race.
then the stairwell door swings open above, and someone else’s footsteps echo down. he steps back, just enough to break the tension, grin teasing and infuriating.
“later,” he says, and his voice leaves a trail down the empty steps, warm and promising.
you watch him go, and when your hand finally lowers from where it had been hovering, you realize—somewhere in the middle of all the fights, all the teasing, something has shifted.
you knock on his door because you have to. you tell yourself it’s only to complain—loud music again, the bass rattling the walls like it’s trying to break something in you—but the moment he opens the door, the air between you feels heavier, electric.
“you again,” he says, voice low, one eyebrow quirking. his hoodie is half on, hair mussed, eyes sharper than the hallway light lets on.
“i came to ask you to turn it down,” you snap, though your chest hitches when he smirks.
“you could’ve just texted,” he replies, leaning in just enough that you smell the faint tang of coffee and something sharper, like citrus.
“i wanted to see if you’d actually listen,” you fire back, stepping inside.
he doesn’t move, doesn’t close the door, just tilts his head, letting the silence grow heavy between you. you can feel the weight of him, the warmth radiating off his body.
“why are you like this?” you whisper, half exasperated, half unsure if you’re asking him or yourself.
“like what?” he murmurs, taking a step closer, the corner of his mouth twitching in that impossible, teasing way.
“like… impossible. always… everywhere. annoying,” you falter, voice trembling without meaning to, “and somehow—”
“somehow what?”
“somehow i can’t stop noticing,” you admit, your heart thudding too loudly.
he smirks, but it’s gone softer, too. he closes the gap, hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “maybe you just needed an excuse to see me,” he says, low and deliberate.
your rebuttal dies on your lips when he leans in, pressing against you just enough that your knees threaten to buckle. the first kiss is messy, urgent, a collision of weeks—months—of pent-up tension. hands grab, tug, explore. he’s warm and insistent, teasing between kisses.
“so all this time, you hated how much you wanted me?”
you grab him harder, matching him, words lost to gasps and murmurs. clothes tangle, and the floor beneath your feet disappears, leaving only the heat and friction of skin, teeth, lips, and whispered curses.
when you finally pull back, breathless, your forehead resting against his, both of you are laughing quietly, incredulous.
“you’re impossible,” you manage.
“so are you,” he says, grinning like it’s the only truth that matters, “and yet here you are.”
before you can slap his shoulder out of annoyance, his lips crash into yours again, hungry and insistent. you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he backs you against the doorframe.
his hands slide down your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. you arch into him, relishing the friction. months of tension unraveled with each touch, each breathless moment.
"took you long enough," he murmurs against your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin.
you tug at his hair, drawing a low groan from him. "you're one to talk. all those times you 'accidentally' bumped into me in the hallway."
he chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "just trying to get your attention."
"by being insufferable?" your breath catches as he pushes you through the doorway. you both stumble into his apartment, knocking into the coffee table - him catching your fall by your waist. candles from the earlier power outage still glowed faintly, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
your shirt catches on the edge of the couch as he tugs it over your head. haechan's fingers tangle in your hair, tugging gently as he deepens another kiss between you two. he sits up from above you on the couch as you nudge the bottom of the fabric on his shirt - he gets the hint, freeing the clothe from his torso.
as he returns his attention back to you, cupping your breast with one hand he murmurs against your neck, voice low and teasing, "still want me to turn the music down?”
your jaw tremors open as his teeth graze your pulse. "shut up," you growl and embarrassingly half-moan, raking your nails down his back.
he lets out a throaty chuckle. "make me.” you nip at his lower lip in response, drawing a sharp inhale from him while you palm the growing bulge from his sweatpants.
"bossy," he breathed, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. his hand slides lower, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pants. he props himself up on one elbow, middle two fingers in motion over the fabric of your panties. your hips arch into the sensation and you whine, pleasure blooming through your body as he stroked and circled. you moved your hand from over his sweats to grab the edge of the couch as he found your clit.
“not fair,” you gasp, nails digging into the couch, hips pressing into him without meaning to.
“fair isn’t interesting,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, warm breath sending shivers down your spine. his fingers curl expertly, circling, dipping, coaxing every reaction from you.
you tilt your head back, letting out a shuddering moan, “hyuck… stop teasing.”
“i’m not teasing,” he whispers against your ear, voice low, almost a growl. “i’m making you feel… exactly what you’ve been wanting.”
your hands clench at the cushions, hips rolling involuntarily into his touch. every stroke, every circle sends sparks up your spine, down your legs, until it feels like fire pooling between you.
and then he stops.
your body jerks, surprised, and his lips brush against your cheek—soft, teasing, impossibly close.
“what are you—?” you gasp, voice trembling.
he smirks, low and dangerous. “i’m apologizing,” he murmurs, moving down the couch with deliberate slowness, heat radiating from every step, “for my poor neighborly conduct.”
before you can react, his hands grab the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down with swift precision. your legs part as he positions himself between them, eyes dark with intent.
“you’re fucking unreal,” he growls, voice low, “driving me insane.”
you whimper, hips shifting instinctively, trying not to—but it’s useless.
he leans in, lips brushing the sensitive skin at the apex of your thighs. one teasing lick, and your back arches. his hands grip your hips, steadying you as his tongue slides against you, exploring, tasting, coaxing every whimper and moan from your lips.
you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as he alternates slow, deliberate flicks of his tongue with firmer, deeper strokes, hitting every sensitive patch with precision. he hums low and possessive, sending shocks of pleasure straight through your spine.
“look at you,” he mutters, voice sharp and commanding, “losing it for me already. fucking perfect.”
every word, every movement drives you higher, your hips rocking against him even though he’s holding you steady, teasing, testing, making sure you feel every inch of his tongue without mercy.
your nails rake through his hair, tugging lightly, testing how far you can push him.
he whines—soft, breathy, impossibly needy—into your skin, letting out a sound that makes your pulse spike.
“you like that?” you murmur, fingers gripping tighter.
“fuck… yeah,” he groans, voice rough, and the whine turns into a low hum of satisfaction.
he leans closer, practically devouring you, teeth and tongue moving in tandem, hot and demanding. every flick, every press, every teasing nibble drives you higher, your hips instinctively pressing down, desperate for more.
“god… hyuck—” you gasp, nails digging into him, pulling, tugging, needing.
he moans against you, almost obnoxiously loud, but it’s perfect, messy, exactly what you want. his hands grip your thighs, keeping you open and vulnerable, tongue darting with precision.
“you feel… so good,” he murmurs between licks, biting lightly, humming low. “i could do this forever.”
every sound he makes, every hungry flick of his tongue, makes your chest rise and fall faster. he’s utterly lost in you, fully in the moment—the messy, shameless, munch-like way he devours, completely unashamed.
your nails leave marks in his hair, your hips roll without control, and you can’t stop gasping, moaning, letting him take every bit of attention, because right now, you don’t want to.
your hips jerk uncontrollably, nails still tangled in his hair, breath catching in ragged gasps. every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips, every sharp hum against your skin pushes you higher and higher.
“fuck—oh my god!” you cry following his name, voice breaking as pleasure crashes through you in waves. your body shudders, your legs trembling, hips rolling into him even as he holds you steady, relentless, perfect.
he groans low, a deep, satisfied sound, as you come undone beneath him, shaking, quivering, lost in the sensation.
your chest heaves, heat still pooling between your legs, and with one swift motion, you shrug off your bra. the cool air against your bare skin makes you shiver, and he notices immediately.
he shuffles closer, eyes dark and predatory, and without a word, he pulls at the waistband of his sweatpants, sliding them down in one swift motion. you bite your lip, heart hammering, watching him cock his head to the side, a low hum escaping him as he starts pumping himself slowly, teasingly.
you lay back against the couch, legs parting slightly, breath catching as your hands graze over your own skin. the sight of him—focused, needy, just for you—makes a shiver run down your spine.
“god… you’re driving me fucking crazy,” he groans, voice rough, gripping himself tighter for just a moment before leaning down.
without another pause, he lines himself up, sliding inside you in one smooth, deliberate thrust. your back arches instinctively, nails digging into the cushions as heat and pleasure bloom between your bodies.
you dig your nails into the cushions as he starts moving inside you, slow at first, just enough to make your hips roll against him. every thrust sends sparks straight through you, and your breath hitches in ragged gasps.
“you’re… so good,” you murmur, voice trembling, chest heaving.
his hips stutter, a low whine escaping him. “say it again,” he whines, voice needy and desperate, eyes dark and fixed on yours.
“g-good boy,” you breathe, teasing, and the way his lips curl into a feral, almost worshipful grin makes your stomach clench.
“fuck… i love that,” he murmurs, almost whining as he grabs your hips, pulling you flush against him. “on your knees—no, come on.”
before you can protest, he shifts you onto all fours on the couch, pressing himself into you from behind. the sudden angle makes your breath hitch again, nails scraping the cushions as he starts thrusting harder, faster, chasing the way you squirm beneath him.
“you like that, baby?” he groans, voice thick, teeth catching your shoulder. “taking me in that tight, perfect pussy of yours?”
you arch against him, and he slaps your ass sharply, low and hard, making a gasp escape your lips. the sound only seems to fuel him further, and he leans closer, hips snapping into a steady, urgent rhythm.
every hit, every groan, every whiny, desperate sound he makes presses deeper into your senses, and your body trembles with a mix of heat and pleasure, riding every inch of him as he switches the rhythm, keeping you both on edge, messy and lost in each other.
you push back against him, taking the reins, sliding down onto him with a sharp, controlled motion. he groans low, hips stuttering as he watches you, face flushed and eyes dark with need.
hands grip his shoulders, then drift to his throat, fingers curling just enough to tease, to claim. “fuck… you’re crazy,” he groans, a whine escaping him, but there’s no resistance—only trust, lust, and obsession.
“like this?” you murmur, bouncing slightly, testing him, the pressure of your hands on his neck making him shiver beneath you.
“yes… god, yes,” he pants, voice ragged, a mix of whine and groan, “don’t stop… don’t you ever stop.”
you ride him harder, your hips snapping in rhythm with his, teasing and pressing, every motion driving him wild. his hands grip your hips, guiding you, but his head tips back slightly at the subtle choke, mouth open, groans spilling out uncontrollably.
“s-so tight,” he pants, voice thick and needy, “and you… you know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
every movement, every gasp, every sharp intake of breath fuels the fire between you, and the sound of him whining, desperate and obsessed beneath you, makes your own pleasure spike even higher.
you ride him harder, hips snapping, hands gripping his shoulders and throat with control. every movement, every gasp, every whine spilling from him fuels the fire burning between you.
your chest rises and falls, heat pooling, and suddenly it hits—the sharp, overwhelming wave of pleasure building deep in your core. you shiver, cry out his name, and come over him, trembling, body quaking as your orgasm crashes through you.
he groans low at the sound, voice thick and needy, but it’s sharp, urgent, almost desperate. “i’m gonna… i’m gonna come,” he pants, hips jerking, hands gripping your hips to steady himself.
you mutter something about your mouth in your high and he reluctantly slides out.
you kneel in front of him on the floor as he rises up to sit, lips brushing the tip of his cock, and he whines immediately, high-pitched and desperate, hips twitching against your mouth. “fuck… yes—just like that—shit, yes,” he pants, voice breaking into that needy, whiny sound that makes your heart palpitate.
you take him in, slow at first, letting him adjust, teasing him with the way you suck and lick, fingers curling around the base. his hands thread through your hair, gripping gently, guiding you, voice cracking with every small gasp as your doe eyes remain on watching his every reaction.
“ah—fuck! right there, yes, oh god—” he groans, hips snapping, voice high and needy, whines mixing with grunts as his release spills into your mouth.
you hold him through it, swallowing every pulse, teasing just enough to make him shiver, until he’s trembling, spent, and utterly obsessed with you.
you pull back, brushing a sticky strand of hair from your face, and he’s still catching his breath, chest rising and falling fast. his eyes flick to yours, sharp, amused, and dangerous in that way you know too well. his thumbs wipes the remainder of his orgasm past your lips, he’s dazed.
“you good?” you ask, voice low, teasing.
he smirks, pressing closer, letting out a soft groan. “i’m alive… barely,” he mutters, voice high and whiny from just having been wrecked. “not that i’d ever admit it.”
“you’re a mess,” you tease, thumb brushing along his cheek. “i could’ve stopped anytime.”
“yeah? try me,” he shoots back, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “i don’t think you could.”
you laugh, shaking your head, letting him drape an arm around you as you search for your underwear on the living room floor. he leans back on the couch, eyes glinting, that familiar mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.
“looking for something?” he asks, voice low and teasing, tilting his head as he watches you fumble.
you glance up, biting your lip, and he doesn’t miss the pause. “oh… wow,” he says, eyes flicking down, then back to your face, mock-serious. “you’re… completely drenched. did i do that?”
you groan, cheeks heating, and scramble faster across the floor. “shut up,” you mutter, grabbing at your soaked panties.
“nope,” he cuts in immediately, grin widening. “absolutely not. this is too good. i mean, come on—you look like a disaster… a very wet, very perfect disaster.” his voice dips lower, teasing, almost growling, and the words make a shiver run down your spine.
finally finding your underwear, you hold them up, and he leans closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “wow,” he murmurs, half-whining, “you really know how to make a mess. lucky for me, i get to watch.”
“you’re terrible,” you mutter, tugging the fabric back on, cheeks flushed.
“and you love it,” he replies, smirk widening, eyes glittering with that playful, hungry light. “admit it.”
you roll your eyes but can’t stop the quiet laugh escaping you. “maybe a little,” you concede.
he chuckles, low and satisfied, before leaning down to press a light kiss to your temple. “good. that’s all i need to know,” he murmurs, letting the teasing linger. then his grin twists sly. “by the way… don’t think i’ve forgotten about our feud. stealing your parking spot? not sorry.”
you snort, shaking your head. “you’re such an asshole.”
“maybe,” he says, tugging you closer so your shoulder rests against his chest. the apartment feels warm and intimate now, messy and sticky from earlier chaos, yet somehow calm. tangled together on the couch, playful and charged, the teasing settles into a quiet closeness that leaves both of you grinning and breathless.
ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ
the next morning, sunlight cuts across the floor as you’re dragging yourself out of bed, still groggy, when you hear a rumble outside. peeking through the blinds, you spot haechan sliding his car out of the spot he’d stolen yesterday, finally giving you the space you were owed. you can’t help the small, satisfied smirk that tugs at your lips.
then something catches your eye: a sticky note, bright yellow, taped to your door. you pull it off and read, your breath hitching slightly:
"hey neighbor, come knock on my door and tell me to turn this music down… or don’t. i kind of want to hear you complain while i watch. —h"
from next door, the bass vibrates through the walls, low and teasing, and you roll your eyes with a laugh. of course he’d leave a note like this—provocative, cheeky, and entirely him, daring you to respond while making it impossible not to. you trace the words with a finger, already imagining the exchange when you go knock—knowing full well you’ll be grinning like an idiot the entire time.
even despite both of you being sleepy, haechan just can’t help how much he needs you
when your boyfriend finally returns home, it’s late. dishes have been put away, lights have been turned off, a still silence filled the house.
donghyuck walks in the bedroom, dropping his bag off by the closet. the room slowly and faintly staring to smell like his cologne.
you feel the bed dip behind you, the warmth of his body slotting close behind yours. his breath fans across your neck, a little uneven. an arm slips around your waist, the weight of it pulling you back into him more. he exhales, a low sound in his throat, like he could finally relax.
you shift beneath his touch, and that’s when he actually realizes you’re not asleep.
“you’re awake,” he whispers, voice hoarse, his lips brushing your skin.
you hum a reply, barely a sound. and that’s all it takes. the air between you shifts, something sharper taking over. his grip tightens, pulling you back into him until you can really feel his cock straining in his sweatpants.
“couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he mumbles.
“needed to feel you. just—” he cuts himself off, another breath leaving him in a quiet shudder.
he’s all heat and unable to stay still. he leans forward pressing soft, shaky kisses along your shoulder like he’s trying to make up for every minute he’s been gone.
you turn toward him, and the look on his face nearly undoes you, even in the dark. his eyes hooded and lips parted.
“baby..” he whispers.
this time when he kisses your lips, you let him roll you over onto your back as he slides on top of you. most of his weight presses you down into the mattress but you couldn’t care less.
the kiss turns more needy, his tongue pushing past your lips and into your mouth. his hand trembles a little as it moves down your side, fingers catching on the edge of your shirt before they settle against your hot skin.
“please..” he murmurs. and that little moan you give him in response lets him know he can have you like he needs.
his lips burn kisses down your neck and collarbone. sucking soft marks onto your skin. all the while, his hands fumble at your shorts as he holds himself up.
you instinctively lift your hips for him, and he shimmies them off until they hang around on of your ankles. in an instant, he’s back on you, fingers now rubbing you where you need him most.
“mmh, my sleepy baby’s still wet for me?” he can’t help but tease. his fingers gliding up and down your slit over the damp cotton of your panties.
he pulls back fully to take off his own pants, getting rid of his boxers too. you watch as his cock springs free, veiny and clearly aching. the flushed tip of him a little sticky already.
“don’t even need you fully undressed,” he mutters before climbing back onto you, one hand holding himself up near your head and the other stroking himself slowly.
“tell me you want this,” he looks down at you.
a little dazed already, you lick your lips and reach up to cup his jaw. “i need this..” you whisper back.
he has to bite back a moan at your declaration, leaning his body back down so he can rub his tip up and down your cunt. “yeah?” he breathes out deeply at the teasing feeling.
you find your own core clenching around nothing, wanting to be filled. you reach down to slide your underwear off, but he stops you. “ah-ah.” he catches your wrist.
“panties stay on,” he corrects, and pushes your hand back up by your head. then slowly, he settles to be on his knees in front of you, draping your legs over his thighs. he tugs you closer and you gulp.
he stares down at your lace-clad pussy, and runs his fingers down the edges of the fabric. it makes you feel so open and vulnerable despite still being fully covered. “hyuck, come on.. you’re teasing now.” you can’t help but complain.
all he does is shush you and slowly hooks his finger under the fabric to pull it aside. he swore he could cum at the sight alone. your glistening pussy, already throbbing and he’d barely touched you.
“pretty baby,” he praises and wets two of his fingers with his tongue before dipping them inside of you. your mouth falls open in a silent moan and your hips try to meet the slow thrusts of his fingers. you’re thankful he lets you.
“hyuck..” you murmur, grabbing at his other wrist. he barely even registers your voice, too focused on the sight of your hole swallowing his fingers. “hm? like that, pretty girl?” his fingers curl now every time they thrust into you.
before you could fall too far into the pleasure, he pulls his fingers out of you, leaving you empty. “wha—“ you start to whine. then it all happens so fast. he leans forward, cock head poking at your entrance, the same way his fingers poke at your lips. “shhh..just take it.” he coos.
and so you do. just as he pushes his cock into your inviting cunt, you suck his fingers into your mouth. your tongue swirling around the same fingers that were covered in your slick.
“aah, fuck..” he curses lowly. he didn’t even sink in all the way for the first time before he starts to thrusting his cock in and out of you. he just couldn’t help it. how could he with the way you were being so obedient and taking him so well?
he lets his head lull forward in the curve of your shoulder as he fucks into you. each time, paired with a little grunt in your ear. and there was no clear pace or rhythm, just him chasing that pleasure he’s needed all day.
his fingers slip out of your mouth, finding place on the pillow next to your head as he focuses on bringing you both pleasure. “good, baby? you’re okay?” he pants, breath hot against your collarbone. and as you moan back, fingers digging into his shoulders, his hips stutter.
“tell me what you need,” he lifts his head to steal a sloppy kiss. “is it this? hm?” his hand snakes back between you, fingers rubbing your clit in those perfect circles that he knows drive you mad.
your head slumps back against the pillow, back lifting off the mattress into that arch he loves.
“yes..mmh..” you moan softly. he knew he was louder than you in bed, and he didn’t mind. not in the slightest. because he always knew how you were feeling by the look on your face.
and the way your eyebrows knitted together, eyes fluttered, and mouth opened in a quiet plea? he knew you were getting close.
“yeah.. that’s it. just feel me, baby. cum on this cock.” he mumbles darkly into your ear, pulling a whine from you. the sound of his skin hitting yours starts to take over the room as he grows more impatient for that release. the wetness of your cunt filling the silence between each slap. “fuck-fuck-fuck..” he chants in a whisper.
“h-hyuck, im gonna cum—“ you pant, back arching again.
“i know, baby, let go when you’re ready. give it to me..” he stares into your eyes. “wanna feel you cum all over me.”
and when you do, with a quiet cry of pleasure? he follows right after. warm spurts of his release inside you as he continues to work your clit with his fingers until your whimpering under him.
“shit, baby..” he pants, slowing his hips as he rides out his high. he looks down at you again, softer eyes. “so good for me..”
he pushes in and out slowly, lifting his body to watch. the sight before him almost sinful. his cock covered in the creamy, white liquid of your releases mixed together. his teeth sink into his bottom lip.
but, instead of catching a break, he looks back up at you. the sight of your heavy breaths, and dazed stare onto the ceiling only egging him on more.
“baby..” he starts, almost careful with his words, hips still continuing the movement of thrusting in and out of your now, sensitive pussy. “i’m getting hard again..”
your gaze snaps to him.
“one more?” he smiles. the expression almost innocent.
