pairing: porn director!haechan x newbie porn star!fem reader
genre: smut (pwp) 18+ mdni!
warnings / tags: explicit sexual content, workplace power dynamics, horny pining, eye contact kink / eye fucking, voyeurism-ish, soft dom haechan, oral (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (whoops), overstimulation, squirting
wc: ~7.5k of pure filth
a/n: i am so so so sorry for keeping you guys waiting 🥲 sorry in advance if it's shitty af so please lower your expectations 😭 but still! please please please let me know what you think 🙏
Part 1
The next morning hits like a hangover he didn’t earn.
Haechan shows up twenty minutes early — unheard of — coffee in one hand, hood pulled low and zipped to the chin. He's already snapping at the lighting guy before the man even opens his mouth.
“Move the key light three inches left. It’s going to wash her out. Again.”
The crew exchanges glances. He’s always been sharp, but today he’s mean.
Snapping at the sound guy for a mic that’s “too hot,” telling makeup to “Don’t overdo her lips today. I don’t want them looking bitten on camera” when they’re literally just glossed.
Everyone chalks it up to a bad night.
Only Haechan knows the truth: he spent the entire night replaying your orgasm on loop, coming twice more in the shower just trying to get you out of his system.
It didn’t work.
He’s halfway through giving notes to a PA when—
You laugh.
Soft. Bright. Somewhere behind him.
He goes still.
His eyes snap to you before he can stop them.
You’re standing near the monitors, robe loose, hair still a little messy from sleep with that same soft, nervous-excited smile you had yesterday. You wave at the crew, thank them again for the compliments.
For a second, he just watches.
Then your eyes flick up.
You catch him staring.
You hold it—just long enough to feel intentional.
His grip tightens around the coffee cup.
He looks away first. Too fast. Clears his throat. “Places in ten.”
–
The scene today is POV. Simple setup: male talent (thank fuck it’s not Chad this time) on his back, you riding him, camera mounted to mimic his view. Intimate. Close. Lots of eye contact, body rolls, hands on hips/thighs/waist for leverage. The kind of shot that sells “connection”.
Haechan hates it already.
He calls action. You climb onto the bed, robe slipping off your shoulders, skin glowing under the soft ring lights. The actor’s hands find your waist immediately—professional, practiced.
You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch until you’re fully seated on his cock, a soft, involuntary moan slipping out as the stretch hits just right.
You start slow, grinding down in lazy circles, head tipping back on a breathy moan that’s half-scripted, half-real.
Haechan’s staring at the monitor like it personally offended him.
Except he doesn’t look away.
His jaw tightens as the feed fills with you—every shift of your hips, every soft expression.
It’s wrong. It’s his job to watch, to adjust, to make it look good.
But there’s a split second, buried under all of that, where it hits him differently—heat curling low in his stomach, sharp and unwanted.
It should be him.
The thought arrives before he can stop it.
Followed immediately by something uglier—the actor's hands on your waist, thumbs pressing into skin that Haechan can almost feel in his own palms.
He doesn't say anything. Obviously. He just grips his coffee harder than it needs to and watches you move, hating every second of how much he can’t look away.
“Camera’s too high,” he mutters. Then louder: “Cut. Reset.”
The crew groans internally. Second take, not even thirty seconds in.
You sit back on your heels, confused but obedient. Your co-actor slides out carefully.
Haechan stands and walks over. The set goes quiet.
“I need to adjust you,” he says, voice coming out rough. “The angle’s off. You’re blocking the shot.”
He’s lying.
The angle’s fine.
He just… needs to touch you. Once. Just once. To see if it’s as bad as he remembers from yesterday’s guiding scene.
You nod. “Okay.”
He steps between your parted thighs—still kneeling on the bed, robe open just enough that he can see the curve of your stomach, the dip of your waist. He doesn’t look down. Not yet.
His hands hover for half a second, then settle.
Left palm on your hip bone. Right on the soft dip above your waist.
The second his fingertips meet your skin, something in his brain short-circuits.
Soft.
Warm.
Giving under his grip like you were made to be held. Your skin is velvet-smooth, still carrying that faint post-shower heat, and when you shift slightly to give him better access, the flesh yields just enough to make his thumbs dig in involuntarily.
Fuck, she feels like this?
He’s touched hundreds of bodies on set. Guided hands, adjusted poses, repositioned limbs like they were props. Never once did it feel like this—like electricity arcing straight to his cock. Never once did his pulse hammer in his ears just from palms on hips.
He slides his hands lower—slow, “professional”—fingers splaying over the tops of your thighs. soft, thick, trembling just a little under his touch. He presses gently, spreading them wider for the camera (bullshit excuse), and your breath hitches. Tiny. Barely audible.
But he hears it.
His thumbs stroke once—once—along the inner curve of your thigh. Not high enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to feel the heat radiating from your core, close enough that he can smell your skin, your faint vanilla lotion, the ghost of arousal that’s already there.
You’re looking up at him. Eyes wide, lips parted. Not acting.
He’s losing it.
Mentally he’s already flipped you onto your back, spread you wide, buried his face between those thighs until you’re crying his name.
Physically, he’s still just…
Adjusting.
Hands shaking now. He can feel the tremor in his own fingers and prays you don’t notice.
“Like this,” he rasps, voice so low it’s almost a growl. He rolls your hips forward a fraction—guiding the motion you’ll use later—making your body arch just so. The movement drags your skin against his palms again, plush and perfect, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning.
Your thighs flex under his grip. A soft exhale escapes you.
He freezes.
For one heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Then he forces his hands away. Steps back like he’s been burned.
“Better,” he mutters. “That’s… better.”
He turns to the crew before anyone can see how blown his pupils are. “Roll it again.”
He drops back into his chair, legs crossed to hide the obvious bulge straining against his jeans. One hand scrubs over his face. The other fists on his thigh so hard it’ll bruise.
On the monitor, you start moving again—hips rolling exactly the way he just positioned you. Slow. Sensual. Eyes flicking to him every few seconds like you’re checking if he approves.
He approves.
He approves so much he might come in his pants if you keep looking at him like that.
And the shoot’s only just started.
The cameras are rolling again. Reset complete. The POV rig is mounted—sleek, invasive, positioned right where your co-actor’s eyes would be if this were real. It captures everything from below: the slow roll of your hips, the bounce of your breasts, the way your thighs flex around his waist as you sink down inch by inch.
Haechan is back in his chair but his posture is rigid now, his fingers digging into the armrests. He’s trying—God, he’s trying—to be the detached professional. Voice steady. Directions clipped. But every word comes out rougher than the last.
“Action.”
You start moving. Slow grinds at first, building rhythm. Your co-actor’s hands rest on your hips—light, guiding. You lean back just enough for the camera to catch the arch of your back, the sway of your body.
Haechan’s eyes are glued to the monitor feed. The POV angle fills the screen: your face hovering close, lips parted, eyes locked straight down the lens. Straight at him.
He swallows hard.
“Eyes on the camera,” he directs, voice low but carrying. “Hold it. Make it feel like you’re looking right at them. Right at me—at the viewer.”
He means the viewer. He swears he means the viewer.
But the way you obey—immediately, intensely—your gaze piercing the lens like it’s his face instead. The way your lashes flutter when you sink down — just once, involuntary, like even you can't help it.
It wrecks him. Through the screen. Through every layer of professionalism he's clinging to.
You ride harder now. Hips circling, rolling, taking your co-actor deeper. Soft moans spill out, breathier than yesterday, less controlled. Your hands brace against his chest for leverage as your back arches, head tipping just enough for your hair to fall over one shoulder.
Haechan shifts in his seat, but the friction against his aching cock makes his vision blur at the edges.
“Hands up,” he says, sharper than he means to. “Grip her—firm. Support her rhythm. Make it look possessive—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Just keep her steady.”
Your co-actor obeys instantly. His palms slide up your sides, cupping your breasts—thumbs brushing the undersides before he squeezes gently, holding you steady as you bounce.
The monitor shows it all in perfect, filthy detail: the way your tits fill his hands, the subtle give of soft flesh under his fingers, the way your nipples visibly tighten at the contact.
Your mouth falls open on a gasp—real and unscripted, your eyes locked on the camera.
Never leaving him.
Haechan’s breath stutters. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring so hard the rest of the room fades out. Onscreen, you move like you’re chasing something just out of reach—hips rolling, body tightening, every motion sharper than the last.
And those eyes.
Fixed. Wanting. Burning straight through the lens.
A groan almost slips out. He catches it at the last second—turns it into a cough, hand flying to his mouth. The crew doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they don’t say shit.
Inside, though—
He’s coming apart.
Fuck.
Look at her.
Taking it so well. Moving like that…
For the camera.
For me.
He can’t stop the thoughts.
They come fast and hot, one bleeding into the next— imagining those are his hands instead—kneading, pinching, rolling your nipples until you’re whining his name. Imagining it’s his cock you’re riding, your walls tightening around him, your eyes locked on his like it’s always been him.
“Keep the pace,” he rasps, voice catching on the last word. “Don’t speed up yet. Build it. Let her feel every inch.”
You listen.
Slow, deliberate rolls that make your thighs tremble. The actor's grip tightens, thumbs circling your nipples, and you arch into it with a soft, helpless whine that hits Haechan straight square in the chest.
His free hand drops to his thigh. Fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
He's rock hard. Has been for the last ten minutes. The denim isn't hiding anything anymore and he knows it and he can't bring himself to care because every roll of your hips on that monitor feels like it's happening to him. Every moan sounds like it's for him.
Then your eyes flick — subtle, barely a second — right to where he's sitting behind the monitor.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.
“Perfect,” he mutters, barely audible. “Just… fucking perfect.”
The take keeps going.
You keep looking at the camera like it’s him. He keeps watching like he’s the one buried inside you.
And he knows—deep in his aching, throbbing core—that he’s not making it through this shoot without losing it.
Not when you’re like this.
Not when it feels like you’re fucking him through the lens.
And then—
“I’m gonna cum.”
Soft. Broken. Barely above a whisper but the mics catch every syllable.
Cameras still rolling. Your hips still grinding down slow and filthy. Eyes still locked on the lens.
On him.
Wait—
Was that line in the script?
He can't remember. The script is a blur he barely glanced at because all he could think about was you — your skin under his palms earlier, your thighs trembling when he spread them, the way your breath hitched when his thumbs drifted just a little too close to where he really wanted to touch.
He doesn’t know if you’re acting.
He doesn’t know if you’re telling the crew.
He only knows you're looking straight through the camera — straight through the POV rig — straight into his eyes like the lens doesn't exist. Like there’s no crew, no fucking monitors. Just the two of you in this dimly-lit room.
Just him buried inside you.
Just him feeling every clench as you chase that edge.
“Keep going.”
His voice comes out wrecked—rougher than he’s ever let it sound on set.
It’s supposed to be a direction.
It doesn’t sound like it.
“Keep going,” he repeats, quieter this time, leaning so far forward the chair creaks. “Don’t stop. Ride it out. Let it build… let it happen.”
The crew thinks he’s talking to both of you.
He’s not.
He’s talking to you.
Telling you to keep moving like this—slow, deep, greedy—until you break.
On the monitor, the POV feed is unforgiving.
Your face fills half the frame— eyes glassy and pleading, lips parted. Your thighs shaking harder now, rhythm faltering as you get close.
You whimper — higher, needier.
“Haechan—”
His name.
Not scripted. Not “director.”
Just him.
Gasped out like a secret. Like a prayer.
His grip white-knuckles the armrest.
On screen you arch back, spine pulling into that perfect, filthy curve. Your hips stutter, grind down once—twice—and then—
You come.
For real.
Again.
Your body locks up, walls clenching tight, thighs snapping shut around your co-actor’s waist as a broken sound tears out of you. Your whole body trembles through it, shaking and helpless.
And still—
You don’t look away.
Your eyes stay locked on the lens. On him.
Tears gather at the corners, your expression wrecked from how intense it is, but you don’t blink. Don’t break.
Like you’re coming for him.
In his head, it’s his cock.
Has been since the second you said his name.
He can almost feel it — the way you'd flutter around him, chasing every last pulse while he holds your hips down and makes you take it. His mouth against your ear, voice barely above a whisper: "There you go. Just like that." — while your nails rake down his back and your mouth falls open on his name again and again.
On the monitor, you’re still riding it out—small, helpless rolls of your hips, soft whimpers fading into shaky breaths. The actor's still moving, chasing his scripted finish, but Haechan stopped seeing him a long time ago.
Only you.
The way your lips tremble like you want to say something else. Something that isn't in the script.
He's shaking.
Actually shaking in his chair.
"Cut," he rasps.
The set comes back to life. Crew members move in, lights shifting, someone calling out for water.
Haechan doesn’t move.
He stares at the frozen frame on the monitor — your face, blissed out, eyes still half-lidded and aimed exactly where he's sitting. Like even after the word "cut" you're still looking at him.
Still waiting.
He drags a hand down his face.
He has never come this close to breaking on set. Never once.
Never been this close to saying fuck the cameras, fuck the crew, fuck the rules—and just taking what’s felt like his since the moment you walked onto his set.
But he stays seated.
For now.
Because if he stands up right now everyone in this room will know exactly what you did to him.
And because he knows—deep in that aching, throbbing part of him—that the second this shoot wraps…
He’s not making it through another conversation with you without snapping.
—
The crew wraps fast—lights clicking off one by one, someone shouting about the boom mic, laughter echoing down the hall as people start heading out. You linger near the set, robe tied tight, skin still flushed and buzzing from the last take. Your thighs ache in the best-worst way.
But all you can think about is Haechan.
He's already moving — hoodie up, head down, fast and purposeful like he's trying to disappear. No goodbye. No "great work." Just gone, same as yesterday.
Something twists in your chest.
You follow before you can talk yourself out of it. Bare feet quiet against the cold floor, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he’ll hear it before you even reach him.
He slips into one of the side rooms—the green room no one uses because the AC’s broken and it always smells faintly like old coffee. Door half-open. You hesitate, then knock softly.
“Come in,” he mutters, voice tight. Distracted.
You push the door open.
He’s pacing. Three steps forward, three back. Hand dragging over his face, hoodie shoved low, hair a mess underneath. His breathing’s uneven, his shoulders are rigid, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump. Like he's one wrong word away from snapping.
You swallow. “Um… Haechan?”
He freezes mid-step. Doesn't turn around.
You take a small step inside. "I just wanted to ask about my performance. Was it… okay? The last take — I know I went off-script a little. The moaning and… saying your name. I thought it worked for the scene but if it was bad I can—"
“Stop.”
Sharp.
Too sharp.
You flinch.
He exhales hard through his nose, hand dragging through his hair. "I need to be alone right now. Just… go."
The words hit cold.
Your throat tightens. You nod, quick and small. "Oh. Okay. Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
You turn to leave, shoulders curling in, feeling suddenly small and stupid. Of course he didn’t want to talk. Of course—
Behind you, he makes a strangled sound—half groan, half curse.
“Wait.”
You freeze. Hand still on the door.
He’s right behind you now.
You didn’t even hear him move.
He's just — there, close enough that you can smell sweat and cologne and something underneath both that makes your brain go quiet.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, quieter now. Rough. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
You don’t turn right away. Can’t.
Your voice comes out small. “You sounded like you hate me.”
A beat of silence so thick it hurts.
“I don’t hate you,” he says, voice low, strained. “Not even a little.”
You finally look at him.
His jaw is tight, eyes cutting away then back, like he keeps making a decision and unmaking it. Like whatever's happening behind his face is costing him something.
"Then why…?"
He lets out a short, humorless laugh, dragging both hands down his face again.
“Because I’m trying not to lose my fucking mind right now. And every time you’re in the same room as me, I—” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “You did good. You did too good. That’s the problem.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Too good?”
He steps closer.
Not touching. Never touching.
But close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that you can see the tension in his arms, fists clenched at his sides.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Too good. Too real. Too fucking perfect. You came on camera—twice now—like that, looking right at me, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and I’m supposed to just… direct?” He exhales sharply. “Pretend it doesn't affect me? Pretend I'm not sitting there so hard it hurts, trying not to come in my jeans while the whole crew thinks it's just another day?"
Your breath catches.
He keeps going, voice dropping. "You have no idea what you do to me. How many times I've had to walk away so I don't drag you off that set and finish what you started. And then you come in here asking if you did a bad job?"
He exhales, sharp. "Fuck, baby. You almost killed me out there."
The pet name slips out before he can stop it.
His eyes widen a fraction — like he heard it too — but he doesn't take it back.
You’re shaking now. Not from the cold.
“I thought…” Your voice wavers. “I thought I ruined it. Or that you were mad.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. For wanting this. For wanting you.”
His throat bobs once.
“For not being able to look away when you fall apart like that.”
Silence stretches between you.
He's so close now his hoodie brushes your robe. You can feel the heat of him everywhere — chest, thighs, everywhere.
"I should go," you whisper, even though your feet won't move.
"You should," he agrees, voice rough. But he doesn't step back. Doesn't open the door wider.
Instead, his hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and hovers near your cheek. Not touching. Just… there. Fingers trembling like he’s holding himself back by a thread.
“But I don’t want you to.”
Your eyes close for a second.
When you open them, he’s still there. Still looking at you like that.
"Tell me to stop," he says quietly. "Tell me to fuck off, and I will. If you don't want this I'll back off. I swear I will." His voice dips. "But if you don't…"
He lets it trail off.
Let it sit there between you—promise and warning all at once.
The air feels too thick to breathe.
You don’t tell him to leave.
You don't move at all.
And that's all the answer he needs.
The room feels smaller now. Air thick with everything unsaid.
Haechan's still standing too close, hoodie brushing your robe, hand hovering near your cheek like he's afraid one wrong move will break whatever this is.
Your eyes drop.
Land on the small damp spot already darkening the denim.
Your breath catches audibly.
He follows your line of sight—and freezes.
Color rushes up his neck, his ears, his cheeks — he looks caught, exposed, like you just found something he's been hiding for hours.
Which you have.
You swallow. Your voice comes out small, shy, almost disbelieving.
"Is that… because of me?"
A small pause. Eyes flicking back up to his.
"I did that?"
Haechan exhales sharply. His Adam's apple bobs. He doesn't look away — can't — and his voice cracks when he answers.
"Yeah."
Just that.
No excuses. No deflection.
“Yeah, baby. You did that.”
The pet name slips again, softer this time. Careful. Like he’s testing it. His eyes search yours like he's waiting for you to bolt.
You don’t.
Instead your knees hit the floor.
A soft thud against the carpet.
You're eye level with his hips now, close enough to see the way his thighs flex when he shifts slightly. Hands hovering uncertainly just above his thighs. Not quite touching.
Haechan jolts. Hands fly up like he’s going to stop you—then stall midair.
“What—what are you doing?” His voice is strangled, panicked. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. His legs stay planted, breath coming faster, cock twitching visibly under the fabric like it’s begging for attention.
You look up at him.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, and it almost sounds real. "I didn't mean to make you this hard. It must've been so difficult. Trying to direct like that. All day."
A strangled sound leaves him—half laugh, half something rougher.
"Difficult doesn't even—" He cuts himself off the second your fingers brush the button of his jeans.
You don't ask permission. You just do it.
Button pops. Zipper rasps down slow, loud in the quiet room. You tug the waistband down with it.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
You don’t look away.
You gasp—quiet, involuntary. Eyes widening, lips parting.
He’s… bigger than you expected. Thick, flushed, the curve of him making your stomach drop as you take it in.
Haechan makes a broken noise in the back of his throat. One hand shoots to the doorframe, knuckles going white. The other hovers near your head—like he wants to thread his fingers through your hair but doesn’t trust himself not to pull.
“Fuck—wait—”
Too late.
You lean forward and take him into your mouth.
No teasing. Just warm, wet heat enveloping the head, tongue flat against the underside as you sink down on the first go.
Haechan actually stumbles a little at the feeling of it.
"Shit — oh my god —" His voice cracks, hips jerking forward before he catches himself. Hand finally lands in your hair — not pulling, just holding, trembling. "Baby — fuck — you don't have to —"
But you do.
You hum around him — and the vibration makes his whole body shudder. You pull back slow, lips dragging, tongue swirling around the head before sinking down again. Deeper this time. Cheeks hollowing. Hand wrapping around what your mouth can't reach, stroking in time.
He’s already losing it. Head tipped back against the door, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of you on your knees might actually kill him.
"You — fuck — You’re gonna fucking ruin me," he rasps. "Been hard for you since yesterday… and now this—fuck—”"
You pull off just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip.
"I'm sorry it was hard for you." A soft kiss. "Let me make it better."
Then you take him again — deeper, faster, throat relaxing as you work him with everything you've got.
“Fuck—good girl—such a good girl—”
His grip tightens. Hips start to rock — shallow, helpless thrusts he can't stop. Low, broken moans spill out of him.
He’s close. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters like he’s trying to warn you and can’t get it out in time.
“Baby—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”
You don't pull off.
You take him deeper.
Suck harder.
Look up at him with those same wide eyes you gave the camera all day.
And that's what breaks him.
Haechan comes with a strangled groan—hips snapping forward, cock pulsing hot and thick down your throat as he spills. You swallow around him, throat working, not spilling a drop.
He's trembling when it's over. Hand still fisted gently in your hair, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s trying to calm himself down.
You pull off slowly. Lips swollen and eyes glassy.
And he just… stares.
Like he doesn’t know what to do with what just happened.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're unreal."
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, suddenly shy again. "Did that… help?"
He lets out a weak, disbelieving laugh and drops to his knees so you're face to face. Cups your jaw in both hands, thumbs brushing your swollen lips.
Then he kisses you — hard, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue like he's claiming every second of what just happened.
The door's still unlocked.
The crew's still somewhere in the building.
But right now?
None of that exists.
Only this.
The kiss starts desperate — hands cupping your face like you're something about to vanish if he lets go.
He pulls you up from your knees in one smooth motion, body flush against his, and walks you backward until the small table catches the backs of your thighs. Lifts you onto it without breaking the kiss.
Your legs part around him instinctively. Robe falling completely open, skin cold against the surface while he presses in close.
He groans into your mouth the second he feels how wet you are — how slick your thighs still are from earlier.
“Fuck.”
The sound gets swallowed by your mouth as he kisses you harder, tongue against yours, messy and desperate. One hand tangles in your hair while the other slides down your side—finally, finally touching without cameras, without excuses, without pretending any of this is professional anymore.
"Been wanting this since the second you walked on set. Wanted to touch you. Taste you. Make you come for me instead." A pause, voice dropping to almost nothing. "Not some lens. Not some script. Me."
He drops to his knees so fast it almost hurts — kneecaps hitting the floor, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider.
He goes still for a second.
Just — looks.
Like he's been starving for this exact view and now that he has it, he doesn't know where to start.
Then he dives in.
No buildup. No teasing.
Just his mouth on you like he's been thinking about nothing else all day.
The first drag of his tongue against your clit makes your whole body jolt, your hips jerk off the table before you can stop them.
You gasp sharply, fingers flying into his hair. He moans into you. Loud. Unashamed. Like he's the one being taken apart, the vibration making your thighs shake harder around his head.
His tongue flicked against your clit relentlessly while his nose stayed pressed against your mound, buried so deep between your thighs it was like he never wanted to come up for air.
"Fuck." He groans, hot and muffled against your folds. "You taste so good."
He pulls back just enough to bite down on the inside of your thigh — not hard, just enough to feel it. Just to hear the sound you make. Then licks over the sting before burying himself back in.
His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the table, lifting, tilting your hips so he can get deeper — and then his tongue is inside you, curling, and you cry out sharp enough that you slap a hand over your own mouth.
His nose nudges against your clit while his tongue pushes deeper, dragging another broken sound from your throat before he comes back up to suck your clit between his lips slow enough to make your whole body shake.
And every time you react—every twitch of your hips, every pull at his hair, every helpless little sound—he moans against you again, hands tightening on your thighs like it’s getting him off too.
“Look at you,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are wet, chin shining under the light, eyes completely blown. “Moaning like that for me. Fuck, baby—come on my tongue. Let me feel it.”
He dives back in.
Two fingers slide inside you, curling deep enough to make your back arch off the table while his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking in a messy rhythm with every thrust of his hand.
You stop trying to stay quiet. You’re loud now—completely unable to stop it. Gasps turning into broken cries of his name.
“Haechan—oh god—”
He whines against you. Actually whines.
His hips jerk uselessly against nothing, cock hard again already, but he doesn’t touch himself once. Doesn’t seem to care. All he cares about is the way your thighs lock around his head like you never want him to stop.
Every reaction you give him only makes him groan louder against your skin, hands tightening around your thighs like he’s getting drunk off this.
"That's it," he growls, voice vibrating against your clit. "Come for me. Come on my face."
And you do.
Harder than on set. Harder than anything.
Your whole body locks up with it, thighs tightening around his head as a sob rips out of your throat, back arching while you pulse around his fingers.
He doesn’t stop—keeps going, moaning against you like he’s the one coming, still licking through every aftershock like he can't make himself stop.
When you finally slump back, trembling, chest heaving, he pulls away slow.
Lips swollen. Face a mess. Eyes glassy and dark and so blissed out it almost hurts to look at.
He rests his forehead against your inner thigh.
Breathing hard. Pressing soft, reverent kisses to your skin like he's grateful.
"Jesus," he whispers, voice hoarse. "I could do this forever."
He looks up at you with this dazed little smile that somehow feels filthier than anything he’s said so far.
"But we're not done."
His hands slide up your sides.
"Not even close."
He rises slowly from his knees, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, lifting you just enough to keep your legs around his waist.
Then he’s kissing you again.
Harder this time. Messier. Tongue pushing into your mouth so you can taste yourself on him, and the second you do, your stomach twists. You make this pathetic little sound into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans back like the sound alone could finish him off.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice rough. “You taste so good.”
You can barely think straight after that.
One hand braces against the table beside you while the other reaches down between your bodies, guiding himself against you. He’s still hard—still twitching from your mouth earlier, from watching you come apart on his tongue.
He wraps a hand around himself and slowly drags the tip between your folds, collecting the slick already dripping out of you. The accidental brush against your clit made you whimper.
The head of his cock catches at your entrance.
He presses forward just enough to part your folds, the blunt head stretching your entrance slightly before he stops.
You look at him and his eyes are already on yours, dark and intense enough to make heat crawl up your neck all over again.
No words. Just that heavy, burning stare — like he's memorizing you. Every flicker across your face. Every breath.
Then he pushes in.
Slow.
So fucking slow.
Inch by thick inch, stretching you open, filling you until your breath hitches and your nails bite into his hoodie.
And he keeps looking at you.
Doesn’t look away once.
He watches the way your brows pinch when he bottoms out — the way your mouth falls open, the soft sound you make when he settles deep inside you.
One hand pinning your thigh wider, exposing you fully as he watches his cock disappear into your dripping cunt. The sight alone — his cock splitting your swollen lips, veins dragging against your inner walls — makes his grip tighten against your skin.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
His voice actually shakes a little.
“Look at you.”
Heat floods straight to your face.
“Taking me so well.”
He stays buried inside you for a long moment, like he’s letting himself feel it. Letting you feel it too.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first. Pulling back just enough before thrusting deep again, hips rolling instead of snapping, grinding against every sensitive spot until your legs start trembling around him.
His forehead presses against yours, breaths mixing together, and when you look up at him, he’s already staring.
“You feel that?” he whispers.
Another slow thrust.
“That’s me.”
Your stomach twists hard.
“Inside you. Finally.”
You can’t even answer properly. Just nod helplessly and cling to him while your hips keep chasing him without meaning to.
He kisses you again, messy and deep, before pulling back just enough to look at you.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.
The same words he gave you on set. But this time there's no camera. No crew. No pretending.
“Don’t look away. I want to see every second of you cumming on my cock.”
He pulls back an inch, the drag of his cock along your walls making your breath catch, before pushing deeper again. The stretch hits harder this time, enough to make your legs tense around him, your pussy fluttering helplessly as he sinks halfway back in.
Every thrust knocks another broken sound out of you. The wet squelch of your soaked folds taking him echoes through the room while his hips keep rocking into yours, deep enough to leave you trembling around his waist.
And every time he bottoms out, the grind against your clit pulls another helpless sound from your throat.
Sweat slips down his skin, warm against your chest, and you lock your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him even closer.
One of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit in slow, firm circles, pleasure cutting through the fullness hard enough to make your whole body jerk. The other stays at the back of your neck, keeping you close.
Your body responds instantly, hips lifting to meet every thrust as the rhythm builds into something hotter, steadier. The fullness turns almost dizzying, every slow plunge hitting that sweet spot and making your walls flutter around him.
You’re already shaking.
Still sensitive from his mouth. Still completely full of him.
“Haechan—”
His name comes out embarrassingly wrecked.
“Yeah?” he groans immediately, hips stuttering for the first time. “Say it again.”
Your whole world narrows to the sounds between you — the sharp smack of skin, the wet slide every time he thrusts back into you, your broken moans mixing with his rough breathing.
The pressure inside you snaps so suddenly it almost scares you.
Your whole body tightens around him as you come with his name on your lips, vision blurring at the edges from how intense it is. Your thighs lock around his waist, and he lets out this wrecked sound like he can feel every pulse of you.
And he watches every second.
Like he can’t look away even if he wants to.
The way your body arches toward him like he’s gravity itself.
That’s what pushes him over.
He buries himself deep one last time and comes with a low, broken moan, hips twitching against yours while he rides through it. Even after, he stays close, staring at you like he’s still trying to process what just happened.
He doesn’t pull out.
The small room still smells faintly of coffee and sex, the air thick and warm from everything you’ve already done.
Haechan catches his breath against your neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your collarbone like he’s still savoring the taste of your skin. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His eyes are dark. Still hungry.
One hand slides under your thigh while the other braces at your waist before he lifts you off the table in one smooth motion. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, ankles locking behind his back as he carries you across the room.
The movement makes you feel every inch of him still buried inside you, deep enough to pull a shaky breath from your lungs, and Haechan groans quietly at the way you tighten around him.
He steps out of his jeans halfway across the room, kicking them aside without a second thought before dropping onto the old leather couch against the wall.
The couch leather is cool and slightly sticky against Haechan’s bare back, creaking softly beneath him as he sinks deeper into it, thighs spread wide, eyes fixed on you the entire time.
Your robe is long gone now, discarded somewhere on the floor with his hoodie. Nothing between you but skin, heat, and the lingering throb of wanting more.
His hands are already on you.
Warm palms slide up the backs of your thighs, fingers spreading possessively over your skin as he guides you into his lap. Your knees sink into the worn cushions on either side of his hips, chest pressed flush against his.
Every tiny movement drags your nipples against his, sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You can feel his heartbeat hammering beneath your hands — fast, uneven, matching the ache building low in your stomach.
And the way he looks up at you —
Like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to touch.
His hands slide to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to guide, not force. He doesn’t rush. Just keeps you there for a second, letting you feel the slow pulse of him still inside you.
“Ride me,” he says, voice low and rough, eyes never leaving yours.
“Slow,” he murmurs. “Like you did on set… but this time it’s just for me.”
You lift yourself slightly, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other guides him back inside you. He feels hot and heavy against your slick folds, the head of him catching at your entrance before slowly sliding deeper.
The stretch hits harder like this — facing him, every inch sliding in with a slow, burning glide that makes your breath hitch audibly. You sink down inch by inch, feeling the way he throbs inside you like a second heartbeat while his eyes stay locked on your face the entire time.
When your ass finally meets his thighs—fully seated, stuffed full— Haechan’s head falls back against the couch with a low groan. His hands flex hard against your hips like he’s trying to hold himself together, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before snapping open again.
And then he’s looking at you.
Like he can’t stand missing a single second of this.
“Fuck—baby,” he breathes.
His hands wander up your back before settling on your hips, helping guide you into the same slow roll that already has both of you breathing harder.
“You feel so good,” he groans softly. “Still so fucking tight…”
You start moving properly then — slow lifts until only the head remains inside followed by deep, dragging drops, grinding down every time your hips meet his.
The angle is perfect. Every roll presses against that spot inside you while the friction between your bodies sends heat shooting straight up your spine.
Wet sounds fill the quiet room — slick, rhythmic, embarrassingly loud — mixing with your uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the old couch beneath you.
Haechan’s hands roam everywhere.
Thighs. Waist. Up your sides.
Thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he cups them fully, palms hot against your skin as his fingers toy with your nipples until they ache. Then he leans in and takes one into his mouth with a groan, sucking hard before switching to the other while you whimper and grind down harder against him.
But somehow he always comes back to your face.
A hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging lightly across your bottom lip as he keeps your gaze fixed on him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me.”
The words sound dangerously close to his on-set directions, except softer now. Rougher around the edges. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach twist.
Every time you sink back down, your clit catches against the coarse hair at the base of him, sending a sharp pulse through you. The pressure building inside you feels different this time — deeper, heavier, like something tightening low in your stomach every time he thrusts up into you.
“I wanna see every time you feel good,” he says quietly. “Every time I make you feel good.”
His mouth finds your neck, sucking lightly while his teeth graze your pulse.
His hips start rolling up to meet you now, deep controlled thrusts that make you gasp every time he bottoms out.
You whimper softly, hips faltering for a second when he thrusts into you again.
“That’s it,” he groans, voice cracking this time. “Just like that—fuck.”
His grip tightens at your hips.
“Your face when you take me…” He breaks off with another breathless sound, eyes dragging over your expression. “God.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and firm in time with your hips. The pressure builds so intensely your thighs start shaking around him, pleasure twisting almost painfully low in your stomach—too much fullness, too much heat, too much him.
He angles his hips just slightly on the next thrust, hitting that spot perfectly while his thumb presses harder against your clit.
“Haechan—”
His name comes out broken and pleading. Your thighs are trembling, burning, but you can’t stop.
The release crashes over you so suddenly it steals the breath from your lungs.
Something inside you snaps.
You cry out, back arching hard your breasts press into his face as your walls tighten around him in sharp pulsing waves. Wet heat floods between your thighs, soaking him, the couch, both of you, and the sound of it makes Haechan groan low in his throat like he can’t believe what he’s feeling.
“Fuck—yeah, that’s it—”
He’s moaning with you now, hips stuttering while he watches your face like he’s completely gone from it.
“So pretty,” he breathes brokenly. “Fuck… you’re so pretty when you come.”
He doesn’t stop moving. Keeps thrusting through it slowly, dragging out every tremor until you’re whimpering from the overstimulation, thighs shaking so badly you can barely stay upright.
Only then does he finally let himself go.
One last deep thrust, burying himself inside you as he comes with a wrecked groan of your name, arms tightening around you while both of you shake through it.
You collapse against his chest afterward, breathing hard, skin damp with sweat and everything else. His arms wrap around you immediately, holding you close like he doesn’t want an inch of space between you.
Open-mouthed kisses press against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus,” he whispers, voice completely ruined. “You just… fuck.”
You hide your face in his neck, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him.
He laughs softly under his breath, still sounding wrecked, fingers sliding gently through your hair.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Another kiss presses against your hairline before he shifts you carefully in his lap, still inside you and softening slowly, until you’re curled against his chest.
For a long moment afterward, neither of you moves.
Just breathing.
Skin sticking together.
The faint drip of your combined release somewhere beneath you.
His heartbeat slowing beneath your cheek.
His lips brush your ear, smile warm against your skin.
“…I genuinely don’t know how I’m supposed to direct tomorrow without losing my mind.”
content warnings: mdni — smut. haechan is a perv for tits (obviously.) pwp. unprotected sex (uh oh), dirty talk, cunnilingus, fingering, honestly just filth hk...
mimi's note: this is just a piece of writing i'm posting in the meantime while i work on my slightly longer jeno fic which is still in the drafts... release me from the shackles of writer's block.
when you first started dating haechan, you had no clue just how deep his infatuation for your tits would go.
you had simply assumed that he was just most attracted to them compared to other parts of your body, and that was it. just a preference, right? but oh boy, were you wrong.
when you two were still newly together, he would start off with simple, subtle gestures: he'd slip behind you in the kitchen while you were washing dishes or fixing up a quick meal and his arms would wrap around your waist. he'd whisper something tender like, "you look gorgeous today, baby." and then his hands would glide upward, past your torso and midriff towards your breasts. he'd gently grope and fondle the soft, full flesh there through your top, his mouth finding its way to the sensitive skin between your neck and shoulder, teasing it with nips and nibbles.
but as time passed, his need for them became much more apparent, almost greedy. at whatever time he deemed right and appropriate, his palms would find your tits, sometimes through your shirt to squeeze and knead gently, while other times he'd just lift your shirt up and indulge himself fully.
anytime he desired, he'd grant himself access to your curved mounds, his palms pressed to your flesh, almost completely covering them, with his thumbs picking and pinching at your perky nipples.
and by "anytime", that truly meant anytime. while gaming, he'd pull you onto his lap facing the monitor so he could idly flick one hand up to your breasts between rounds, squeezing and kneading even as he focused on the screen. while cuddling, he loved having your back pressed flush to his chest, arms encircled tightly around you while both hands cupped your tits.
if you were being honest, it got irritating at times. he'd interrupt you mid-chore or while you were buried deep in some necessary yet pestering paperwork just to slip his warm, eager hands under your shirt without hesitation, completely ignoring your small complaints and whines.
"just continue what you were doing. pretend i'm not even here, okay? just want to feel you.."
you couldn't even refuse him though you wanted to due to how distracting it was because he constantly begged and pleaded for you to let him.
and that was only the beginning. things only intensified once he got you beneath him. or on top. he wasn't particular about the position.
when things grew heated between you two, two of his fingers soon dragging slowly in and out of your soaked folds, one of his hands still stays gripping onto one breast, his mouth sucking and tongue lapping at the pink peaks.
he's always murmuring words against your skin during sex, his voice low and rough with lust. "fuck, i love these pretty little tits so much," he'd groan, "fit so damn well in my hands."
the same can be applied to when he has his mouth occupied between your legs. his tongue is busy elsewhere, flicking against your already-swollen clit and puffy pussy lips, yet his hands still do not dare leave your cleavage.
he's a hungry, hungry man.
oh, and when he finally sinks himself fully and completely raw into you... guess where his hands love to grip? it's ridiculous, honestly. whether you're riding him, underneath him in missionary, or even from the back, his hands and fingers are constantly toying and kneading your tits that bounce in perfect rhythm with his movements.
he'll be snapping his hips up into yours repeatedly, the head of his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you so deliciously to the point that your limbs have gone numb and your eyes are rolling back into your head, but he maintains his relentlessness.
"so fuckin' tight... jesus christ, you're perfect.. love every inch of you."
and by the time things are finished, your poor tits are covered in lovebites and flushed red from his grip, and not to mention, your body is trembling from the after effects of the earthshaking orgasm he just gave you, the tears of overwhelming pleasure still pricking your eyes.
he'll be chuckling softly (like the absolute ass he is) while cleaning up the combined juices belonging to both of you from between your thighs, his gaze still roaming over those soft curves of your chest that he's so enamored with.
"my god, look at you," he murmurs.
he disposes of the dirtied tissues and climbs on top again, hovering over your shaking form.
"your tits are always pretty, but they look best like this."
a small pause.
"should i try cumming on them next?" he questions with that extremely infuriating smile of his.
pairing: brother’s friend! haechan x friend’s sister! reader
word count: 12k+
warnings: nothing really, just making out. lots of kisses. an are you gay? joke. some curse words. alcohol. clubbing.
an: i haven’t stopped listening to drop dead since it came out and i fr just had to lock in and write something about it. this may or may not be based on real life events, real conversations, real crushes, real hotel rooms. who knows? (i know)
🏹
a brother’s friend is off limits. a friend’s sister? definitely off limits. it’s one of those unspoken rules everyone just knows.
and your younger brother — sweet, oblivious, far too trusting with the men around him — made the wrong move.
it’s not his fault.
the two of you were only three years apart and life’s circumstances forced you to become best friends. and as the best of friends, you ended up here — in a fully paid hotel room his rich friend invited him to. all expenses covered.
a little suspicious? maybe.
but you’re not one to pass up on free things. especially a free night stay at a four star hotel.
and, really — you’re practically just one of the guys.
…except for the tiny, inconvenient detail that you might have a tiny crush on his so-called rich friend — lee haechan.
“so,” giselle’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, “that haechan guy is kinda cute. definitely your type.”
you already know that.
“hm…he’s alright,” you shrug, forcing a careless tone as you drag your eyeliner across your lid. too long. you wipe it with concealer. too short. you redraw it. a repetitive cycle until you finally accept that your eyeliner are sisters, not twins.
“ugh!” she flops dramatically onto her bed — the room comes with two double beds, courtesy of haechan, which she refuses to stop bringing up. “you always say that. when are you finally getting a boyfriend?”
you laugh. because she’s not the only one in your friend group waiting for that miracle to happen.
“please, i’m so tired of boys,” you say, lining your lips now, “i swear — there’s no real men nowadays. they all act like princesses.”
“girl, he might be different!” she insists, sitting up now, eyes wide. “just make the first move. i swear, with how pretty you are? he’ll be wrapped around your finger in seconds,” she continues, adorably pouting up at you.
you don’t know why your friends are so obsessed with your nonexistent love life. you barely think about it at all. at least, not as much as they seem to.
“no fucking way,” you reply, smacking your lips together as you finish with your gloss, “you know i’m old fashioned.”
“fine! whatever,” she groans.
her phone rings on the nightstand she’s occupied, finally taking her attention off of you.
instantly, her entire demeanor softens.
“hi my love,” she coos at her phone and you almost snort.
you can’t even imagine yourself talking like that. to a boy. ever.
“yeah, baby, i’m just gonna go to the club for a bit with y/n and her brother and a couple of their friends, i promise i’ll be back at the hotel before 2 a.m.”
ew. updates like that? like she’s reporting to a parent? the thought makes you scrunch your nose. could never be you.
“oki, yes, i’ll call you later taro, i love you.”
she hangs up, all dreamy-eyed and glowing, catching your gaze in the mirror. you gag dramatically, sticking your tongue out, and she laughs, throwing a pillow straight at your head.
“but seriously,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows.
“seriously what?”
“why are we even invited to this?” she gestures around the room, “we’re the only two girls here. and i’m only here because of you — he has to be at least a little interested in you to book us a room.”
you shrug, refusing to agree, even though a small part of you knows that lee haechan may also have a tiny crush on you, too.
because there was that moment.
that stupid, lingering four seconds when your eyes met for the first time. you didn’t even say hi then. there were no introductions. no words. but you felt it. crazy, as that sounds.
even crazier when you take in the fact that you only really formally met him earlier today — at the hotel lobby. when he waved at you, awkwardly, passed you your hotel room card and personally walked you and giselle up your room, which was, coincidentally, right next to his.
“jisung probably just forced him to include us,” you say, still pretending the boy had no effect on you, “and everyone knows no one can say no to my brother.”
giselle laughs, “yeah i guess…your brother is just too adorable to say no to.”
you scrunch your nose up again…because…ew. if only they knew how annoying that little shit actually is.
“we still have three hours until we need to get to the club,” you say, glancing at your watch, “wanna check out the hotel?”
giselle nods immediately, already halfway off the bed before you even finish your sentence.
the two of you wander through the hotel. pool first, then the gym, then the café where you linger a little too long pretending to consider overpriced pastries you both know you’re not buying. eventually, you make your way up to the rooftop, the view stretching out in gold and glass and city noise.
it would’ve been perfect. if it wasn’t so hot. like, offensively hot. the kind that clings to your skin and melts your makeup no matter how hard you try to salvage it.
“okay, no,” giselle groans, fanning herself with her hand. “i’m gonna pass out.”
“same,” you laugh, already turning back toward the elevator, “let’s go back.”
by the time you reach your floor, you’re both a little flushed, a little sticky, and very ready for air conditioning.
but as you walk down the hallway, something catches your attention — the door to haechan’s room is wide open.
and before you can even pretend not to notice — chenle, your personal favorite friend of your brothers’, pops out.
“hey! come in—we’re just pregaming,” he says, his kitty-like smile beaming at you, whiskers and everything. and how could you say no to that actual cutie?
the room smells faintly of alcohol and cologne, the table cluttered with half-empty bottles of vodka and mixers, some sadboi/fuckboi playlist humming through the speakers. and the boys are all sprawled out in different parts of the room.
your brother was by the window, one hand in his pocket while jaemin angles a camera at him like he’s shooting a magazine spread. jeno’s on the bed, head down, thumbs moving across his phone — probably texting that situationship jisung told you all about. renjun’s seated neatly in the corner chair, sipping from his bottle like he doesn’t belong in the chaos at all. then there’s someone new, someone you didn’t meet in the hotel lobby earlier.
and of course, lee haechan — with his back against the wall, a bottle in hand, standing coolly, chatting softly with renjun.
you’re not sure if that’s his natural habitat or if he’s putting up a front for you but you come to a conclusion quickly — you don’t really like it. he seems different from the first time you ever saw him. like he’s trying to be someone he’s not. but then again, you don’t even know who he is.
“hey, i’m mark,” the new guy says, bringing your attention back to him.
mark’s cute. his leather jacket fits him perfectly and he seems like the friendly/outgoing type which are the type of people you enjoy the most since you’re not too friendly yourself.
“i’m y/n,” you say, returning his smile, “this is my friend, giselle.”
she waves at everyone before sitting at the unoccupied bed and starting a conversation with mark. she asks him what his major is. he asks her about her job. leaving you standing there.
your brother, who has now finally realized you were in the room turns towards your voice, and you look at him.
“i can’t believe you guys started pregaming without us.”
“oops,” he shrugs, giving you a gummy smile. you notice jaemin’s camera is pointed at you now. you throw it a small peace sign with the signature duck lips — something you’ve embarrassingly conditioned yourself to do every time a camera is on you.
“here,” a voice captures your attention and your eyes are on the bottle haechan is handing you.
to be fair — he is the closest one to you, geographically speaking, so it’s only right he was handing you a bottle.
you inspect it. it’s quite literally — green.
“uhm…that look’s disgusting,” you say, a playful, totally not flirtatious, lilt in your voice.
he chuckles softly, holding the bottle out closer, “just try it, it’s not that bad.”
“how do i know if i can trust you?” you continue the playful nature, an eyebrow going up, the tiny smile on your face purposefully evident so he knows you’re kidding.
and he plays along with you. his mouth curving slowly, amused.
“guess you’ll just have to take that risk,” he smirks, still holding the bottle out to you.
you huff out a quiet laugh, finally taking the bottle from his hand and bringing it up to your lips, ignoring the fact that this was, technically — an indirect kiss.
but whatever.
you’re too old to be giggling about indirect kisses.
you’re delightfully surprised when the alcohol hits your tongue, eyes flicking back up to him immediately, and he’s already watching you. like he never looked away in the first place. waiting.
“what did you put in this?” you ask, narrowing your eyes slightly.
“can’t tell you, it’s a secret ingredient,” he teases.
“okay, mr. krabs,” you scoff, taking another sip, trying to decipher what the flavor is…until it finally clicks, “it’s lime tang, isn’t?”
he gives you a small chuckle. it’s cute.
“ahh,” he hums, clicking his tongue, “and here i thought you’d spend your whole life trying to pry the secret from me.”
you roll your eyes, and you hate the way you can feel your smile getting wider.
over a boy.
yuck.
“someone’s a little too obsessed with spongebob,” you mutter, “but i do have to give it to you haechan, this is pretty good.”
you hand the bottle back to him. but he doesn’t take it.
“keep it,” he says, gently pushing it back towards you, his hands soft, “it’s yours now.”
you hesitate for half a second, “…thanks.”
your fingers tighten around the bottle and for a moment, the two of you just — look at each other. and there it is again. that same pull from the four second eye contact when you first saw him at your brother’s university.
eventually, you have to force yourself to look away because his gaze is too much. and you don’t like it. too aware of all the people around you. too aware of the fact that your brother was just right there.
so you turn, slipping away before it lingers enough for the others to notice, dropping down beside giselle on the bed. she’s mid conversation with mark, chenle and renjun who joined at some point, you didn’t even notice.
and you fall into it easily. laughing. talking. blending in like you always do.
🏹
when everyone was dressed up and ready, you all met at the lobby once again. you kept it simple, not wanting to make it look like you were trying to impress someone — just a black fitted mid top with low rise jeans, black kitten heels and your cherry red mini handbag.
“who’s riding with who?” you ask, already pulling your phone out, thumb hovering over the grab app.
you glance around casually. but not really. because a small, traitorous part of you is waiting. for him. just one sentence. one “i’ll go with you.” that’s all it would take.
but the moment stretches…then passes.
most of them still feel like strangers. after all, besides chenle, you met the rest of them today. and there’s still that awkward hesitation in the air, like no one wants to assume, no one wants to overstep.
renjun just nods, quiet but certain, like it was never even a question. and just like that, it’s decided.
you, giselle, mark, chenle, and renjun pile into one car.
jisung, jeno, jaemin, and haechan in another.
the ride is loud, easy, comfortable in a way that surprises you. mark keeps the conversation going effortlessly, chenle’s half-laughing at everything, and renjun, quiet at first, eventually warms up, adding little comments that make you laugh more than you expect.
it’s nice. more than nice. and for a moment, you forget about the other car entirely.
🏹
the club is already alive when you get there. lights flashing, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest, the air thick with heat and perfume and something electric that makes your pulse pick up.
you spot your friends almost immediately — karina waving you over, ningning already mid-story about something ridiculous, jungwoo grinning as he pulls you into a quick side hug.
introductions blur into laughter, and somehow, seamlessly, everyone just…fits.
the music is good. really good. the kind that makes it impossible to stand still. one song bleeds into the next, and before you know it, you’re dancing, singing, losing yourself in the rhythm as drinks keep appearing in your hand like magic. shot after shot. picture after picture. arms slung over shoulders, phones flashing, memories being made faster than you can process them.
at some point, you notice the boys drifting. one by one, here and there — disappearing into the crowd, probably pulled away by girls who couldn’t help but notice them. you don’t blame them. your group easily has the most attractive men in the entire place tonight. it would be weirder if they weren’t getting attention.
mark and renjun chooses to stay though. and somewhere between your fourth — or fifth? —shot, you realize they’ve quietly become your favorites.
especially when you belong with me starts playing.
“oh my god,” you gasp, grabbing renjun’s arm. his eyes light up instantly. and then the two of you are screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs, perfectly on-key, you think?, completely unbothered, jumping in place like it’s a private concert instead of a packed club.
mark’s laughing beside you, shaking his head but joining in anyway, and it’s just — fun. pure, uncomplicated fun.
but just as promised, giselle left the bar around 1:40am, whispering in your ear, “i’m gonna go…have fun babe,” she says, kissing your cheek.
you hold her hand, not letting her get away so easily.
“i’ll go with you,” you say immediately, steady, no hesitation, “i’m not letting you go alone.”
she pauses, then turns back to you with that same bright, tipsy grin, eyes soft, a little glassy.
“y/n,” she laughs quietly, “you’re having so much fun.”
you don’t loosen your grip, “giselle—”
“stay,” she insists gently, squeezing your hand now instead. “see what the night holds.”
you narrow your eyes at her, “i’m not letting you commute by yourself,” you say, firmer this time, “especially like this.”
“i’m fineeee,” she drags out, giggling under her breath. then she leans in again, dropping her voice like she’s about to share a secret, “taro’s already outside…he brought his motorcycle.”
she wiggles her eyebrows, “we’re gonna put that hotel bed to use.”
you snort, the concern breaking just enough for amusement to slip through, “oh my god.”
“what?” she beams, completely unashamed.
you shake your head, still smiling despite yourself, “fine,” you sigh, tightening your hold on her hand as you start guiding her toward the exit anyway, “i’m at least walking you out.”
“god,” she mutters, leaning her head briefly against your shoulder as you both weave through the crowd, “you’d be such a good girlfriend…”
you side eye her.
“…so caring,” she adds softly.
you can’t help but laugh as the two of you make your way down the stairs, out of the heavy bass and flashing lights, and into the thick, warm night air. it hits you immediately — humid, a little quieter, the distant echo of music still thumping behind you.
shotaro’s already there, waiting by his bike, helmet in hand, posture relaxed but eyes instantly lighting up the moment he sees her.
you feel giselle’s grip tighten just slightly in yours before she lets go, drifting toward him like it’s second nature.
“be careful, shotaro,” you say, passing her over with a pointed look.
“of course,” he nods easily, smiling as he gently steadies her, carefully putting on her customized helmet. he is really good to her. and you can’t be happier for your friend.
she watches him the whole time — soft, fond, completely gone. and you notice. of course you do. you’re the one who always notices.
and yeah, maybe, sometimes, very, very rarely, usually only when the clock hits 2am — you wonder what that would feel like. to let someone look at you like that. take care of you like that. instead of always being the one who does it for everyone else.
“and please,” you smile teasingly, “don’t do it on the left bed, that one’s mine.”
giselle bursts into laughter, “no promises,” and then they were riding off, her arms wrapped tightly around his middle, their laughter’s ringing in the air.
gross.
but there’s no real bite to it. just a small smile lingering as you turn back toward the club.
it’s past 2:00am now, which only means — the party’s just getting started.
you thank the heavens that karina, ningning and jungwoo showed up tonight. because without them? you’d probably be standing awkwardly in a corner somewhere, pretending to enjoy your drink while wondering how the hell you ended up in a club full of your brother’s friends.
instead, you’re grounded. comfortable. exactly where you’re supposed to be.
renjun’s basically been absorbed into your circle somewhere between screaming song lyrics with you and laughing at absolutely nothing. mark stuck around too, easygoing as ever, but you can tell that he had developed a tiny crush on ningning.
the party continues, more shots, more laughter more of everything. you catch glimpses of your brother once and immediately wish you hadn’t. because he’s very clearly lip-locked with some random girl in the middle of a chanting crowd.
“oh my god,” you mutter, turning away instantly, “i don’t have a brother.”
karina cackles beside you, “too late for that.”
“no, i’m disowning him,” you insist, already grabbing another shot to erase the image from your brain.
the music keeps going — song after song, each one louder than the last, lights flashing in colors that start to blur together the longer you stay. time slips. fast.
and then suddenly — it’s 3:00am.
“fuck,” renjun groans, checking his phone, his whole expression dropping. “i need to go. i’m way past my curfew.”
you blink at him, the words taking a second to fully land. right. they’re still in university. some of them still live at home.
“can you get home okay?” you ask, leaning a little closer so he can hear you over the music.
“i’ll get him a grab,” mark cuts in easily, already pulling out his phone. you nod, trusting him without a second thought. maybe you’d be more concerned if you were sober.
but right now? your head is light, your body warm, the world just a little softer around the edges.
they disappear into the crowd and you don’t even try to keep track of how long mark’s gone for. because the second baby by justin bieber comes on, everything else fades.
“OH MY GOD—” ningning screams.
you don’t even think, already grabbing karina and jungwoo, the four of you forming a mini circle as you all shout the lyrics at the top of your lungs like it’s 2010 and this is the only song that exists. jumping. laughing. completely losing it.
by the time the clock hits 4:00am, the energy shifts.
it’s still loud, still bright, but softer now. heavier. like the night is finally starting to catch up with everyone. most of the boys have made their way back, sitting on the couch like gravity is pulling them in.
jeno’s the first one you noticed. he’s hunched forward, looking like he’s in distress, thumbs rapidly pressing buttons on his phone. you make eye contact with him, flashing him a thumbs up, a small way of asking if he was okay. he just nods solemnly. definitely not okay.
jaemin, slouched beside him, catches the exchange and grins lazily, mouthing, “girl problems.”
you let out a quiet “ahh,” nodding like that explains everything. good enough for you.
and right next to him — lee haechan. with his flushed cheeks and lightly damp hair. he looks like sin. pulling you in without trying.
so pretty. so tempting. everything your brother’s friend shouldn’t be.
and like he can feel you looking, his eyes meet yours. a slow smile tugs at his lips. it’s soft. but it does something to your chest that you don’t like. you’re about to return it when—
“y/n, we’re leavinggg,” ningning’s voice cuts in, hands already on your shoulders as she turns you towards her, “we’ve still got work in a couple of hours,” she groans.
“thank’s for coming,” you laugh softly, pulling her into a hug, “and not letting me dance alone,” you murmur in her ear. she hugs you just as tightly.
“message us when you’re back at the hotel, okay?”
you nod, already moving on to karina and pulling her in a hug as well.
then jungwoo, “you gonna be okay? you’re the only girl left,” he says with concerned eyes.
“i’ll be okay,” you assure him, “jisung’s around here somewhere.”
“please,” he scoffs immediately, “that big baby can barely protect you.”
you laugh, softly hitting him on the chest in a small act of protecting your brother. even though jungwoo was absolutely correct.
“she’ll be okay,” a voice behind you says. low. easy. and your heart speeds up without your permission, “we’ll take care of her.”
you turn, already knowing who it is.
“yup, look — four strong men all right here to protect me,” you say gesturing toward the four men not equipped at all to protect a woman at the moment.
jeno is still too busy typing on his phone, sighing every two seconds. jaemin is fully slumped now, head tipped back, mouth half open, completely passed out. haechan just looks like pure trouble. and mark was sitting at the end of the couch, rubbing his temples.
you take note of the open space right between mark and haechan. like it was reserved with your name on it. like he wanted you to sit there.
jungwoo sighs in disappointment as you laugh, turning to face him again, “i’ll be okay. you know me.”
he nods because he does know you. knows the fact that you never get drunk enough to lose your sophistication. and with that, they leave you to it. alone. with that empty space on the couch. you finally give in. settling right between the two boys.
mark’s shoulder brushes yours immediately, his head lolling lazily from one side to the other, eyes half-lidded, clearly losing his battle with alcohol. every few seconds he lets out a quiet sigh, like he’s drifting in and out of consciousness.
you glance at him first, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“you still doing okay?” haechan’s voice is low.
you turn and your breath catches for half a second. he’s right there. closer than you expect. closer than he has any reason to be. close enough that when you turn, your nose brushes lightly against his cheek. it’s quick. barely there. but it’s enough.
you pull back just as fast, leaning into the couch like it didn’t happen, like you didn’t feel that tiny spark shoot straight down your spine.
“yeah,” you say, clearing your throat just slightly. “this is nothing. we barely drank.”
he lifts an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, “okay…miss party girl.”
you laugh, nudging his knee with yours, “i don’t party that much.”
he huffs out a quiet chuckle, leaning back into the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest behind you — not touching, but close enough that you’re aware of it.
“where’s your brother?” he asks.
you tilt your head, giving him a look, “you’re asking me? you were the one with him the whole night.”
“fair,” he admits, smiling a little.
you shrug, glancing out at the crowd, “last time i saw him, he was making out with someone.”
his brows lift, “and you didn’t step in?”
you let out a soft snort, “why would i step in?”
“you’re his older sister,” he says, like it should mean something.
and for a second — you can’t tell if he’s reminding you…or himself.
you roll your eyes, a small laugh slipping out, “please. he’s twenty-two,” you say, shaking your head, “he doesn’t need me stepping in.”
you glance back at him, a teasing smile pulling at your lips, “what about you?” you ask. “you disappeared a lot tonight…busy?”
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like he already knows where you’re going with this.
“busy playing your brother’s matchmaker,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “that’s for sure.”
you hum, unconvinced, “i’m sure it was very mutual,” you tease.
“nah,” he shrugs, almost too casually. “didn’t really see anyone i liked.”
you blink at him, then laugh lightly, nudging his knee again, “really? a whole club full of hot women and not a single one caught your attention?”
“guess not.”
there’s something off about how easily he says it. you tilt your head, studying him a little closer now.
“your standards that high?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you. steady. unrushed. like he’s not even trying to hide it.
“we can’t always have what we want,” he says quietly but you’re so focused on him, you hear it loud and clear, even when the first beat of just like heaven fills up the room.
you feel it again. that pull. that quiet, dangerous tension that keeps threading itself between every interaction you have with him, tightening each time like it’s building toward something you’re not ready to name.
and for a second, you don’t know what to say. don’t know if you should say anything.
but before the moment can stretch any further, a sudden weight drops against your shoulder. you jolt, blinking as you look down.
mark.
completely out. head resting heavily against you, breathing slow and even like he passed out mid-thought. you let out a small laugh, glancing back at haechan.
“your friend fell asleep on my shoulder,” you point out, amused.
haechan leans forward slightly, looking past you at mark, then huffs out a quiet laugh, “yeah…he’s gone.”
you shift a little, adjusting so mark doesn’t slide off, instinctively steadying him even as you try not to laugh too loud.
“great,” you mumble. “now i’m stuck.”
“mhm,” haechan hums, leaning back again, eyes still on you, “looks like it.”
and somehow, even with mark half-asleep on you, it still feels like you’re the only two people on that couch.
🏹
you try to stay upright. you really do. but your body’s slowly giving up on you, shoulders heavy, head dipping every few seconds no matter how many times you blink or straighten yourself out.
your head tilts forward slightly. you catch it. straighten. then it happens again, slower this time, your balance slipping just enough that it’s obvious you’re losing the fight.
haechan notices. of course he does. he’s been watching you longer than he should admit. the way your movements get softer, slower. the way your eyes take a second longer to focus. the way your head keeps dipping like you’re trying to convince your body to stay awake when it’s already decided otherwise.
so when it happens again, when your head tips just a little too far to the side — he moves. one hand comes up, gentle but sure, stopping you before you can awkwardly jolt yourself back upright. his fingers brush lightly against your temple as he guides you, not forcing, not rushing, just enough. until your head comes to rest against his shoulder. steady. comfortable. like it was meant to be there. he adjusts slightly after, shifting his posture so you don’t have to hold yourself up anymore, his shoulder dipping just enough to support you properly. and you’re too tired to protest.
from an outside perspective you can almost imagine how ridiculous this group looks. a full row of half-dead bodies on a couch. mark passed out on one side, jaemin completely knocked out on the other, jeno still stress-texting like his life depends on it, and you — resting on haechan like the final piece of a sleeping train.
“tired?” he murmurs softly.
“no,” you whisper. it such an obvious lie, it almost makes you smile.
he chuckles under his breath, “wanna go back to the hotel?”
you nod your head no against his shoulder, the movement slow and lazy, “don’t wanna ruin jisung’s fun.”
honestly, you have no idea where your brother even is anymore. somewhere out there. still partying like the night isn’t already over.
“okay,” haechan says.
just like that. no pushing. no teasing. just…okay. his voice is quieter now, like he’s matching your pace without making a big deal out of it.
a few seconds pass. then, “you’re gonna fall asleep on me,” he adds, softer this time, almost amused.
you hum faintly, eyes slipping open for a second, “i’m not asleep,” you mumble.
he lets out another quiet laugh, “sure.”
after a while, he was getting pretty over it too. it was nearing 5:00am and jisung and chenle were still nowhere to be found.
haechan takes one last glance at you, your breathing has evened out now and he’s pretty sure you’ve fallen into a light slumber. he moves carefully, afraid to wake you.
“jeno,” he calls out to his friend, whispering, which is pretty ironic since the rest of the club is still loud.
your ears pick up on it immediately even if your eyes refuses to open.
“can you find jisung and chenle?” haechan says, softer than you’ve ever heard him all night, “we should head back soon.”
“yeah,” jeno mutters, pushing himself up from the couch, still sounding half-annoyed, half-exhausted. “i’ll look for them.”
you feel the couch move under his weight. and for a second — it’s just the two of you again. you’re still resting against him, eyes slightly open now, too tired to pretend you’re not listening anymore. too tired to move away.
“go back to sleep,” haechan murmurs, quieter this time, “i’ll wake you up when they’re here.”
you let out a small breath, barely audible, “mmm.”
his hand shifts again, briefly brushing against your arm like he’s checking if you’re okay. if you’re comfortable. and you are. too comfortable. dangerously so.
a few minutes pass before you hear familiar voices again — jisung’s loud, unmistakable laugh cutting through everything as he stumbles back over with chenle not far behind.
“yo…why do you all look dead?” jisung says, breathless, still riding whatever high he’s on.
the sound of your brother’s voice finally snaps you back to reality and you slowly remove yourself from haechan’s shoulder.
“we’re heading back,” haechan tells them simply. no explanation. no teasing. and for some reason, they listen.
you reach for your bag and pause. it’s not there. your eyes shift to the side. haechan already has it slung over his shoulder like it’s been there all night. you don’t say anything. you just…notice.
🏹
by the time you step out of the club, it’s exactly 5:15am the sky is pale blue now, the sun slowly rising like it’s stretching awake with the rest of you.
the air feels different. cooler. cleaner. quieter in a way the city never really is.
and somehow, that short slumber on the couch did wonders. your head’s clearer now, your steps steadier, your body no longer fighting to stay upright.
you’re already pulling your phone out, opening grab, thumb hovering over the screen when—
“i’m hungry,” your brother says, of course.
you look up at him, unimpressed, “you’re always hungry.”
“there’s a burger place like seven minutes away,” chenle adds, walking backward with way too much energy for someone who’s been up all night. “we can just walk.”
you hesitate. just for a second. you were about to book a ride. go back. end the night.
but then — you feel it. that look.
you turn slightly. haechan’s already looking at you. quiet. waiting. like the answer somehow sits with you.
you exhale softly, shoulders lifting in a casual shrug, “i could eat.”
and just like that — plans change.
the walk is slow, the streets are calmer than usual, nearly empty, filled with other late party-goers looking for food or getting ready to go home.
you end up beside haechan without thinking. step for step. you don’t mention the bag still hanging off his shoulder. don’t mention the way he subtly switches sides so you’re on the inner part of the sidewalk, closer to the buildings, away from the road. like it’s instinct.
jaemin and mark are a few steps ahead, quiet for once, walking a little too straight, a little too focused. like if they concentrate hard enough, no one will notice how drunk they still are.
far ahead, jisung, jeno, and chenle are louder. their voices echoing through the quiet street as they argue like it’s broad daylight.
“i’m telling you…just block her,” chenle says.
“i can’t just block her,” jeno groans.
“why not? peace of mind,” jisung adds like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“because i like her,” jeno shoots back, frustration clear even from a distance.
“i don’t know man—you can like someone that doesn’t make you feel like shit,” jisung says, way too confidently you almost roll your eyes.
for someone who’s never been in a serious relationship he sure does speak like he knows it all.
“yeah, exactly!,” chenle adds. those two always hyping each other up.
you laugh softly under your breath, shaking your head.
“they’re giving terrible advice,” you mumble.
“yeah,” haechan hums beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, “but it’s fine — jeno’s not gonna listen anyway.”
you glance at him “you think so?”
he nods once, eyes forward, voice calm in a way that feels a little too certain.
“people forget all logic when love comes to play.”
you let out a small laugh, nudging his arm lightly, “okay, shakespeare found in a ditch.”
his lips twitch, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to hide how easy it is for you to make him smile.
🏹
by the time you reach the burger joint — your brother is already seated. burger halfway unwrapped, bite already taken, like it never even crossed his mind to wait for you. you don’t comment on it.
you just shake your head lightly, stepping inside and glancing around and realize it’s just you, mark, and haechan left standing.
mark stretches beside you, running a hand through his hair like he’s still trying to wake himself up, eyes scanning the menu lazily.
and haechan — he’s still next to you. close. like he’s been the entire walk. and maybe he notices the way your shoulders drop just slightly, the quiet acceptance of your brother being…well, your brother. because when you look at him, he’s already smiling at you.
“what do you want?” he asks, glancing down at you.
you blink, a little caught off guard, “uh — no, it’s okay,” you say quickly, shaking your head, offering him a small smile, “i’ll just order after you.”
something about it — the idea of someone just casually buying you something — makes you feel a little…awkward. flustered.
he notices that too. of course he does. and it makes his smile widen just a little.
“c’mon,” he nudges your arm lightly with his elbow, “my treat.”
you narrow your eyes at him, half amused.
“how rich are you?”
he scoffs, a brow lifting, “it’s a burger.”
you huff out a small laugh, crossing your arms loosely.
“you already paid for the hotel rooms,” you remind him, like he might’ve conveniently forgotten, “if anything, i should be treating you.”
he laughs at that, easy and unbothered.
“those were from my parents’ saved-up credit card points,” he says casually, “don’t worry about it.”
then he tilts his head slightly, looking at you again.
“so you either tell me what you want,” he adds, voice light but firm, “or i’m ordering the entire menu.”
you blink. once. twice…you’re not entirely sure he’s joking. and honestly? you don’t feel like finding out.
you sigh, giving in just a little, “…just fries,” you mumble.
his grin widens instantly, “just fries?”
you hesitate for half a second, “…and maybe a sundae,” you add, a little quieter this time.
there’s something about the way he looks at you then — like he’s enjoying this way too much.
“with chocolate syrup?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.
you glance up at him, lips pressing together to hide your smile.
“…with chocolate syrup.”
🏹
you find a table for the three of you after that, sliding into your seat with a quiet exhale, finally giving your legs a break.
jisung’s already on his second burger. of course he is. you don’t even bother commenting anymore, just shake your head faintly as you settle in.
a few minutes later, haechan comes back with the tray.
he sets everything down in front of you first — fries, sundae, and a bottle of water you didn’t ask for. but immediately appreciate. you glance up at him, just for a second.
“…thanks,” you murmur.
he just hums, like it’s nothing. like it didn’t matter. like he didn’t think twice about it.
he drops into the seat right in front of you. and you’re glad. because it gives you a perfect view of him.
his hair a little messy from the night, curling at the edge, cheeks slightly flushed, lips a little swollen from too many drinks and he’s so just so — pretty. annoyingly pretty.
and suddenly you’re aware of yourself. of how you probably look right now after hours of dancing, sweating, laughing, barely fixing your makeup. not…put together. not the version of you you’re used to presenting. you resist the urge to check your reflection on your phone. force yourself not to care.
instead, you just reach for your fries, acting like nothing’s changed. like you didn’t just become hyperaware of everything.
you grabbed the ketchup packet, biting the corner off and out of pure habit — you drag a perfect line of red across a single fry. precise. neat.
haechan watches you do it. and then he looks at you like you’ve just disobeyed all the laws of the universe.
“who the fuck eats their fries like that?”
“hey!,” you say defensively, “don’t knock it before you try it.”
he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.
“you psycho,” he says, leaning back slightly, “it’s literally easier to just put the ketchup on the napkin and dip your fry like a normal person.”
“it doesn’t taste as good!” you argue, already preparing another one.
he raises a brow, unconvinced.
“i swear,” you insist, glancing up at him. “it doesn’t.”
and before you even realize what you’re doing — you’re holding it out to him. right in front of his lips. a perfectly ketchup-lined fry.
there’s a split second where you register it. where you could pull back. laugh it off. but you don’t.
and he doesn’t hesitate. he leans in just enough, his pretty lips wrapping around the fry as he takes it from your fingers — eyes still on you the entire time.
it’s not as innocent as it should be. your breath catches, just slightly.
and then mark drops into the seat beside him.
you retract your hand immediately, reminded of company.
“see?” you say quickly, grabbing another fry to distract yourself. “tastes better, doesn’t it?”
“it tastes like a fry,” he says, completely unimpressed, but his eyes are sparkling with mischief. like he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.
you can’t help the grin that slips through.
“whatever.”
🏹
it’s calm now. quiet. no pounding bass. no flashing lights. just early morning chatter, wrappers crinkling, the soft hum of the city waking up. conversation comes easy. you laugh over small moments, replaying bits of the night like it didn’t just happen. and then, you look at mark. tilting your head slightly, a knowing smile creeping in.
“so, mark…” you start casually, grabbing a fry, “you and ningning were dancing all night.”
you let it sit there for a second. just enough for him to realize you noticed.
“oh…yeah,” mark shrugs, like it’s nothing, unwrapping his burger. “she’s cool.”
you narrow your eyes at him slightly. she’s cool? that’s it? you glance at haechan for half a second, like you need a witness to how underwhelming that response was, before looking back at mark.
“just cool?” you press, a teasing edge in your voice, “you were glued to her the whole night.”
mark huffs out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “okay, okay…she’s more than cool,” he admits, a little sheepish now, “she’s…fun. it’d be nice to see her again.”
you hum, satisfied. and if you’re being honest? you’re pretty sure ningning liked him too. and that doesn’t happen easily. it’s hard for any man to keep her attention.
you lean forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand, “are you single, mark?”
it comes out casual. but not really. mark blinks at you mid-bite, clearly caught off guard.
“uh, yeah,” he nods. “yeah, i am.”
you nod slowly, like you’re filing that information away, “good to know.”
he squints at you, “…why?”
“nothinggg,” you say simply, popping a fry into your mouth.
haechan lets out a quiet laugh across from you, watching the whole thing unfold and you can’t help but match his smile.
“what’s your type?” you ask, shifting gears smoothly.
mark thinks for a second, chewing slowly, “i don’t know…someone easy to talk to,” he says. “not…too complicated.”
you nod, accepting it, for now. then your eyes flick to haechan.
“…what about you?”
it’s casual. too casual. like you didn’t just ask that on purpose. he pauses for half a second. then he leans in slightly, one arm resting on the table, gaze steady at you.
“someone who can be my best friend,” he says. simple. but it hits harder than it should. you don’t know why. so you look away first, reaching for your sundae like it suddenly needs your full attention.
“and you?” mark asks, turning it back on you.
you pause mid-scoop, spoon hovering for a second before you shrug lightly.
“i don’t know…someone who actually knows how to act like a man,” you say, half joking, “not someone i have to babysit.”
“easy enough,” haechan murmurs.
you glance up at him, one brow lifting, a quiet challenge in your eyes.
“yet impossible to find,” you add.
mark laughs at that. and then — there’s a brief moment. a quiet look shared between the two of them. quick. subtle. but you catch it. and immediately pretend you didn’t.
suddenly, you’re regretting bringing this topic up.
“what about your type…physically?” mark asks, amused now.
you hum, thinking about it for a second.
“don’t have one.”
“oh well now that’s just bullshit,” haechan says, not missing a beat.
you kick his foot lightly under the table, a laugh spilling out from your lips before you can stop it.
“swear,” you insist, shaking your head, “none of my exes even look alike.”
“there has to be something,” mark presses.
“well…” you trail off, tapping your spoon against the cup, “i guess they’re all conventionally attractive,” you shrug.
“how about you guys?” you ask, wanting to rid the attention off you.
mark opens his mouth but haechan beats him to it. you glance at him and immediately catching the smirk sitting on his lips. yeah. he’s about to be annoying.
“someone conventionally attractive,” he says, taking a slow sip of his cola like he didn’t just throw your cop out answer right back at you.
you roll your eyes instantly but before you could reply, your brother’s voice interrupts. you look over, and sure enough — him, chenle, jeno, and jaemin are already standing, throwing their trash away like they didn’t just eat half the menu.
“we’ll see you guys back at the hotel,” he adds casually.
that’s it. no are you coming? no you good? no second thought about leaving you behind with two men you’ve technically only known for a day. you’re over it at this point. waving him off without a word.
🏹
you reach for your bag and pull out your compact mirror, flipping it open with a small click. you had a feeling the three of you would be leaving soon anyway. might as well check. you glance at your reflection — and freeze.
“…oh my god,” your head snaps up.
haechan’s already looking at you, amused.
“what?”
you turn the mirror toward him like evidence.
“i have no more lipstick,” you say, scandalized. “and none of you told me?” you look between him and mark like they’ve committed a serious offense.
mark lets out a tired laugh.
haechan just smirks, “we’re supposed to tell you that?” he asks.
“yes. that’s what friends do,” you reply instantly, no hesitation.
you’re already digging through your bag, pulling out your lip liner and lipstick like it’s muscle memory. you lean slightly toward the mirror, fixing it. precise. practiced.
you notice the way he’s watching you. the way his gaze drops — lingers. follows the movement of your hand as the liner traces your lips, steady and smooth. but you don’t comment on it.
and haechan — he can’t help but stare at the way your lips part just slightly as you fill them in. careful. focused. it’s such a small thing. mundane. but for some reason, he’s captivated.
he shifts slightly in his seat, glancing at mark for a second like he’s checking if he’s the only one noticing this. mark doesn’t look nearly as entertained, just tired, almost bored, half-focused on his food, completely unbothered. not like him who’s eyes are now drifting back to your lips. his thoughts drifting somewhere he probably shouldn’t let them go. like how your lips probably taste as sweet as the vanilla sundae with a hint of salt from the fries. a combo he doesn’t mind trying.
you snap your compact shut with a soft click. and he’s reminded of who you are.
“there,” you say, tucking everything back into your bag, “much better.”
haechan leans back slightly, dragging his eyes away like it didn’t just take effort.
🏹
it doesn’t take long before the three of you are up too. you pull your phone out, opening the grab app.
“i’ll book it,” you say.
“okay,” mark nods sleepily while haechan just hums beside you.
the car pulls up not long after. you slide in first, then haechan in the middle then mark. his thigh brushes yours immediately. and it stays there.
there’s enough space to move away but neither of you does. instead, you stare out the window, pretending not to notice.
the ride feels longer than it should.
you don’t know if the driver took a wrong turn, or if it’s the traffic slowly building. but you don’t mind. not really. the city outside is alive now, soft light spilling over buildings.
and inside the car — it’s quiet. almost too comfortable. so you enjoy it. letting the ride take just a little longer.
but the longer actually gets ridiculous. almost concerning.
haechan leans over to whisper in your ear, “you’re not kidnapping us are you?” his breath causing goosebumps to rise on your neck.
“little ol’ me?” you say in mock offense.
he hums, glancing between you and the driver like he’s genuinely weighing his options, “i don’t know,” he says, lips twitching. “you did book the ride.”
you scoff softly, crossing your arms.
“i’m the one stuck in a car with three men i barely know,” you point out, tilting your head at him. “i think if anyone should be scared, it’s me.”
he lets out a quiet laugh. but it fades quicker than expected. because he’s been aware of it the whole night and for a second, something shifts in his expression, subtle, but there.
truth is, he doesn’t get it. doesn’t get how jisung could just leave you like that, not even thinking twice. he can’t even imagine doing that to his own sister. his jaw tightens just slightly before he looks back at you.
“are you scared?” he asks softly. no teasing. no smirk. just…genuine. his eyes search yours like he actually wants to know.
you meet his gaze, surprised by the change in tone but you don’t hesitate — you smile. small. real.
“no,” you say honestly. and maybe it sounds a little crazy. but you mean it. you feel safe around him.
he holds your gaze for a second longer, like he’s searching for the truth in your eyes.
“good,” he says, a faint smile returning.
🏹
a few minutes later, the car finally slows, pulling up to the hotel entrance just as the morning light fully settles over the city.
it’s close to 7:00am now. the sky’s no longer soft and dim. it’s bright enough to feel real, like the night has officially ended whether you’re ready for it or not.
you sit up properly, blinking once as you glance over. mark’s still out cold. completely gone.
“bro,” haechan nudges him lightly, then a little harder. “we’re here.”
nothing. not even a twitch. you sigh, already pushing your door open and stepping out, even though the entrance is technically on mark’s side.
haechan follows after you, a sheepish smile on his face like he already knows what’s coming. you both circle around the car.
and yeah — this is gonna be a problem.
“fuck,” you groan immediately when mark’s arm lands around your shoulder, your heels digging into the pavement as his full weight leans into you. “your friend is heavy.”
haechan lets out a breath on the other side, adjusting his grip.
“why’d you let him drink this much?” he shoots back.
you snap your head toward him, “me?” you groan. “you’re the one who left him with us.”
“yeah, well,” he huffs, trying to hoist mark up properly, “i didn’t expect you guys to be alcohol immune.”
you let out a laugh despite yourself, “don’t make me laugh,” you warn, struggling to keep mark upright. “or your friend is going down.”
haechan laughs too — quiet at first, then slipping out a little more.
“i’m serious—” you choke out between laughs, tightening your grip.
“okay, okay—sorry,” he says, still smiling, though he’s barely helping by laughing himself.
the two of you wobble forward, barely coordinated, mark completely dead weight between you.
it’s ridiculous. but fun.
finally, the hotel’s doorman sees your struggle. thank god. and immediately got a wheelchair ready.
“here ma’am, sir, let me assist—”
“please,” you breathe out, immediately letting some of mark’s weight shift off you as he’s carefully guided into the chair.
you straighten up instantly, flexing your hands, rolling your shoulders, “took him long enough,” you mumble under your breath.
haechan lets out a quiet laugh beside you.
“you good?” he asks, glancing at you.
“i think that’s the most workout i’ve done this year,” you mutter. he snorts softly.
🏹
the elevator hums softly as it starts to rise. haechan’s behind the wheelchair, one hand resting on the handle, the other loosely by his side. you’re standing next to mark, who is still completely out, head tilted to the side like he’s given up on consciousness altogether.
you glance at him. then at haechan. then back at mark. and you can’t help it — a laugh slips out.
“this is so embarrassing,” you mumble, already reaching into your back pocket.
“what are you doing?” haechan asks, though there’s already a hint of amusement in his voice.
you pull your phone out, turning the camera on.
“this is too good not to remember,” you say, stepping in slightly.
you angle the phone just right with mark slumped in the middle, you leaning in beside him, barely holding in your laughter.
and haechan doesn’t hesitate. he leans in too. closer than necessary. just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
the picture snaps. you glance at it and immediately grin.
“send that to me,” he says, looking down at your screen.
you glance up at him, trying to act nonchalant, “sure.”
but internally — you hate it. because now you’re the one who has to follow first.
you unlock your phone anyway, opening instagram like you don’t already know exactly what you’re about to search.
“what’s your instagram?” you ask casually.
like you’ve never stalked him on the internet before.
he tells you. you type it in. and yeah— it’s exactly how it looks the last time you were on his profile.
you send the picture quickly then hit follow before you can overthink it.
he’s already pulling his phone out, thumbs moving fast.
“followed back,” he says a second later.
your lips press together, trying to hide the small smile threatening to show.
“good.”
🏹
the elevator dings. doors sliding open. you step aside, letting him go first, one hand holding the door as he carefully wheels your shared patient of the night out.
you follow them down the hall, quieter now, the hotel almost completely still.
and you step into their room with him, not even thinking twice about it — just making sure everything’s okay.
“okay…one more time,” haechan mutters, already moving to lift his friend. you step in without being asked, slipping under mark’s arm again.
“god, how did he get even heavier,” you mumble.
you both manage to get mark onto the bed with a soft thud, his body sinking into the mattress like he belongs there.
you straighten up, brushing your hands off, exhaling.
“there,” you say, “mission accomplished.”
“thanks partner,” haechan teases, a small smile on his face.
you shrug it off like it’s nothing, “yeah, no problem.”
then you turn slightly, already about to head for the door—
“hey.”
you look back. he’s still standing there, watching you.
“you still tired?”
you pause. pretend to think about it for a second even though you already know your answer as soon as he asked. then shake your head lightly.
“not really.”
his lips curve, “wanna have a beer?”
“…where exactly are you planning on getting a beer at 7 am?”
he doesn’t answer. just walks past you and straight to the mini fridge. you watch as he crouches down, opens it, and pulls out two bottles, opening them and holding one out to you.
you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. but you take it from his hand anyway, fingers brushing his briefly.
then, instead of taking the obvious seat — you walk over to his side of the room. slipping down to the floor, back resting lightly against the side of his bed, right in front of the window.
it’s partially hidden, tucked behind the frame of the bed. private. quiet.
in truth — you hate the taste of beer. you just didn’t want the night to end.
he watches you for a second — then lets out a soft laugh.
“you know you can sit on my bed, right?”
you glance up at him, immediately scrunching your nose, “ew. what do you think i am? a monster?”
he pauses, “…huh?”
“i’m not sitting on your bed with these dirty clothes on,” you say, gesturing to yourself. “that’s disgusting.”
he laughs, shaking his head as he walks over, lowering himself down beside you anyway, back against the bed, shoulder just barely brushing yours.
“you’re weird,” he mutters.
“and yet you’re sitting next to me.”
“unfortunately.”
you grin into the rim of your drink.
and for a while — it’s quiet. no music. no chaos. just the two of you, side by side on the floor, bottles in hand. watching the city wake up through the window. cars moving. people beginning their day. the sky fully bright now. and neither of you rushes to say anything.
you just…sit there. together.
🏹
“so,” he finally breaks it, voice low, easy, “your brother…”
“hm?” you hum, not looking at him, eyes still on the window.
“you two close?”
you turn your head slightly, brow lifting.
“why?” you ask, a hint of amusement already creeping in. “you got a crush on him or what?”
he chokes. actually chokes.
“wh—what??”
you turn fully now, fighting your smile.
“do you have a crush on my brother?”
“n-no,” he stumbles, suddenly very awake. “are you asking me if i’m gay??”
you shrug, taking another sip just to hide how entertained you are.
“hey, nothing wrong with it, i’ll even support you.”
“why would you even—”
you cut him off with a small tilt of your head.
“maybe because we can’t get through a conversation without you bringing him up.”
he opens his mouth. closes it. pauses.
“…that’s not—”
you just stare at him. waiting.
he exhales, running a hand through his hair, clearly flustered now.
“that’s not why,” he mutters.
“then why?” you press lightly.
and this time, he doesn’t answer right away. the teasing fades. his gaze shifts back to you — and lingers. longer than it has all night. and you feel it again. that pull that’s been there all night, in every look, every joke, every quiet moment.
but this one feels different. heavier. closer.
“because,” he starts, voice quieter now, like the words aren’t meant for anyone else but you, “you’re his sister.”
you exhale softly through your nose, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.
“yes,” you say, dry. “we’ve established that plenty of times tonight.”
he doesn’t take the bait. doesn’t laugh. just huffs out a breath, gaze dropping for a second before coming back up to you. like he’s thinking. weighing it. like there’s a line he knows he shouldn’t cross. and he’s standing right at the edge of it.
but then he looks at you again. really looks. and whatever restraint he had — it slips. just enough.
“and i’ve been trying really hard not to do something stupid.”
your fingers tighten slightly around your bottle. your heartbeat picks up before you can stop it.
“…like what?” you ask, softer now. not teasing anymore. not really.
there’s a pause. a small one. but it stretches. his eyes flick briefly to your lips. back to your eyes. like he’s already imagining it.
and then he says it.
“like kiss you.”
it lands between you. heavy. quiet. real. no joke to soften it. no smirk to take it back. just the truth — sitting right there, in the space between your shoulders, your knees almost touching, your breaths just slightly out of sync.
you don’t move. you don’t even think you breathe. because suddenly — everything feels louder. your heartbeat. the silence. the way he’s still looking at you like he hasn’t decided if he’s done holding himself back yet.
“how long have you and my brother been friends again?” you ask.
he blinks at you, thrown off, confused. like that’s the last thing he expected right now.
“…like a year?” he finally says.
you nod slowly. like you’re actually thinking about it. weighing it. but you weren’t. not really.
your fingers loosen around your bottle, setting it down gently on the floor. then you turn toward him slowly, deliberately, letting the moment stretch.
he watches you intently, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips and back again. he's trying to read you, to predict your next move, but the air between you thickens, heavy with unspoken want.
you tilt your head just a fraction, holding his stare without flinching. the words slip out soft but pointed—
“so you’re not gonna kiss me over a year long friendship?”
it’s quiet. but it hits. hard. his breath catches. for a second, just one, he looks like he’s still holding on to that last thread of restraint.
you lean in closer, inch by torturous inch, until the heat radiating from his body seeps into yours. the world narrows to the space between you, the faint hitch in his breathing, the way his scent settles into your lungs, steady and consuming, until it’s the only thing you can focus on.
and fuck. you’re so close he can’t even hear himself think anymore. everything else fades. logic. rules. bro-code. mark’s snores in the background. all gone.
all that’s left is this pull— magnetic, inevitable — like you’ve both been circling this moment all night and finally stopped pretending otherwise.
and when your noses brush, you whisper, softly—
“or will you risk it and kiss me?”
and he feels like he might drop dead.
your question hang in the air between you, soft and sure, unraveling the last thread of his restraint.
haechan's eyes lock onto yours, dark and stormy. he doesn't hesitate anymore. can't. his fingers thread gently into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your face toward his — and then his lips crash into yours in a soft, slow kiss. enough to steal your breath.
you pull apart for a second, breathless, and you can’t help but bite your lip.
“jisung’s just gonna have to deal with it,” he mutters.
you raise a brow, “yeah, bringing up my brother right after kissing me is—”
you don’t get to finish your sentence because his lips are on yours again. soft, but urgent, like he's been starving for this taste. and you don’t even remember what you were going to say. your mouth responds to him immediately.
his lips part just enough to let his tongue trace the seam of your mouth, seeking entry. you open to him — and god, you taste even sweeter than he imagined, now with the hint of his favorite beer.
it turns hungrier, tongues sliding together in a slick, intimate dance that sends sparks racing down your spine. haechan groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips, raw and unguarded.
his hand travels down, fingers settling on your belt loops, thumb tracing circles on your slightly exposed skin. your hands come up, tangling in his hair, eliciting a whine from him.
that whine ignites something fierce in you, a bold urge that overrides the caution flickering at the edges of your mind. you tug harder on his hair, guiding him with you as you lean back until your back meets the soft carpet floor, the bottle of beers completely forgotten.
your legs part instinctively, making room for him to settle between them, his body pressing down with a weight that's both grounding and electric.
the kiss is hotter now, lips and tongues clashing with desperate need.
the carpet scratches lightly at your back, but you barely notice — everything is him, the heat of his body pinning you, the way his breath comes in hot pants against your mouth, his hand roaming down your side.
his lips break from yours, trailing a wet path down your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there just enough to make you arch into him. he moves lower, mouth finding the curve of your neck, his hand comes up to move your hair out of the way and his touch is enough to make you feel dizzy. then he sucks hard, tongue flicking over the sensitive spot before his teeth sink in lightly, marking you with a blooming bruise. the sensation earns him a sweet moan, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room, reaching his ear like music.
haechan lifts his head just enough to murmur against your skin, his voice a low, teasing rumble.
“shhh, pretty girl, you don’t wanna wake mark up now, do you?” he smiles into your neck, lips brushing the fresh mark as his hand squeezes your hip.
“please,” you say breathlessly, “he wouldn’t even know if the world ended right now,” you joke, mark’s soft snores from across the room confirming your statement.
haechan chuckles softly, the vibration humming against your skin as he nips at your earlobe.
“good point,” he whispers, voice thick with desire, his mouth returning to your neck to soothe the mark with a slow lick while his free hand wanders up to squeeze your tit.
you bite your lip, stifling your moan as you slide your hand down his back, fingers dipping into his back pocket to squeeze his ass. the muscle tenses under your grip, and haechan looks up at you, eyes wide with a little shock, his lips parting in surprise.
“what? two can play that game,” you tease, your voice light but laced with mischief, holding his gaze as you give another squeeze.
he smirks, recovering quickly, his hand still cupping your breast as he leans in closer, “didn’t know you were an ass man,” he says, his tone playful, eyes darkening with amusement and hunger.
“oh yeah,” you reply, teasing, squeezing harder, feeling the firm curve fill your palm, “i just love cute little butts so much,” your tone laced with sarcasm.
haechan laughs at that, the sound warm and genuine, breaking the intensity for a split second and god, he’s just so, so pretty — you’re almost paranoid that you made him up. that this was all just a figment of your imagination. and you’d wake up with your phone in your hand opened to his instagram profile.
before you could completely spiral, you crane your neck up to kiss him again, almost begging. it’s kinda pathetic and so not who you are. but you can’t help it, you’re a sucker for pretty boys.
“hmm,” he hums, the hand on your tit wandering up to brush your bottom lip. you place a soft kiss on the tip of this thumb, “so pretty,” he murmurs.
and lucky for you — he’s a sucker for you.
his lips crash on yours again, “never wanna stop kissing you,” he sighs in between breaths, the moment heating up once more as he melts into you, tongues tangling urgently.
your finger pulls at his belt loop and he understands your signal, grinding on your clothed core once, hips rolling forward with deliberate pressure, and even through the layers of both of your jeans, it’s enough to make you shiver, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight to your clit. you’re so wet, so fucking wet, your panties soaked and sticking to your folds, aching for more friction, more of him.
but before you can ask him to do something about it — before you can beg him to unzip your jeans and slide his fingers inside — your phone buzzes in the back of your pocket.
you try to ignore it, focusing on him, but then it buzzes again. and again. and again. insistent and relentless.
finally, you break the kiss, turning your head to the side. haechan’s mouth trails after you, lips brushing your cheek in a reluctant chase, both of you out of breath and flustered, chests heaving in the dim hotel light.
“one moment,” you say, smiling sheepishly, as you reach back to pull out your phone from your back pocket.
haechan groans softly in protest, but he hovers above you anyway, propped on his elbows, his dark hair tousled from your earlier fingers raking through it, strands falling messily over his forehead. his lips are swollen and glistening from your kisses, parted slightly as he breathes heavily, eyes locked on yours with that hungry, lingering heat. pretty. so fucking distracting. you have to force yourself to look away, tearing your gaze away from the way his chest rises and falls, the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone.
your screen lights up with a string of texts:
giselle 🖤: where r u????
giselle 🖤: it’s almost 9
giselle 🖤: i heard the boys come in earlier
giselle 🖤: if you’re not here cause of taro, he already left for work
giselle 🖤: i’m getting really worried please
giselle 🖤: if you don’t answer right now, im calling the police
you almost feel bad, a twinge of guilt twisting in your gut. but hey, she was the one telling you to “see what the night holds.” and if she knew you were under lee haechan right now — she’d be proud.
“shit,” you mutter under your breath, thumb scrolling through the messages.
haechan's expression shifts instantly, worry creasing his brow as he pushes up slightly, his warm hand sliding to your waist.
“everything okay?” he asks, voice low and concerned, laced with that protective edge that makes your heart skip a tiny beat.
he helps you sit up with gentle pressure, the two of you shifting to sit side by side on the carpet again, his thigh pressing firmly against yours. the heat from his body radiates through your clothes, a reminder of how close you were to stripping them off.
“it’s giselle — she’s looking for me,” you explain, tilting the phone so he can see the frantic string of texts.
he leans in close, his shoulder bumping yours, breath warm against your ear as he reads over your shoulder, his scent filling your senses. and you’re not too sure how you’re going to walk out of this room.
his free hand rests on your thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles that send sparks up your leg, even now.
your phone buzzes again.
giselle 🖤: 3 seconds and i’m waking everyone in this damn hotel
your eyes widen as you type quickly, thumbs flying:
y/n: i’m here!
y/n: sorry!
y/n: im okay!
y/n: omw back
you don’t wait for her response, shutting off the screen and placing your phone to the side.
turning towards haechan, you send him an apologetic smile before cupping his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss — this one soft, innocent, almost sweet, a gentle press of lips that contrasts the raw urgency from before. his mouth yields to yours, warm, tongue flicking out just once to taste you before you pull back.
“i should probably go,” you say sheepishly, your voice hushed, fingers lingering on his cheek as reluctance tugs at you.
before you can fully pull away, haechan’s hand cups the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair with a gentle but insistent tug. he draws you back in, capturing your lips in another soft press.
“i’ll walk you back,” he mutters against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you, as he nips at your bottom lip.
you smirk, the playful curve of your mouth brushing his as you lean in again, stealing another kiss — quick but firm, “i’m literally right next door,” you murmur.
the two of you just can’t seem to stop. every separation lasting only seconds before one of you closes the gap. his lips find yours again, softer this time.
he pulls back just enough to flash you a mischievous smile, his eyes sparkling with that devilish glint, dark lashes framing the heat in his gaze.
“i know you are,” he says, punctuating the words with another kiss, deeper now, “i put you there.”
you pretend to be shocked, pulling back with wide eyes and a dramatic gasp, though your fingers curl into his shirt, holding him close.
“ahhh, i knew it wasn’t a coincidence,” you say, your voice laced with feigned accusation, even though his confession makes your head spin.
“did you?” he counters, his grin widening as he chases your lips for another kiss, this one playful and light.
“mhm,” you hum affirmatively, your response muffled as you kiss him back.
he chuckles, the sound low and vibrating against your lips, warm air fanning your face as he hovers close.
“what can i say? i always had a vision of you begging for my kiss,” he teases, his free hand drifting to your hip, thumb circling the strip of exposed skin above your waistband, dipping just under the edge of your jeans to trace the curve of your bone.
you pull back immediately in mock offense, swatting his chest lightly while trying to suppress your laugh.
“begging? me?? you’re crazy,” you retort even though you did just that. the memory of how desperately you'd wanted him earlier flashing in your mind.
“okay, fine,” he laughs, the sound rich and genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he concedes, pulling you flush against him, “it was me begging.”
“that’s much better,” you smile, your thumb brushing his jawline, feeling the slight stubble rasp against your skin.
he matches your smile, slow and seductive, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up, dark and intent.
“give me another kiss, baby, please,” he says, the endearment rolling off his tongue like velvet, husky and intimate, making your pulse stutter.
and you do. because he called you baby. because he said please. because he’s just oh, oh, so pretty.
the kiss lingers, sweet and unhurried, his free arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, bodies aligning in a perfect, warm fit against the carpet.
when he pulls away for the umpteenth time, he stares at your lips a little too long and you think he might lean in again, but all he does is say something that pulls a soft laugh out of you—
“your lipstick is gone,” he says, a playful smirk on his face.
🏹
haechan stands first, offering his hand to help you up, his fingers lacing with yours as you rise, the simple touch sending sparks up your arm.
“come on,” he murmurs softly, “before your friend gets all of us kicked out of this hotel.”
you giggle, squeezing his hand, letting him lead you toward the door, the cool air of the hallway a stark contrast to the warmth you left behind in the room.
the walk is short — literally just five steps down the dimly lit corridor, the carpet muffling your footsteps, the faint hum of the hotel’s ac the only sound breaking the charged silence.
his thumb strokes the back of your hand, a subtle reassurance, his presence solid and comforting beside you.
at your door, you fish the key card from your bag, holding it out, but before you can swipe it, he takes it from your fingers, his touch lingering on your skin.
he pulls you in for one last kiss, slow and deep, lips molding to yours with a final, aching sweetness. his free hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there as his tongue teases yours one more time, a soft suck on your bottom lip that draws a quiet moan from you.
then, with a reluctant exhale, he breaks away, swiping the card through the reader. the lock beeps green, the door unlocking with a click. he hands the card back but doesn’t step away, leaning in close, his lips brushing your ear.
“good night,” he whispers, the words silent and intimate, meant only for you.
“good night,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible, slipping through the door as it swings open.
your fingers stay tangled with his until the distance forces them apart, a final brush of skin that leaves you both reaching for a second longer.
the last thing he hears before the door shuts is your friend’s voice, sharp and exasperated from inside the room.
“oh my god, you better have a good reason why you’re back so late.”
the door clicks closed, muffling your response, and haechan stands there in the empty hotel hallway, a slow, unstoppable smile spreading across his face.
he looks like a lovesick fool, heart pounding and he thinks you two might go really nice together.
🏹
an: i locked the fuck in for this one. and it was so easy because i’m lowkey just spilling some of my own tea in extreme detail. what do yall know about ✨limerence✨ ?????…..anyways, i can’t stop listening to drop dead so i had to get this out of my system or it’ll keep bothering me…hope u like :3
cw: established relationship, cockwarming, unprotected pinv sex (wrap it up pls), pet names (baby, angel, honey, wife), riku’s a little mean, free-use(?), oral (f), choking but it's the back of reader's neck, creampie, multiple orgasms. let me know if i missed anything!
a/n: in honor of riku’s return, here’s a little something to celebrate! i have many, many riku yearners in my life and in my inbox too… i see u… i hear u… i stand with u…
“one diced tomato… a handful of chopped basil… a hundred and twenty-five milliliters of heavy cream… what the fuck is a milliliter?” you mumble to yourself as you hold up the measuring cup to your eye level.
it’s rare when both you and your boyfriend riku have a shared day off, and this one happens to fall on a weekend where you decide to cook a homemade meal instead of ordering takeout.
you’re so focused on pouring the thick liquid into the glass that when you feel a pair of hands wrap around your front and a warm face press into the crook of your neck, you gasp in surprise.
“smells good in here, baby,” riku mutters into your skin, sending slight shivers down your spine.
the sizzling of the chicken and the boiling of the pasta water brings you back to your senses, only distracted for a quick second before recomposing yourself and setting the cup down.
“sir, there are two open flames and glass objects around!” you try to convey your concern, but your voice wavers as riku starts to press featherlight kisses across the expanse of your neck and shoulders.
all of a sudden, you’re hyperaware of his soft bulge pressing into your back as he continues his ministrations on your skin, his hands moving up and down your sides, squeezing here and there.
you can feel his teeth graze where his lips trail, making your breath hitch in your throat and your eyes flutter shut as you grip onto the edge of the counter.
“r-riku,” you whisper, trying to be as firm as you can while your doting boyfriend is loving on you.
“what’s wrong, angel? am i distracting you? you can multitask, can’t you?” he teases, starting to nip ever so slightly at your neck.
just then, your phone rings, signaling the pasta had finished boiling.
you’re snapped out of your daze as you pull away from riku, turning off one of the burners and grabbing a kitchen towel to protect your hands from the pot as you swiftly move to drain the pasta.
“what’s the next step? let me help you,” your boyfriend offers, an innocent smile painting his face as you turn to him.
“nuh uh, you’re up to no good and i just know it,” you laugh back at him. “just stay there and stop distracting me or i’ll ruin our dinner and we’ll both be upset.”
“fine, fine,” riku mutters, taking his place back behind you again.
you don’t mention it, but you can feel how hard he’s grown now, the bulge pressed against your back feeling heavier and more assertive.
you flip the chicken with a pair of tongs as you feel him subtly grinding against you.
“what are you doing?” you ask, turning around and raising a brow at him.
“have i ever told you how cute you look in these shorts?” he asks, fingers dancing at the lace trim of the tiny lounge shorts you’re sporting.
“mm, mhm,” you hum mindlessly, pouring the heavy cream you set aside earlier into the pan with the chicken.
you can feel his hands trail up under your shirt to caress your stomach, further distracting you although he said he wouldn’t.
you do your best to ignore him, carrying on with your cooking, though his hands feel a little too good against you right now.
“could just slide these to the side and slip it in, y’know?”
a shiver runs down your spine, your eyes squeezing shut.
“baby, i’m literally cooking right now,” you whine. “why are you doing this?”
“i mean,” he hesitates. “is that something that should stop us?” he asks, his voice lower and slightly raspier, hands still trailing along your figure.
“do you want me to burn this chicken or wh-” you’re cut off by a harsh thrust into your lower back, his clothed member rubbing against you just right.
“fuck the chicken,” riku says breathily, a chuckle leaving his parted lips. you hear the rustling of fabric. “or better yet, you keep doing what you’re doing,” you feel your shorts and panties being pulled to the side. “and let me do this.”
a gasp leaves the both of you as he slips himself between your folds, easing himself into you in one swift motion.
“riku, are you crazy?!” you ask, the end of your question fading into a moan as you really feel him settle inside of you, your eyes rolling back at the feeling of being so full.
“no,” he exhales. “but you are for wearing these skimpy ass shorts around the house and not letting me touch you because you’re cooking. don’t even realize how fucking hot you look acting like my little wife, hmm?”
his words have you clenching around him, his hips stuttering slightly before you feel a slap at your outer thigh.
“aren’t you supposed to be finishing up dinner, honey?” he asks, nipping at your ear.
“f-fine,” you huff. “but just stay still,” you pout at him, silently begging him with your eyes.
you move quickly, as best as you can while riku’s bottomed out in you, to finish up cooking your dinner.
he keeps his spot next to your ear, teasing you whenever he notices your hands not chopping or stirring or feeling you pulse around him. he knows, then, that your mind is drifting instead of focusing on cooking.
whether it was a rhetorical question about the recipe or a shallow thrust from him, it always resulted in him pretending he was innocent, either blurting out something like “sorry, baby, you just feel so good around me” as a sweet smile graced his lips or burying his face into the crook of your neck, lightly scraping his teeth at the skin.
the next 10 minutes are a blur as you wrap up the last few touches, only needing to plate everything up now.
“did so good f’me, baby,” he finally praises you, seeing the results of your cooking in front of him. “i think you deserve a reward, yeah?”
you can barely process his sentence before he’s pulling himself out of you, untying your apron and turning your face to swallow your moans through a heated and messy kiss.
he spins you around, pulling the apron up and over your head before tugging your shorts and underwear down, his lips never leaving yours.
“worked so hard cooking for us, but i need a taste of you, baby,” he mumbles before hoisting you up on the counter, spreading your legs with his hands as he kneels down, littering your thighs with hungry kisses.
you lean your head back against the cabinet door, senses overwhelmed with thoughts of just rikurikuriku.
“you’re so wet, angel,” his breath hits your exposed core as he inches closer, kissing everywhere but where you need him most, his fingers pulling you apart and watching your arousal drip onto the countertop.
“please, don’t tease,” you mutter, hands finding their way into his wavy hair.
“since you asked so nicely, i’ll give you whatever you want, baby,” he reassures, delving into your folds with a long swipe from your entrance up to your clit before wrapping his plush lips around the bud, suckling on it with fervor.
your moans are anything but quiet as riku continues his ministrations on you, your fingers tugging at the strands that fall between them.
his hands reach up to play with your chest under your shirt, fingers tweaking at your nipples and groping at the soft flesh.
“taste so damn good, baby. fuck,” he moans into your pussy, his tongue finding its way to your entrance and shallowly fucking it.
his right hand leaves you, moving down to stroke himself as he fully makes out with your cunt, his groans of pleasure sending vibrations all throughout your body.
your eyes flutter open, whines leaving your pouty lips as you realize he’s touching himself.
“want it,” you whine, bucking your hips up into his face, your hands holding the back of his head to steady him in place as you fuck yourself on his tongue.
you feel yourself getting closer with every passing moment, the boy between your legs never letting up on the pressure he’s applying.
“please,” you whisper, your breathing picking up as you start to pant from his actions.
a flash of white appears behind your eyes as they roll back, the pleasure too overwhelming for you as you cum around his tongue. he laps every last drop up, holding apart your thighs that tighten around his head.
he puts both hands on your hips, helping himself stand up in front of you.
“did so good for me, angel,” he’s leaning forward, lips pressing against yours and making you taste yourself. your moans are muffled against his lips before he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip, pulling away and resting his forehead against yours.
“think you can give me another one, baby?” he asks softly before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.
your head feels light, failing to form a coherent thought as you nod mindlessly.
“need words, pretty,” he mutters, peering into your eyes.
“you just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm and you expect me to act normal right now?” you ask in disbelief, not being able to keep the smile from tugging at the corners of your lips.
he returns the action along with a flush of deep red painted across his cheeks.
“just fuck me already, riku,” you finally answer, pushing yourself off the counter and pulling him by his face to kiss him again.
you pull off your shirt, throwing it off to the side before spinning yourself around and laying yourself across the counter and perking your ass out to him, turning your head to gauge his reaction.
“you’re gonna be the death of me, baby,” he groans, a hand immediately coming up to grip at the flesh before landing a light smack across it.
he takes himself in his other hand, tilting his hips to drag the head of his cock across your still-leaking folds. “still so wet..” he says, mostly to himself.
he finally latches himself onto your entrance, both of your breaths hitching before he slips in, pushing his hips forward until he’s flush against your backside and he’s completely bottomed out in you once more.
“taking me so fucking well,” riku sighs. “like you’re made just for me.” you almost miss it, your mind reeling at the feeling of being filled completely, subconsciously clenching around him from his praise.
he quickly finds his pace, his hands not leaving your body once. he trails a hand up your spine, making you shiver as it reaches the back of your neck, and applies pressure there, his thrusts sharpening just the slightest.
“f-fuck!” you wheeze out, not being able to keep your eyes open as they squeeze shut from the feeling of his tip hitting that gummy spot just right. “riku!” you cry out, your walls clamping down around him.
“so… tight,” riku groans, the sounds of skin slapping against skin echoing through the kitchen as he continues to press against the same spot that has you melting in his hold.
“my baby’s so good to me… letting me use her how i like,” his voice is muffled as his head drops to the junction between your neck and shoulder, his thrusts not letting up.
from the weight on the back of your neck to the dizzying pace he sets as he chases his high, your mind grows fuzzy and your thoughts are back to strings of rikurikuriku.
your body reacts before you can even register it in your mind, the tight band coiling and snapping as your walls flutter uncontrollably around his length.
“fuck, ‘m gonna fill you up,” his moans are turning into whines. “gonna pump you so full of my cum,” he feels like he’s gonna cry. “you’d like that wouldn’t you— fuck!” his hips still as he cums inside of you, his breath ragged.
he helps the both of you ride out your highs, slowly dragging his length against your coated walls before finally pulling out.
“oh shit,” he mutters, his eyes immediately falling to where his arousal spills out of you, his jaw dropping slightly as you whine at the feeling of it dribbling down your thighs.
he pulls his sweats back up and reaches over to a lower cabinet, pulling the towel off of it to help clean you up.
“are you okay?” he asks, pressing kisses all across the expanse of your back as his hands run along your skin soothingly.
“mm, mhm,” you hum, your voice hoarser than when your boyfriend first joined you in the kitchen.
“sorry i was a little rough, angel,” he whispers.
“it’s okay, i liked it,” you chuckle, turning back around to kiss him once more. “but can we eat dinner now? im starving,” you pout, watching him as he crouches down to pick up your clothes from the floor.
“come on, i’ll do the dishes to make up for distracting you,” riku smiles sweetly as he redresses you and kisses you on the forehead one last time before reaching for two plates from the cabinet to dish up your dinner.
a/n: thank you to my babies @rikupid and @hazyhae for beta reading as always mwah ♡
SYNOPSIS: lee haechan ー beloved retired prosecutor ruins his own career with his big mouth. as his lawyer, you have to save his career, or what's left of it, and you rock his world while trying to do so.
PAIRING: tv personality!haechan x female lawyer!reader
GENRE: acquaintances to strangers to lovers, humour, smut.
WORD COUNT: 16.4k
CONTAINS: appearance of other idols. love triangle?? but not really. mentions of sensitive topics but none involve the main characters directly. haechan gets called both haechan and donghyuck. one bad and possibly offensive joke. banter, humour, smut, jealousy, lots of dialogue. sub!haechan, oral (male receiving), overstimulation, praise and degradation kink, nipple play, unprotected penetrative sex, riding, choking. author's note at the end.
inspired by michael jackson's song you rock my world.
“If it’s morning for you, good morning,” Haechan’s ears ring as he watches the flat TV screen in his living room, “If it’s night, then, goodnight! And remember…”
“If you don’t see me again, have a nice life!” Haechan repeats the words of the host. His words. Words that he, himself came up with. His punchline — which was stolen by the crusty rat who took his place, who managed to steal from him even the intonation as he spoke the words.
Haechan scoffs, turning the TV off, and throwing his slippers away, not caring where they land.
He made a colossal mistake, and he’d like to shirk his way out of it easily by saying it wasn’t him. The only problem? He said it on television, everyone has seen his stupid face plastered on their TV’s as he possibly fumbled his career forever.
But how was he supposed to know people don’t have a sense of humour? Right after it slipped past his lips, his bosses warned him about the repercussions of such a joke, and even if they thought the joke was great and howled with laughter while slapping him on his back repeatedly, the audience didn’t appreciate it.
He sits back on his disgustingly big couch, and rewinds what happened that one night.
He told his usual jokes, everyone laughed, the live band used the drums and trumpets for effect. And then, just because he felt very brave and his ego was skyrocketing after looking at the amused faces in the audience, he thought it would be a good idea to add one last joke — instead of his usual concluding line for the end of the night.
“And since this was a topic tonight… before I get to wish you a good night,” He announced, grin stretching from ear to ear, showing his pearly white teeth — a smile everyone loves or, better said, used to love, “I got one last joke about abortion that never gets old… just like the baby…”
Crickets. No one laughed, not even a sound coming from the live band — not even the disappointed sound of the trumpet at his flopping joke.
He cringes remembering how he ended the night, the phone calls from his producers and bosses, and them wishing him the whole thing wouldn’t escalate into something bigger.
Except, it did escalate.
His amazing rating dropped and, to put it simply, he got called in the office and put on unpaid leave until things settled and waters calmed down.
And even after being put on leave, people still came for his head. Women, activists, whole communities fuelled the online debates, criticism, and hate train over his words and actions. He saw his life being desiccated, under a magnifying glass for everyone to judge and study thoroughly, trying to find past mistakes that could be the final nail in his coffin, and which could erase him from being in the public eye.
Lee Donghyuck, who managed to work hard and make a name for himself. Lee Donghyuck, who moved on from his passion and dream job, leaving being a prosecutor for a better and, what he was hoping to be, a calmer future.
Lee Donghyuck, the almighty county prosecutor left his life behind after audiences loved his presence and made him famous, turned into his television persona — Lee Haechan — and the audiences stepped on him like a disgusting cockroach, ready to get discarded of him, who he once was, and what he once represented.
And worst of all, he got a call asking him to come into office tomorrow — and Haechan knows that’s not a good sign for him.
You know who Haechan is. Of course you do, whoever claims not to know who he is is either lying or has been living under a rock for the past couple of years.
He used to be a very diligent prosecutor, who took his job seriously and did his best trying to catch bad guys and getting them convicted for the longest times for their heinous crimes. He used to be one of the best in his field, of the highest competence, so much that lawyers already knew they were on thin ice trying to fight him in court, their clients most likely ending up in jail.
He had an innate talent at what he was doing, and an honest love for his profession — so much that people could just tell he lived and breathed to be a prosecutor. This passion opened a door for him — in television this time.
There used to be this one program, with people dropping by either in person or with a phone call, and they brought up their legal battles asking for advice — all televised. And Haechan was the one expert the producers called most of the times.
Phone calls turned into physical appearances at the studio, where he interacted with the audience. He walked in the studio like he owned the entire planet. Expensive suits, expensive leather shoes, Rolex and jewellery adorned his wrists. He had a glint in his eyes, one that could make anyone fall for his charms.
He was cocky, and for a good reason. He knew just how good he was at his job and, quite frankly, at everything in his life. And although his cockiness might have rubbed some people the wrong way — a handful of people out of an ocean of amazed and satisfied audiences — Haechan was very talented with his charms. He talked to people like he was close to them, like they were long lost friends. He gave them pieces of advice that one would have given to the people you only cared about the most, or to real clients. Not some random person on a TV show.
He connected with the people, and everyone loved him. He became a legend, well known, well liked — and viewer rates skyrocketed.
So much that they gave him his own night show. That’s when he became Lee Haechan — but you’ve known him for far longer than you’d like to admit.
You’ve known him from when he was Lee Donghyuck, a simple student. He studied law and was an insufferable presence in your classes. Your opinions clashed, but then you united against people who had opinions that not only were different than yours, but also wrong. It’s like you were allowed to fight each other, but the moment someone else tried to intervene or take either one of your places, you teamed up to fight back.
You can’t really say you were total strangers to each other. You acknowledged each other, and each other’s talent at what you were doing. Back then, you thought his presence was aggravating, with his usual talent at picking up fights with you and bickering during debates and classes, and you swear he had a sick glint of satisfaction in his eyes every time he saw you getting worked up over him contradicting you.
You got to work on some projects together, and he was close to some people from your small circle of friends. When you’re a law student, there’s not much time you can spend relaxing or going on dates, so the friends you make in your first year are basically the ones you’re stuck with. You heard stories, whispers, but not once did you consider Donghyuck more than what he was — a friend of a friend, who liked driving you insane with every chance he got.
Everyone liked him, got along with him well, yet you kept your distance — mainly because you couldn’t stand his cockiness when he was so satisfied with his driving you up the wall, or when he knew he was right and that he won an argument or debate.
And then your studies ended, and he climbed the success ladder with big and quick steps, while you liked taking your time.
You focused on your career, and you liked gloating that your success rate was almost impeccable. Sure, the amount of work load couldn’t compare to what Donghyuck had to work with as a prosecutor, but you never diminished your efforts and your talent.
For this exact reason, you picked up doing pro bono work every chance you got — being driven by the thought that you could do your part and help people out, with this small aspect at least, and it became an important part of your life, one that helped you stay grounded.
After reminiscing the past, and knowing what’s to come in the next weeks, it boosts your confidence and makes you completely satisfied with yourself, like nothing — and no one — can take you down.
Which is exactly why the drive to the studio feels extremely exciting, like your skin is tingling to get to work — this being the first time you work on this type of case.
Your heels clink on the shiny floors as you make your way towards the conference room, where your bosses and your client are waiting for you to make an appearance.
And with a few minutes left to spare before your meeting starts, you stall on the hallways of the headquarters, because you hate showing up earlier — or later, for that matter — for appointments. You like being very precise, organised in every little aspect of your life because, after all, these are the only moments you try to stay away from unpredictability.
“Oh, hi!” You’re snatched out of your thoughts as you look at your watch. Two more minutes left before going in. “Is there a reason you’re not going in?” Johnny Suh, one of your bosses, smiles while looking at you, all confused.
You shrug, taking a sip from your coffee, “Still two minutes left,”
He shakes his head like he doesn’t take you seriously, and the sly smile on his features makes you understand he really isn’t, “Don’t be silly,” He gestures for you to walk towards the door, huge hand barely touching your tricep respectfully in order to guide you in, “He’s already here,”
He opens the door for you, and you give him a small smile, complying with his request to go in. He’s your boss, after all.
“I told you that’s not it! I didn’t mean it that way, I was jus-” You recognise the voice, high in pitch with frustration, and he stops his rambling when he turns his head to look at who’s walking inside the conference room.
“Y/n?” He’s in disbelief, and a small crease forms in between his eyebrows.
“You two know each other?” Johnny asks, sitting down at the huge table, “Of course you do! I forgot you used to work in the same field,” He looks over a few papers as he takes his blazer off, “Then there’s no need for formal introductions, right?”
You take your seat right across from where Donghyuck is sitting, and you watch as he pouts with confusion while looking at you. You smile, a kind of devious and calm smile he’s never seen on your face before — and it almost creeps him out.
“What are you doin’ here?” He asks you, leaning in over the table as if your answer is meant to be a secret, for his ears only. As if the room isn’t filled with producers and executives.
“Y/n is your lawyer,” Another executive speaks up before Johnny can ease Donghyuck into it.
You’re impressed by the straightforwardness, realising that the sooner the bandaid gets ripped off, the better for everyone.
“My what?!” Donghyuck’s voice is high in pitch, proving to you that his usual exaggerating persona from the past hasn’t changed a bit. “I don’t need a lawyer,”
“Yet,” the CFO intervenes, and Donghyuck’s head snaps to the side to look at her.
His eyebrows furrow while taking his sweet moment trying to understand what is going on.
“I’m sorry but-” He snakes his head incredulously, his gaze moving between your figure and Johnny’s, “Am I being sued for something?”
“Not yet,” The CFO corrects him, and judging by the crease between Donghyuck’s eyebrows, you know he’s getting frustrated.
“But we can’t take chances on this, Haechan,” Johnny speaks up, “We know that your image is being taunted right now, and that people are very much against you,” He explains, like it should be obvious to Donghyuck that things aren’t going to calm down so easily and so soon. “Shall anything happen, Y/n’s here to assist you the best she can while also trying to work on your public image and clear your name,”
“Shall anything happen,” Donghyuck snaps, “I can represent myself very well, you all know this already,”
You look at him, now that you have the proper opportunity to see him in real time, and not on a screen. It’s been so long since you last saw him in person, you’re almost in owe at how his features remained the same, yet they became bolder, stronger, more contoured. He matured, and it brought a glow to him that you never imagined possible — not to his annoying face, anyway.
Eyes have become fiercer, like they’ve seen so many things. His jaw is visibly more defined, stronger, and when it sets with annoyance it shows you just how much he’s changed. You saw this exact jaw so many times in the past, and with every little sign of contradiction coming from someone else against him, he acted the same — jaw setting when upset, tongue in his cheek when he was taking it lightheartedly.
You look at his hands, that have also changed over time. Veins are more prominent under his tanned, honey-like skin, jewellery now adorning his wrist and fingers with beautiful golden rings and bracelets complimenting his skin tone.
It’s like he hasn’t changed when it comes to his behaviour, but physically he’s become something nearly out of this world — as much as you hate to admit it. Never in a thousand years were you thinking you’d ever be admitting to yourself how good-looking he’s gotten, and certainly you don’t plan to share your thought with anyone else. You guess you’ll have to take this secret to your grave, especially because you know that if your thoughts made it to his ears, you’d never know the end of it.
“Haechan,” Another executive calls his name, as a warning. “This is Y/n’s job, not yours. I think you’ve done enough, ”
Donghyuck turns around to look at you, straight in the eye. Everything the execs are telling him, all the instructions and pieces of advice they’re directing his way, you know he’s not listening. He’s looking at you like he’s ready to take a bite out of you, and if you didn’t already know him and his ways you’d be afraid right now.
Instead, you pucker your lips trying to mask your smile, trying to keep a professional façade in front of everyone.
What is he so worked up for, anyway? You ask yourself. No one said he’s not capable of representing himself, but you were literally hired for this kind of matters, and it’s ironic that he’s your very first client since becoming a corporate lawyer.
You’re fairly certain Donghyuck has paid no attention to anything going on during this meeting, so you already know you’ll have to pay extra attention to everything he does until everything calms down.
As the meeting comes to an end, and everyone gets up to leave, Donghyuck doesn’t move — doesn’t even bid anyone goodbye as they exit the conference room.
It’s just the two of you now, and you look at him as he watches every single movement of yours. The way you click on your retractable pen before putting it away in your tiny and fancy pencil case; the way you pile your files before putting them back inside your shoulder bag.
“Why are you here?” He rasps, still not relaxing in his seat. His elbows seem to be glued to the table as he keeps his fingers intertwined, not letting emotions betray him. Or so he hopes, because you know him pretty well to know he’s pissed by your presence.
“Have you not been paying attention?” You mock him, raising your eyebrows at him, “I’m the corporate lawyer,”
He huffs a mocking breath, rolling his eyes at you before clicking his tongue, “I don’t need a lawyer,”
You sigh, suddenly at your limit after hearing him going on like a broken record, “You don’t. Yet.” You snatch your bag away from the table, gracefully placing it on your shoulder — albeit its heaviness, “You’re a fool if you think I’m here for you, though.”
“What?” He barks, not able to refrain anymore. He has so much pent up rage from the past few weeks that he’s been dying to let out, and you’re doing your best to make him snap. Just like the old days. “What does that even mean?”
“I thought you were smarter than this,” You reply, but it comes out more as a question dripping with mockery, and it has him pushing his tongue in the inside of his cheek, “I’m a corporate lawyer, which means that I’m protecting their interests and their image, not yours. I’m sure you already know how that works… When you get in trouble, they also do,” You remind him, and you’re not even sure why you have to go through this with him right now — he’s supposed to know all this stuff already.
“I need to go now,” You announce, finally turning your back to him, “We’ll keep in touch,”
There’s a gram of satisfaction jubilating inside your body, and you can’t help the smirk that takes over your features as you leave him behind, knowing his ego and pride are now sore.
Haechan’s ears pick up a muffled sound, but he’s still too tired to care. He’s been home for a while, still on a leave, and he hasn’t seen you ever since you left the office with that arrogance that makes him want to climb walls.
The muffled sound becomes clearer, like someone properly banging on his door, and he waits a few more moments praying that whoever is at his door will soon go away. He’s not expecting anyone, he’s sure security downstairs didn’t let anyone get to his door, yet the knocking is incessant — and it gets on his nerves.
His barefoot steps thud as he makes his way, dizzy and sleepy, towards the front door. He looks through the peephole before letting out a groan, but unlocks the door nonetheless.
“Why are you here?” He locks the door after you, and you kick your heels off, out of politeness, walking down his entry hallway towards his living room.
He lives in one of those luxurious buildings — and you didn’t expect less coming from a former prosecutor who made a fortune out of his job, and a fortune more from his new job in television. His living room has you fighting the urge to let out a low whistle in appreciation, and you throw a quick glance around trying not to be too obvious with your curiosity. Everything is tidy; the decor is neat, showing his personal taste with every item of eclectic furniture and memorabilia, and the place smells like him.
You turn around on your heels, facing him once again, “You didn’t pick up my calls,” You explain, looking him up and down.
He snickers as he looks for his glasses around the living room. His hair is ruffled, his voice is raspy, and he’s still in his pyjama shorts — you definitely snatched him out of bed.
He sits on the couch, placing his glassed on the bridge of his nose before looking at you, “I don’t pick up calls from unknown callers,” He shrugs, getting more comfortable in his seat, but not offering you to take a sit.
Not that you would need him to offer you anything, not even an invitation. But because you’re in a hurry, you decide to just stand a few feet away from him.
“I told you we’d keep in touch,” You bark, furrowing your eyebrows at him, “So didn’t you think that maybe, just maybe, your lawyer is the one calling?”
He shrugs, muffling a yawn, “You could have sent me an email,”
“I did,” Your reply is dry, and you see him avoiding your gaze. “Go get ready, we’re going out,”
“Oh?” He squeals delighted, “Like a date?” He quips, grinning ear to ear, but stands up nonetheless.
You roll your eyes at him, “Just dress nicely,”
“Where are you taking me? I’m not a brunch person, I prefer candlelit dinners, you kn-” He’s interrupted by your steps, following him to his dressing room. “What are you doing?”
You let out the fakest, most mocking sound of endearment while looking at him and at how he keeps his hands over his clothed chest, as if you could see through his t-shirt.
“I didn’t realise you are a prude,” You mock him, looking at the enormous dressing room. “Go ahead, it’s not like I haven’t seen a man’s bare torso before,” You instruct him, and you can’t help but look at how an entire dresser is full of expensive suits and shirts made of Egyptian cotton. You suppress the need to let out a low whistle for the second time today, “I need you to look impeccable, I know the press is still after you. They can’t catch you lacking,”
He hums, and you’re sure he didn’t pay attention to what you just told him. That, or he just doesn’t care if he’s caught dressing like a homeless person. But it would be disastrous to his image, especially because most of his public appearances have been nothing short of perfect — and dressing badly right now could start discourse around press, and around everyone actively being against him.
You see him pulling his white t-shirt off his back, tossing it on the loveseat in the corner of the room.
Your eyes fall on his V line, out of instinct. It’s defined, it travels down to the waistband of his pyjama shorts, that are hanging dangerously low on his hips, and you feel like you can’t take your eyes off of him. Like there’s a magnetic force that doesn’t allow you to look away from him — and the same force has your eyes travelling across the waistband, gaze shifting to the happy trail on his lower abdomen.
You gulp, finally taking your eyes off his tanned skin, looking for something more appropriate to gawk at — like the vanity behind you. You turn around as if you didn’t just momentarily lose yourself in the sight of Donghyuck’s bare torso.
If he noticed your gawking, he doesn’t say anything — and you go about your inspecting his vanity while he gets dressed, moaning about you invading his privacy.
You look at the many bottles of perfumes scattered on the vanity, realising just how neat he is even with arranging his cologne and perfume bottles. You pick up a few, smelling them, and you’re instantly slapped by his usual scents — the ones he used back when you were students.
“Excuse me, miss… sorry…” He mumbles while sliding up next to you and into your personal space, snatching the bottle of Diptyque from your grasp and spraying it on his bare chest and, surprisingly, all around himself.
You cough, stepping away from him, and you see how his slim fingers button his shirt up with dexterity.
You shake your head, “Did you not apply deodorant?”
A cocky smirk appears in the corner of his mouth, “I don’t need that,” He licks his lips, “You’ll learn that about me,”
You throw him an incredulous look, “And how would I do that?”
That insufferable cocky smirk makes an appearance once again, and he shakes his head while styling his shirt, “There are a few ways. You’ll see… eventually,”
His cockiness irks you. You liked him better when he was sulking over the fact that you are his lawyer.
You managed to book an important interview for him, one that can straighten his career back to the way it used to be.
He’s going to talk about his old cases, he’s going to talk about all the times he helped people struggling with legal matters. He’s going to bring back all the good he’s done to society, and you’re sure that will stop the online hate train he’s still being the victim of.
You explain everything to him, you line the whole plan down for him to understand, to know what he should expect from the interview. Given that today is going to be just about getting a new suit for the interview, you think he needs to have enough time to mull over his thoughts and possible answers involving the topics about his past.
You also made sure they wouldn’t bring up the recent controversy — you made a clear script of topics to be addressed, you’ve made it clear to the producers. And you think this is the perfect opportunity for him to clear his name, save his career, and dodge any more criticism from the public. That, and the fact you know the editor working on said program, so it’s going to be easy to have everything under control.
“As always,” You start, touching the collar of his shirt, styling it on his nape as he looks at himself in the big mirror, and your fingers comb through the strands of hair that are getting longer, “Don’t talk to the press. Ignore them, I know you have a big prosecuting mouth, but try your best not to make this even worse,”
Your words irk Donghyuck, who follows after you as you stand by his door, putting your heels back on before heading outside.
You’re acting like he’s an idiot who runs his mouth. Like he doesn’t know what he has to do now that he’s walking on thin ice, and he wants to remind you that he’s been around the press more than you have.
“Stop bossing me around,” He rasps as he locks his front door, and you can tell that he’s getting worked up, by the way he’s pouting while talking. You walk ahead of him, going towards the lifts, “You show up to my place, dictating orders that I have to follow because you’re… my lawyer,” He barks, and it comes out more as a question, “You think you know best, but I’m not your puppy! I’m not following you around!”
You stop in your tracks, and he nearly slams into your back as he doesn’t catch your pausing. You turn around, pouting at him.
“I’m not asking you to follow me around, Donghyuck,” You mock him, posing and looking up at him, “You’re the one literally choosing to walk behind me, puppy boy,” You point your head at him, and you grab his cheeks with your free hand, squishing them together to make him pout, “You’re my puppy because you genuinely want to,”
You turn around, heels clinking on the marbled floors of the hallways as you make your way towards the lifts once again, “Ya comin’?” You ask him without halting your steps.
Donghyuck stays still for a moment, right as and where you left him. He looks at the way you sway your hips as you walk down the hallway, and he feels like the collar of his shirt is strangling him. He’s very confident about what he said about not needing deodorant, but he didn’t think you’d have him in the palm of your hand, talking down to him and making him sweat.
He clears his throat, choosing to stay silent as he follows you, and the thought that he is your puppy is starting to be very convincing inside his brain.
When interview day arrives, Donghyuck walks inside the studio like he owns the place — his usual confidence overflowing and becoming obvious even to the blind.
You pull him by the sleeve. “Tone your ego down,” You whisper through your teeth, for him to hear, “Be humble,”
“I am humble,” He looks down at you, the proximity of your bodies making his minty breath fan down on your face. “Imagine just how insufferable I am when I don’t have to walk on glass,”
“Oh,” You push at his chest, taking a step back, “I don’t have to imagine,” You turn around, your back now facing him, and you roll your eyes out of frustration.
He snorts, “I know you rolled your eyes at me,” He comments, voice low and raw with amusement. You turn around to look at him, and you see him grinning at you, pearly teeth on display as he tries to control his laughter, “You might not realise this yet, Y/n, but I know you,” He rasps, still amused, yet the glint in his eyes seems serious.
His words dawn on you, and your stomach flutters — but you don’t want to overthink about his words and the implication behind them. There can be endless, and you choose not to think about any right now.
Donghyuck gets dragged towards the changing room, and you follow after him and the stylist. You keep a close eye on him.
He’s leisurely making conversation with the stylist, making her ease into conversation and talk to him like they’re long lost friends. His innate gift of communicating is once again proven to you, and frankly to anyone else too. Even the ones mad at him seem to forget why they’re keeping away, once he opens his mouth.
Such charms are a gift, but also a curse — judging by where it got him these days.
You look at him, all styled, all ready to go in his beautiful navy suit you personally handpicked for him a few days ago. The blue brings out the tan of his skin just perfectly; he smells like Diptyque once again, and his longer strands are styled beautifully in order to frame his face.
You look up at him, while he plays with the buttons of his suit. The slope of his nose is perfect, and he pouts his full lips seemingly without realising, too busy paying attention to his sleeves.
You look at him in all his glory, and you let out a sigh.
You place the palm of your hand right in between his shoulder blades, your other hand grabbing him by the base of his neck. You push on his back and at the base of his neck simultaneously, making him adjust his posture.
“Uh,” He huffs, and his eyes widen as gets startled by your sudden actions. He clears his throat, trying to fight a smile.
“You need to learn to stand up straight,” You judge, still pushing on his spine and throat.
He finally breaks, smirk obvious even to you, and you look up at him just in time to see him licking his bottom lip.
“How’d you know I like this?” He provokes while smirking, looking down at you with the corner of his eye, but doesn’t change posture the moment you take your hands away from his body.
“Pervert,” You mumble, averting your gaze.
He chortles, turning around to look at you, posture still straight. He’s even taller than before, towering over you, and you hate that you have to look up at him.
“Oh c’mon!” He pulls you by the arm to get you to look at him, “You act like you weren't gawking at my naked body the other day,” He rasps lowly, keeping the banter between the two of you as you wait for him to be called for the interview, “I might be a pervert, but you’re not better than me!”
His hands extend towards you, trying to grab you by the arms to get your attention — or any other reaction out of you — but you’re quick with your movements as you slap his hands away. He manages to grab you by the wrist, and you stop squirming as you feel his warm and velvety skin touching yours.
You look up at him, only to notice his eyes trailing across your features, and right after looking you straight in the eye for a few seconds, his gaze falls on your lips. His gaze is sultry as he doesn’t look away, he doesn’t even let go of your wrist, yet you become relaxed to his touch.
You feel your stomach fluttering. It’s the look in his eyes, it’s the tongue still playing on his bottom lip, his cologne flooding your senses thanks to the proximity of your bodies. Your senses are alert, he managed to wake them up with a simple touch, and you suddenly feel like hotness it starting to pool in the pit of your stomach.
Your doe eyes, and the slight blush of your cheeks are enough to rile Donghyuck up, and enough to give him a reason to believe that maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t feel so wrong.
Just as you see him smirking once again, opening his mouth to let out something that you are sure is going to be pushing your buttons, he gets interrupted.
“Y/n?” A man’s voice snatches you out of the childish banter with Donghyuck, and you turn around to look for whoever just called your name.
A big smile stretches on your face, “Sungchan!”
The tall man takes a few steps, draping an arm around you, “You’re here, finally!” He smiles down at you, and then his gaze shifts towards Donghyuck, who's standing like a lost puppy behind you, “Lee Haechan! It’s so nice to finally get to meet you in person!”
Donghyuck nods, seriousness suddenly taking over his features, and he looks at the tall man who’s now on the receiving end of all your attention. He seems like a positive person; a helper, maybe. Someone you can rely on at all times — but he doesn’t want to imagine you, of all people, relying on the man who has you grinning from eat to ear right now. It should be him, the source of your grinning and decompressing, not this person you probably don’t even know as well as you know him.
He feels hotness starting to bother him, creeping up his neck — all the way to his jaw and ears. He feels uncomfortable, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a long time. He starts feeling like a puppy once again, and he has the urge to take his tie off and possibly beat this man with it. Who cares if he adds one more controversy to the whole fiasco? Certainly not him, because he’s ready to do it if it means he has your attention back on himself.
Just as he’s ready to intervene in your conversation — even if he doesn’t know how, but he thinks he can find a way to ruin the shameless batting of eyelashes from your part — a voice calls for his name, announcing that he’s ready to go.
You turn around to look at him one last time, signalling him to be calm and level headed.
“I’ve always wanted to meet him!” Sungchan’s eyes sparkle while looking at the small screen as you follow the interview.
Donghyuck makes pleasant jokes to break the ice, witty sarcasm dripping off the tip of his tongue, enamouring the host, and you know he’s safe. He’s got this — like always.
Your attention shifts to Sungchan. You met him a long time ago, fresh out of university, during language classes you picked up as a hobby. You bonded over common interests and the fact that you attended the same course allowed you to study together from time to time, and spend more time together.
But then you started becoming busier with your career, and attending those classes became close to impossible. You kept in touch with Sungchan, and now he promised he’d help you out with Donghyuck’s interview.
You take your eyes off the small screen yet again, once you hear Sungchan humming.
“Are you busy tomorrow night?” He asks, voice raw, “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
You blink at him, and you try to keep your usual seriousness, but it becomes difficult when you notice how much his eyes are sparkling as he looks at you. You move your weight on your other leg, averting your gaze as you try to mask your delight.
The interview will air in a couple of weeks, and by that time everything will calm down with Donghyuck’s issue. Plus, this gives you the perfect opportunity to discuss more about how you’d like the interview to come out.
“Pick me up at eight,” You tell him, smiling softly, right before your gaze returns to the small screen.
Time goes by, Sungchan eventually leaves the studio, and Donghyuck seems to have the host wrapped around his pinky finger.
He waltz towards you, confidence coming out of every single pore on his skin, and he winks your way as he goes back to changing in his casual clothes.
He’s relaxed, he’s his usual self as he bids everyone goodbye, and even stops to shake hands of a few executives, all while carrying his expensive suit over his shoulder. You watch him being in his natural habitat — surrounded by people, being loved and appreciated by them. He smiles, lips curving while his smile reaches his eyes as he tries to dodge certain topics and turn people down in the most polite way. And he has the tact for it, he has diplomacy, yet he has the easygoing humour that knows exactly when to attenuate conflictual topics.
You’re still wondering why he got himself in this position in the first place. Going from being a prosecutor — profession which, by the way, endowed him with all the skills he sports nowadays — to becoming a tv host who has easily fallen in disgrace, victim of sensitive judgement and especially of cancel culture.
“So,” He starts, approaching his Porsche in the parking lot, “Should we have dinner together, tomorrow? You know… to celebrate the fact that tonight was a success,”
You raise your eyebrows, and you see the unfaltering glint in his eyes only getting bigger with excitement. You think it’s because your plan was successful, he enjoyed the interview, and it will be enough to clear up all sorts of confusion when it comes to his controversies.
“I’d love to,” You start, and you think the glint in his eyes became even more sparkly, “But…” You suck air through your teeth, wrinkling your nose.
Donghyuck doesn’t like how you wrinkle your nose — or, to put it better, what it implies.
He nods insistingly, pushing you to continue, “I’m fairly sure you didn’t have anything planned,”
You shrug, “Sungchan kinda beat you to it,”
The sky falls on him. While he was following your orders, another man worked his charms on you?
“You’re ditching me for someone you barely know?” He’s getting worked up, but he’s trying to keep it light by pushing his tongue in the inside on his cheek as he smiles with disbelief.
“Sungchan and I are friends,” You retort, suddenly not liking how you have to explain your life to Donghyuck — who has been a total stranger to you, and with whom you only reconnected a month ago.
“Friends?” He sniggers, disbelief making his voice high in pitch, “If you’re friends with him, then what does that make us?”
“You’re my client, Donghyuck,” You spit out, arrogance matching his during his worst days. This is the first time Donghyuck hates the way you say his name. “I’ll call you soon. You better pick up my calls!” You warn him as your heels clink on the concrete, as you walk towards the exit.
And Donghyuck feels his insides churning as he thinks of what you’ve just told him.
Unbelievable.
It’s unbelievable how he is at home, bored out of his mind, and you’re out on a what? A date?
He likes to think it’s just a simple chit-chat with an old friend, but he’s a man and he knows how the ones of his kind can get when there’s a pretty girl around.
You called him his client, but he remembers how you called him a fool for believing you were his lawyer.
Your usual biting back every time he tries to get closer hasn’t changed. Maybe you misunderstood his intentions, and no, this isn’t about him asking you out — because he totally did that, and was hoping you’d finally warm up to him.
You literally rocked his world when you reappeared in his life, yet you’re now out with that Sung-something, and he feels like he is going to lose all progress made with you up until now. Is it a crime that he wants to crash your supposed date? That he doesn’t care if the press finds him wandering the streets as he looks for the restaurant that man took you out to?
Instead, he picks up his phone. He wants to send a text, just to make sure you’re having fun — but who is he kidding? He wants to send a text to bring your attention on him.
How long have you known this Sung person for, anyway? Donghyuck bets the history between him and you feels heavier, fuller than whatever friendship you have with that guy because, after all, as much as you might not have liked it, you two were always around each other all those years back.
He sighs, taking a sip from his glass of wine, and he lets his intrusive thoughts win. He dials your number, but just as expected, you don’t pick up. So he insists, because that’s what he’s best at — pushing your buttons.
“You better be dying and for some reason I’m the last number in your recents,” You spit through gritted teeth, as you pick up his call.
He smiles like a fool when he finally hears your voice, “I am dying,” He chuckles, playing with the rings on his fingers, “Dying to see you again,”
“Unbelievable,” You let out an outraged mumble. He can’t see you, but he knows you just rolled your eyes at his comeback.
If only you could see him now, you’d see his pupils are the shape of hearts as his eyes glint just imagining you reacting to him.
“Why did you call me? I’m kinda busy,” You burst his bubble, and he’s the one rolling his eyes now. Just the thought of your whereabouts and the company you keep right now is making his throat go dry.
“Oh, really?” He plays dumb, yet he knows he can’t fool you, “Was it tonight? I forgot about that,” He’s shameless, and he hears your scoffing.
“We literally talked about this last night, Hyuck,” His heart skips a bit at the way you call his name, because only people who are close to him can use his government name — and he certainly feels you being close to him, as much as neither of you have ever addressed this before.
“I must have forgotten,” His tone drips with fake innocence, a pout forming on his plump lips.
You hate that you can envision him right now — in his home attire, his fluffy hair unkept, only combed through by his fingers, glasses resting on the bridge of his pretty nose, bare feet taking steps between the living room and kitchen.
“So, what? Are you on a date right now?” He challenges, finally letting you know why he’s calling. You make a sound that he takes as a confirmation of his fears, “With Mr Lanky?”
“Donghyuck!” You warn, outraged and tired. “You’re lucky he’s gone to the restroom and couldn’t hear this useless conversation,”
“Oh, I don’t know, gorgeous,” He smirks to himself, “He’s been gone for a while. What if he’s got the runs after talking to a gorgeous girl like yourself?” His tone is low and, as much as you want to hang up the call, his voice makes your stomach flutter.
That, or the cheese soufflé is the one to blame.
“Come by later,” He rasps, and you almost think you didn’t hear him right, “If things are disastrous and he really shat himself… just come by,”
And he doesn’t wait to hear your reply. He doesn’t want to hear a smart comeback coming from you, but he hopes you’ll come to him.
And while you don’t show up to his place like he asked you, you certainly think about him for the rest of the night. Sungchan, who seemed like a knight in shiny armour when he picked you up, has suddenly shifted in your eyes — especially after the phone call from Donghyuck.
Your energy deflects, you’re sure the man across the table picks up on this as well. The more you look at him, the more you realise he just isn’t what you want and what you need.
His jokes aren’t obtuse, offensive, or genuinely funny either. The sparkle in his eyes is there only when he talks about work, and you hate that you reached a point in which you’re comparing him to the obnoxious person hunting your mind.
Truth be told, no one does it like him. You realise that even your past so-called rivalry between the two of you was something you missed while he was out there trying to conquer the world.
Suddenly, the night seems wasted. The cheese soufflé too insipid, the steak too dry, the company not what you were hoping for. And not because Sungchan is a bad guy with an abysmal personality, but because he’s not Donghyuck.
“Everything okay?” Sungchan asks you at some point, and you realise you haven’t been listening to him, and that he probably noticed.
You nod, giving him a small smile, just hoping that it’s enough to fool you both. Everything seemed to be going well until Donghyuck called you.
“Do you think you can send me a copy of the interview after you’re done with it?” You mumble absentmindedly, playing with the fork in your hand.
Sungchan smiles, teeth on display, “Y/n, I’m not here to talk about Haechan’s interview,” He announces, and a lump sets in your throat, “I wanted to have this opportunity to ask you out,”
Oh, you mouth as you find it difficult to keep your eyes on him.
He lets out a huff of laughter, albeit you know it’s not light and genuine, “But I guess it’s better if we keep our friendship this way, right?” He’s hurt, but he’s faking it not to make you uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, Sungchan, I didn-” You try to explain but he shakes his hand, smile still present on his lips.
“No worries! I dropped it on you out of the blue, I apologise for that!” He doesn’t have to apologise for his feelings, yet he does — literally thinking that he made you uncomfortable with his small and innocent confession.
Your chest suddenly hurts, and your eyes feel like they’re becoming fuller with unspoken feelings and emotions, and he pats your hand from across the table as he senses his mistake.
“I don’t want you to feel bad, ‘kay? We’re just at different places in our lives, even if your and someone else’s are perfectly aligned right now! I just had to shoot my shot, I hope you can understand,” He’s awfully comforting, and somehow if feels even heavier inside your chest.
You try to shake this strange feeling away, but your insides start churning at the unbearable thought that you rejected the man in front of you, and at the thought of your bubbling feelings that need to be addressed soon.
The door swings open, and you already think this is a bad idea. The smirk in the corner of his mouth confirms that maybe you were better off at home, in your pyjamas.
It’s been a few days since you last spoke to Donghyuck, and as much as you hate do admit it, your last interaction with Sungchan planted a thought in your brain. One that you can’t really ignore. Instead, you show up to his doorstep trying to get the answers you need.
“Wowza, gorgeous!” Donghyuck smirks, eyeing you from head to toe. He moves away from the doorway, allowing you to walk in, and you stop by the entrance. “I think you really like my place, that’s why you drop by all the time,” He rasps, eyes glinting, “That, or maybe you just like me,”
You roll your eyes, glance stopping on one picture by the entrance — that you didn’t notice last time you were here. Probably because his sleepy figure was standing in front of it, unknowingly blocking your view. You recognise the picture, it’s one of the last pictures you took with your friends as a whole group, back during your university years — before Jaemin relocated to another big city, before one of your girl friends got herself into rehab; back when everything seemed normal and felt whole. You spot yourself in a corner, hugging Jaemin and Yizhuo — your closest friends during university — and you spot Donghyuck in the other corner, smiling at the camera like he’s the sun itself.
It was one of the last outings you did as a group, right before graduation, and right before life got busy for all of you. Looking at all the faces in the picture, you realise that was one of the best trips you took, and you think of all the times Donghyuck made the outings better and less boring.
He sees how you’re getting lost in the nostalgia of the past, as your gaze travels along the faces in the picture. Truth be told, that picture is there for one reason only, and said reason is now looking at it with eyes full of emotion.
He looks at you once again. You look spectacular — black dress that kisses your curves and shapes the right way, your naked shoulders seem so soft and smooth and he has to fight the thought of what your skin might feel like under the burning skin of his hands.
You’re gorgeous, and a lump forms in his throat as he feels like you’ve never been more unattainable than right now.
Are you… perhaps…
“Going on a date?” He can’t help but ask. He sees as your gaze moves from the picture, to look at him, and you put the frame down, “How’s skid marks?” His tone is bored as he turns around to walk towards his kitchen island.
You take your heels off, and you follow him towards his kitchen with angry patters as your bare feet take steps on the hardwood floor.
“Don’t call him that!” You bark, his nickname for Sungchan suddenly upsetting you, “Be nice, he’s helping us,”
“Is he?” He asks, not interested in the slightest to hear your reply, “Is that why you’re going out on dates with him? Or is it because he’s your friend and I’m your client?” Suddenly he’s attentive like a vulture — he wants to hear your reply to this one question.
“Can you be serious for one moment?” You question, not wanting to bicker with him right now.
His cocky smirk makes an appearance, “I’m a prosecutor, Y/n. I can see you’re stalling,” He retorts, and he takes pleasure in seeing you biting your bottom lip, trying your best not to snap at him. “But alright, gorgeous. To what do I owe the immense pleasure of having you here tonight?”
You shift your weight from one leg to the other, and your hands go to your dress before you can control yourself.
“I was promised a dinner,” You purr, matter-of-factly.
Donghyuck wants to grin, but fights it. How did you manage to stay out of his life for so long? It’s beyond his understanding. You make him want to start howling at the moon like a depraved dog, which reminds him of how you called him a puppy before.
And remembering the way you looked up at him as you did so, touching him, talking down to him — it literally gives Donghyuck goosebumps. But he’s not ready to admit this to anyone other than himself so, instead, he does what he knows best — he acts like he’s unfazed.
He gets ready, as you look around his place. Despite him being home ever since he was put on unpaid leave, the whole place is spotless. You think it’s because he’s been living off take out all this time, and that he’s used one or maybe two cups to drink from, but you’re impressed either way.
He shows up wearing a tux, and he steps out of his dressing room manoeuvring a bow tie.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” You fake a gasp, “I didn’t know we were attending the fucking Oscars!”
He’s in front of the mirror, styling his bow tie while looking at you through the mirror. His eyes are piercing, he doesn’t dare look away — eyes locked onto yours — and he smirks.
“You did it first,” He points at your dress, “You thought we’d be staying in with you looking like that?!” He exaggerates, wrinkling his nose, “No way, baby,”
“Don’t call me that,” You mumble, moving towards the door, but you grab him by the sleeve to get his attention on you, “But do you think this is a good idea? Going out right now… with you and your problems?”
“Y/n,” He sighs, quickly checking his pockets for everything he needs before heading out, “You have to know me better than this by now… to know that it’s been so long that I don’t give a fuck anymore,” He opens the door for you, and this time you wait for him by the door, instead of walking in front of him towards the lifts, “And I can get us a table literally anywhere. Name the nicest place you wanna go to, and we can get in,”
“I think that’d be the case if you weren’t a prosecutor who turned into a disgraced tv personality,” You ridicule him as you walk on the long hallway, but he doesn’t seem too offended by it. You might be right, anyway.
“It’s worth trying, at least,” He shrugs, and then he turns around to look at you with that cocky smirk that’s so typical him.
“What?” You sigh, looking at the led arrows signalling where the lift is coming from.
“So basically you admitted to showing up looking like trouble, thinking we’d be staying home?” He rasps, stupid grin of victory on his face, and then he tsks, “You just wanted to seduce me,”
You punch him in the stomach, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, you step inside the lift before he can register what you’re doing, “Let’s see how seduced you get by me making you take the stairs,” And you press the button, urging the doors to close before he can stop them with his foot or hand.
“That wasn’t very nice,” He retorts when you’re finally out on the street.
You discovered he has four luxury cars parked in the underground parking lot of his building, and given your dress code tonight, he went straight to the Porsche.
“But you did it nonetheless,” You point out, looking at the pedestrians crossing the street, “Just like a puppy,”
He doesn’t even fight it, because he knows you’re right. Instead, he chooses to ignore it for his own good.
He looks at you, as the red lights from the cars ahead contour your pretty features. And to think that out of endless possibilities you got back into his life by being his lawyer makes him feel like becoming a disgraced tv personality really helped him in his destiny. If it weren’t for his big, problematic mouth, he would have been alone and miserable right now — in his luxurious apartment, with his four cars parked underground, with lavish dinners and a reckless dating style. Instead, you showed up.
He can’t and won’t take it for granted.
“Where are you taking me?” Your voice is small, almost as if your mind is somewhere else.
“I have a few options, if they take us in,” He jokes, using your words, “Is there something you’re craving, gorgeous?”
You actually think about it. As you take your sweet time trying to think of something, your glance wanders around his car — and it finally lands on Donghyuck.
He’s relaxed, even as he speeds. His tux brings a certain air to him, like he’s the most expensive and most untouchable man on this entire planet. Confidence oozes from all his pores, even as he does nothing but keep a hand on the steering wheel — and you feel your insides churning, but you desperately hope for it to be because of hunger.
“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” You speak up before you can control yourself. His curiosity makes him throw you quick glances before his eyes go back to the road, seemingly taken by surprise by your change of tone. This isn’t going to be about food, and he knows it, “You were too good at what you were doing for you to be remembered by the public as nothing but a fragment of a proper scandal. It actually upsets me,”
Donghyuck doesn’t know what to answer, mainly because he doesn’t see it as you. He’s sorry you’re upset about this matter, and he wishes he could take it all away from you. He also wishes he could speak up and have a proper conversation about this topic and why he thinks you’re wrong, but it’s like his lips are sealed when it comes to speaking up about the matter.
He didn’t know you cared about him, or anything involving him — including his career — this much.
His silence feels heavy as your ears start ringing waiting for his answer, and it never comes. You’re left waiting as you listen to the purring of his Porsche’s engine, and at the way he breathes evenly — not rushed, not panicked, not even upset. He just breathes as he refuses to make any kind of comment to what you just told him. Did you really think that opening up about this to the guy with the biggest ego in the world was a good idea?
Too lost into your own worries and overthinking, you fail to notice how the car slows down, and then you finally notice him carefully looking for somewhere to park. You look outside the window, not recognising this side of the city.
“Do you remember the greasy, meat sandwiches we had on our last trip together?” He asks, and he actually sees how your gaze starts sparkling at the memory he just brought up, “It’s one of the things I’ve been craving the most lately, thinking about that day. And luckily for us, this guy right here seems to have the exact recipe,”
Never in a million years did you think you’d be having sandwiches with Donghyuck at the outskirts of the city, bought right from a street food truck, while the grease trailed down your forearms as you tried to keep it away from your outfit. Because obviously, looking straight out of a fashion magazine, like you’re ready to go to a charity gala and eat the most expensive food ever served to you could ever compare to seeing melted cheese and grease smudged on Donghyuck’s cheeks as he chewed his bite.
The first bite taken from your sandwich almost got a moan out of you, while Donghyuck’s got a proper grunt out of him.
It feels almost painful to admit that he’s right thinking this was something you’d end up enjoying. It helps you go back to the past, when his smile was more carefree, when his jokes were even more obtuse than nowadays, when the sparkle brought to his eyes during classes or fights with you was more prominent.
You know he’s hiding something, and you wish he’d open up to you — at least a little bit. But you don’t want him to shelter himself behind a shell you never knew he had. He’s always been loud, proud, morally upright — and something took that away from him.
“Tell me this sandwich isn’t so much better than sex,” He moans, mouth absolutely full to the point it’s difficult for him to chew.
You nearly knock the tall glass of non-alcoholic beer you’ve been sharing with him, and you give him a quizzical look.
“What kind of odd experiences have you been having?” Your tone is high in pitch, full of disbelief.
“Oh, c’mon,” He swallows his bite, “Like you’ve never had a bad experience? With a man? Hard to believe,”
“Were your bad experiences also with men?” You pout at him sympathetically, almost on the verge of pinching his cheek and ridiculing him.
He lets out a howl of laughter, almost choking, “Touché,” He comments, licking his lips, all content with the progression of your conversation.
The interaction quiets down, and you see him eyeing you curiously before going back to his sandwich. But you know him just too well, and as expected, he throws the ball in your court after taking a big sip from your shared beer.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” He smiles softly, setting down his sandwich on the aluminium foil on the high table. When he sees you nodding, he waits a few more seconds, “Why did you not become a prosecutor?” He asks, cleaning his hands with a wet wipe — definitely needed in order to get rid of all the grease.
When he sees your questioning gaze, seemingly not understanding the question — or where it’s coming from, he clears his throat. “I mean, you had the skills. You and I were unbeatable at what we were doing, so when I didn’t see you in the field as one of my colleagues, I got worried. I was thinking you wasted so much potential being God knows where, doing God knows what. I had no idea of your whereabouts because, God is my witness, I really looked for you as a last resort to try and reach out and make you change your mind,” He rasps, but his tone is gentle, and it brings you comfort, “So where the hell have you been?”
You guess this is a good start for the candid conversation you were planning on starting with him, but didn’t know how to approach him first. Almost because you opened a small door earlier, during the car ride, and he seemed like he closed it shut in the blink of an eye.
You set your sandwich down on the foil, right next to his, and you grab one of the wet wipes he extends towards you.
“Becoming a prosecutor was never my goal,” You admit, cleaning the corners of your mouth, “I always wanted to study law to help the underprivileged. Yes, prosecuting bad guys always seems like the best choice when you think of a career in law and the whole concept of justice. But what about the people who can’t afford to be represented in court by someone who’s actually capable and confident with their skills? What about the NPO’s and charities that need someone to represent them? What about the people?”
He looks at you, at the small crease between your brows as you get so passionate about your love for your job, and he has the next question he wants to ask you, on the tip of his tongue. Yet you beat him to it.
“Why did you throw out a successful and rewarding career? Just to become a tv host?” You ask him. This question has been bothering you ever since you stumbled upon his show on television, right after he gave up his career.
“It’s more complicated than that,” He gives you a tight-lipped smile, and you understand that it really doesn’t come easy to him to open up about this change. So it really wasn’t about him loving being in the centre of attention on television, and the shift to a career in this field that could mean fulfilling this crazy need for attention faster. You judged him too harshly, even if it’s just Donghyuck.
“Then open up to me!” You plead, because it’s something you need to understand about him, “I’m the one that can understand you on this, better than anyone else,”
You’re right. Donghyuck knows this, and as much as he would have loved to tease you a bit for your choice of words and wanting to get closer to him, he refrains, understanding this is not the right time for this, for neither one of you.
“Everything was going well, I was on a roll,” He starts, finally giving in. If he wants to get somewhere with you, anywhere near where he wants you two to be, he needs to open up and finally face his past. “My success rate was unbeatable and, as you might have seen, they even talked me into helping people on national television,” He looks straight ahead, thinking of the past few years and what he’s gone through, “They made me their product and I enjoyed the money and the attention, this is one of the truths,” He clears his throat, reaching for the cold beer.
So what? Is that all he has to say about this drastic change in his life? You wonder to yourself. Were you right from the beginning? Did he really do it for the attention?
“But another truth is that… I did something I can never forgive myself for, not even today,” His voice breaks, and he’s still avoiding your gaze, “One of the last cases I worked on was just… atrocious. We’re talking about abuse of the worst kind, and it all ended with murder. This motherfucker murdered his entire family… and he got away with it,”
Realising the gravity of the story he’s telling you, you keep your mouth shut.
He takes a big breath, “Someone tampered with key pieces of evidence in the case, so he walked out of court almost trotting. That piece of shit was beaming with satisfaction, and for the first time ever I could do nothing about it,”
Your weight shifts from one leg, to the other, “Any internal investigation that could find the culprit?”
He nods, finally looking at you, and you get to see just how affected he still is by the whole matter, even if it’s been a while since it happened. Something this big always stays with you.
He licks his lips, “Of course! I started an internal investigation to find answers, but then after a while I got a call from my higher ups telling me to drop it,” He pauses for a few seconds, and then lets out a ridiculing scoff, “Of course I didn’t! What kind of prosecutor with a moral compass does that?!”
You think you have a faint idea of where this story is headed. He’s getting upset, eyebrows furrowed as he recalls his past.
“It took a call from a politician to threaten me, for me to stop the investigation. That’s also when I decided to quit,” His voice is small, yet upset.
He’s playing with a peace of foil on the table, wrinkling and then smoothing it, and your eyes fall on his crooked pinky.
“But!” He snaps, suddenly back to having a good mood, and the enthusiasm takes you by surprise. “My turn!” He picks up your sandwich, taking a bite of it. “Why did you quit your career to become a corporate lawyer?” His mouth is full, but you understand him nonetheless.
He keeps his eyes on you as you pick up his sandwich, and you shrug, “I needed a change,” You avert your gaze, looking at where his teeth sank into the soft bread, “I needed to see if there were more exciting things out there,”
“And how did that work out for you?” He giggles, thinking of the irony of your choice. You wanted to help the underprivileged, yet you ended up working for a corporation straight out of hell.
He looks at you, and he can’t believe just how beautiful you are. You features are so soft in the food truck’s lighting, your skin literally shines in the cold hues.
He sees you taking a bite from the sandwich you’re holding — his sandwich, and a smirk plays in the corner of his mouth.
“You know we’re basically kissing right now, right?” He rasps, squinting his eyes at you while he sports a shit-eating grin.
You roll your eyes at him, “Your kiss is greasy,” You retort almost instantly, dropping the last bits of sandwich back on the foil, and you clean the corners of your mouth.
“Yours is worse,” He mumbles, side eyeing you.
“What are you even talking about?” You’re confused by his nonsense, eyes scanning him from head to toe as he takes another bite from your sandwich.
You find yourself gawking once again. He seems so relaxed, so comfortable around you, so confident even to be in public making a mess on his face when literally anybody can see him — not just you anymore.
And it hits you. Since when did you think you and him were close enough to imagine yourself as the sole person allowed to see him in all sorts of circumstances? Your long history of knowing each other has never properly allowed you to go there with your thoughts, and yet you did — and it makes you feel completely out of place.
Yet for some reason, you’ve always felt comfortable around him. Thinking of it now that he shuts up and lets you be alone with your thoughts for a little bit, you think of the past. Never, not even once — not even when you wanted to kill him for starting a contradicting argument for his sole entertainment — did you feel like he repulsed you.
“See for yourself,” He bursts your bubble, and your eyes get back in focus as you look at his tan forearms, while he extends your sandwich towards you. “I know you didn’t believe me. Take a bite,”
You throw him a skeptical look, and you see his eyes studying your face closely, searching for something. But you give in, nonetheless. And you touch his hand as he directs the sandwich to your lips.
And then, he snatches his hand away, his lips smacking yours instead. It happens in a split second, and you don’t even have the time to register it happening, but it doesn't feel bad, or wrong. He retracts for a bit, the hand holding the greasy piece of bread far away from your figure, and he grabs your chin with his fingers.
His thumb travels, caressing his way up from your chin to your bottom lip, and he keeps studying your face for any sign that this might not be what you want right now. And the moment he feels your eyes on his lips, and sees you kicking your lips out of habit, he bends down once again.
His kiss is fervent, almost desperate, like he feeds off of it. His lips are just as plump and soft as you thought they would be, and you don’t even think twice before parting your lips, granting him access. It feels hot, something you’ve never experienced before — not from a single kiss, anyway.
His free hand travels towards the side of your face, fingers combing through your hair to pull you even closer. His abilities are to be praised right now, as he gets to control you to get you to do anything he puts his mind to with one hand only, the other still kept away from your bodies.
The kiss gets deeper and heated fast, while neither one of you feels like pulling away. This might be a monumental mistake, but it surely doesn’t feel like that right now. Right now, you think you’re exactly where you want to be — while Donghyuck is absolutely certain he is where he’s always wanted to be.
Your hands go up his neck, which has gotten incredibly hot, and you keep him close to yourself as your fingers play with the longer strands of hair from behind his ears. He grunts into the kiss, and you suddenly become breathless.
He retracts slightly, eyes still closed as he keeps giving you small pecks, allowing the both of you to get your breathing back to normal, as gracefully as possible.
“Was my kiss greasy?” He rasps, tone low sending shivers down your spine.
You gulp, keeping your eyes closed, “No,” You shake your head almost imperceptibly, but he feels you moving your face in his grip, “But your greasy hand is in my hair,” You open your eyes just a bit, looking at him through your lashes, and you see him smirking.
“Shhhh, don’t ruin our moment,” He nudges your nose with his, then going back to pecking your lips.
And you give in once again, feeling his fingers pulling you towards him.
Your leg bounces as you sit on one of the leather armchairs in the waiting room, right outside of your boss’s office.
Anxiety is pooling in the pit of your stomach like never before, not even when you had stressful cases on your hands did you ever feel like this. It makes you sweat, it makes you want to throw up, especially because you know you’re in big trouble.
You woke up with a terrible headache, like your body was preparing you for impact first thing in the morning, like it was giving you a sign that a shit storm was coming your way and that the headache was just the tip of the iceberg.
And then you checked your phone. Texts, missed calls from Johnny, articles about you and Donghyuck. Apparently all the times you warned him about the press being on his trails should have been a reminder for you as well, because you appear together in all the pictures published.
Pictures of you and him strolling around the street, pictures of you and him spotted shopping together. Pictures of you two at the studio, when the two of you were bickering, except no one knows that. From the looks of it, it seems like you two are being very close, to the point of Donghyuck grabbing you — which is totally true, but the circumstances were absolutely different than what they’re being made to seem like in these pictures. And then, the worst of all, pictures from two nights ago, when you and Donghyuck made out in the middle of the night right in front of the food truck, and then in his car — and there’s no excuse or any other explanation for these last pictures, there’s no way you can deny it. It’s all out there for everyone to see, like a reminder that lines have been crossed and you acted recklessly.
You didn’t even try to call him, to try and talk to him about this, to try to find a version of a story plausible as to why the two of you — a lawyer and her client — were eating each other’s faces the other night.
Instead, you called Johnny and came to the headquarters as soon as you managed to calm down the erratic beating of your heart.
You’re sure everyone around has heard the news or seen the pictures, and you fear of what they might be thinking of you right now. You’ve never been a fan of judgement, and being in the limelight now makes you incredibly anxious.
Your temples are still throbbing, your throat is dry, and it feels like you’re living a nightmare. And right as you think about this, the lift dings, announcing someone is about to come out, and then you see him — your real nightmare.
The man that turned your world upside down with just a smack of lips and a foul mouth full of smart comebacks and obnoxious jokes. He spots you right as he steps out of the lift.
“Good morning, gorgeous!” He takes a seat right next to you, on the other armchair, “What brings you here so early?”
You look at him, genuinely wondering what is wrong with him. He looks at you like an innocent puppy, eyebrows raised and lips pouting, all while he swings his leg from left to right as he sits leisurely.
“Are you being for real right now? Did you not see the news?” You bark at him, ready to start punching him. You’re at your limit, and he’s on very thin ice right now.
He shakes his head, shrugging with innocence, “Johnny called me in as soon as I woke up, so I didn’t really have the time to be on my phone,” He explains, and you believe him — knowing that he’s not the type to be on his phone, given all the times he hasn’t picked up your calls or replied to your work emails as proof of this. “Why? What happened?”
“You and I happened,” You point your index finger, moving it between you two.
“Right,” He smirks, and you genuinely think he’s doing it to provoke you into hurting him, “It certainly is a good morning!”
“Hyuck!” You slap his leg, turning towards him. The crease on your forehead is terribly cute to him, and he feels an urge to kiss your worries away — even if it might put his life in danger. “This is serious. There are pictures everywhere! We’re in so much trouble, and Johnny has been on the phone all morning,” You explain, and then you sigh, “What do you think they’re gonna do to us?”
He looks at you like he doesn’t understand what it is you want from him, “I don’t know, gorgeous,” He shrugs, feigning innocence, “They might have to hang us right outside this building,”
“See?! This is exactly the kind of shit you end up saying that gets you in trouble!” You cry, getting upset with him not taking anything seriously.
He can see you’re getting worked up over this issue, and even if he feels bad for upsetting you with his jokes, he finds it incredibly endearing for some reason.
“You’re right, but let me ask you a question,” He turns his body to face yours, almost sitting on the edge of the cushion, “Now that we’re addressing this properly,” He moves his hand between your bodies, “My joke from that night wasn’t that bad, right?”
You roll your eyes, looking the other way as you try not to snap at him, “No, it was pretty good actually,” You confess, remembering that after the initial shock of seeing him making such joke on national television subsided, you let out a howl of laughter, “Too bad some people have boundaries they don’t joke about,”
“Thank you!” He lets out a sigh of relief, relaxing into his seat, almost as if your last line didn’t make it to his ears, “I agree that I should have made that joke in a different environment, but the backlash was too strong for just a simple joke,” He concludes, mumbling as if he wants you to know he’s not that bad as a person.
The office door opens, and a very stressed Johnny appears in the doorway, “Y/n, get in,” He calls your name, but his gaze shifts to Donghyuck, “Great, you’re here too,” He doesn’t seem too ecstatic, and Donghyuck certainly does not appreciate the coldness of his boss’s tone, “Get in,”
You enter the office, taking a seat on the velvety couch in the corner of Johnny’s office. He sits across from you, and gives you a smile.
“I’d say we have a problem,” He relaxes into his seat, crossing his legs.
“And I’d agree,” You reply, noticing with the corner of your eye how Donghyuck’s head snaps to the side to look at you.
Johnny nods in understanding, seemingly content that you’re on the same page regarding this issue, “But we’d both be so wrong!”
“What?” You squeak, getting on the edge of your seat. You’re so confused right now, you squirm your eyes while looking at your boss.
“See, dearest… the dating scandal brought you into the limelight, and people seem to be talking about you more than Haechan’s controversial joke,” Johnny explains, and you still don’t understand what the good part is to all this, “People are going to be curious about your life, and truth be told Y/n, your record is impeccable. They’ll talk about you, they’ll say you’re the perfect match for Haechan, and everything will calm down.” He claps his hands, satisfied with his explanation, “See? Everything will work out perfectly! I talked to our PR team and, between us, this is the perfect move! How did you end up thinking of this? This was a genius move!”
You look at him, still confused, and then your gaze shifts to look at Donghyuck, who looks back at you just as confused.
“Erm…” You clear your throat, tilting your head, “We didn’t do it as a PR move,” You explain, still very much confused. So much that your words come out as a question.
Johnny opens his mouth, surprised, and then points at you, “Oh well, in this case… Congrats!” He looks at Donghyuck, “And good luck to you!” He eyes you this time, still smiling.
After being dismissed from Johnny’s office, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. The headache is now gone, you feel like you can finally go back to relaxing after an entire morning spent thinking you’re three heartbeats away from having a stroke.
You’re pretty much at peace with the fact that they’re going to focus on desiccating your past for a while, thus giving Donghyuck a bit of space after a long time. You’re not as problematic, you don’t make bad jokes, you’ve always been in your lane — and have always done your best to be respectful and good at doing your job, as best as you could. You’re sure that your life isn’t nearly as fascinating as Donghyuck’s, but you really don’t mind.
Even as you walk inside his luxurious building and towards his apartment, Donghyuck follows your steps. He smiles at the thought that, even after weeks, he’s still following you wherever you’re going — and it doesn’t matter that you don’t have a key to his place. He looks at how determined your strut is, like the place is yours and not the other way around.
“What?” You ask him, not accustomed to having him silenced for so long.
“Nothing,” He opens the door for you to walk in, still in front of him, “I might have to give you a key to my place,” He says nonchalantly, like it’s not a big deal.
You choke on air, and you turn around to give him a horrified look, “A key?! Already?” You’re in disbelief, and quite frankly terrified of this man’s pace, “We haven’t talked about this stuff yet,”
“What is there to talk about?” He asks, and he seems genuinely confused. He seems relaxed, very comfortable with your presence even if you haven’t even been able to define your relationship yet.
“This,” You point your finger at him, and then towards yourself, “We haven’t even defined what we are. We have stuff to talk about, and steps to take,”
He snaps his head to look at you, shaking it all confused and with his eyes squinting, “Again… what is there to talk about? Just move in, gorgeous, we can talk at home,” He’s serious as he approaches you, grabbing you by the chin before he guides your face to get closer to his.
His lips capture yours in a sweet yet passionate kiss. They're soft on top of yours, and for a moment he gets lost in the taste of your lip balm, “Is this enough to label us?” He rasps, letting you go before he starts heading towards his dressing room.
When you fail to answer, he comes back, bare feet loud on the hardwood floor, “You’re stalling. Again,” He warns, getting closer to you once again, “I don’t like that. I want things to be quick, precise, orderly. And I want you, Y/n,”
His confession sets a lump in your throat that’s hard to gulp down, words suddenly too difficult to get out of you.
“Years passed and regrets amassed, and not acting upon my desires at the right time made me miserable. I don’t want that for myself, and I thought my intentions were clear enough for you to understand that I don’t need a label to define us, because I quite literally want to put the world at your feet, Y/n,” He speaks, and you try to fight a smile from creeping up on your features, “You came back into my life and you rocked my world and knocked some sense into me, one that was long forgotten and which I ended up despising. I will not sit back and watch you slip through my fingers again,”
He looks silly, but it makes your chest fill with warmth as you see his pout while he concludes his statement. He’s standing in front of you, wearing his pyjama shorts which he managed to change into right before he felt the need to come back and chew your ears off, and he’s still wearing his light blue shirt, cardigan discarded of as soon as he stepped back inside.
“This reminds me just how good you are with argumentation,” You grin, but he knows you heard him loud and clear, and you’re not out the door — so that must mean you’re not turning him down, “Is this gonna be our thing? We get off complimenting each other on our argumentation skills?” The thought seems horrifying, but it gets a snort of laughter out of Donghyuck, nonetheless.
He shakes his head, unbuttoning his shirt. “I have a few other ways to get us off,”
“Is that so?” You purr, desire suddenly making your insides melt.
Your eyes fall on the tanned skin of his chest, trailing all the way down to your favourite spot — the V line. He gets closer to you with dangerously slow steps, like he has you exactly where he wants, where he’s planned to have you all along.
Just one quick glance up to his face, with your gaze locking into his, and the look he’s giving you makes you suddenly want to avert your gaze. He’s confident, proud, standing upright, walking towards you like he’s literally going to take a bite out of you — not that you would mind, anyway.
He stops in front of you, his breath hitting your face as you suddenly feel small, shy to look up at him. His gaze feels intimidating, and makes your skin burn with desire, your flimsy blouse suddenly too clingy and too uncomfortable on your skin.
“I need to know, gorgeous,” He mumbles, slender fingers playing with a strand of your hair, pushing it back behind your ear, “What about that spare key,”
You hum with delight, stretching your arms around his neck, glueing your clothed chest to his bare one, and his hands travel hungrily behind your back with a tight grip.
“I think I’ll have no choice but to agree. The prosecution side had a very compelling argument,” You sing, finally looking up at him, and he keeps his mouth awfully close to yours, but your lips don’t touch.
He hums, nose nudging yours, and you can feel his fingers traveling under your blouse, fingertips touching your ardent skin and giving you goosebumps.
It makes you literally burn up with desire. His fingers squeeze your sides and the pressure feels almost too good given the force with which he’s doing it, all because of how much he wants you right now. His arms are around you in a split second, and you don’t even realise he’s taken you off the ground, determined steps making their way towards where you suppose his bedroom is.
Normally, you’d look around yourself, but right now your mouth is too busy on his, tongues clashing as he moans into the kiss. Your fingers travel around his nape, up all the way into his hair, pulling gently at his strands — getting a proper grunt out of him.
He puts you down, bare feet planted on what feels like a rug right by the foot of the bed, and he plays with the waistband of your pants, pulling them down but leaving your panties on.
You push him back on the bed, and you get on top of him — you can feel he’s already rock hard, and your mouth is literally watering at the thought of tasting him. His hot mouth is on your neck, tongue playing around and leaving wet trails everywhere it can get, one of his free hands travels to your back to unhook your bra, helping you getting rid of your blouse and bra in a split second.
You feel like you’re on a cloud, high on desire and pleasure — he could literally manoeuvre you around and you wouldn’t realise. His hands keep you steady on his lap, on top of his hard-on, not allowing you to move because he’d quite literally lose his mind if you gave him even the slightest friction.
He keeps his mouth busy, lips kissing the plush of your breasts before his mouth latches onto your nipple, and he grunts with pleasure now that it finally dawns on him that he’s getting all of you to himself.
“So, so gorgeous, my baby,” He breathes on your swollen nip, right before his mouth latches onto the other, and hearing his airy praise from him has you moaning, head tilted to the side as you get lost in the pleasure, and you can’t help but move your hips on top of his lap.
He moans, fingers digging forcefully into your hips to stop you, yet the force with which he’s doing it makes you even more aroused.
His moan vibrates around your nipple, and you push at his shoulders slightly, clearly giving him instructions on what to do. All the bullshit he pulled a while back about being your puppy and not taking orders from you? Totally bluffing. The man would do anything you’d ask of him, no questions asked.
You look at him in all his glory, admiring every single inch of his skin. Your fingers travel to the waistband of his pyjama shorts, and your nails pull at it, trying to move them out of the way. With a tiny bit of help from him, you managed to discard of the clothing item right before your gaze falls back on him, and you nearly let a gasp escape you.
Perfectly girthy, one vein travels from the base of his cock all the way up to his leaking tip. Trimmed at the base, his happy trail travels up his lower stomach, and you can’t resist the urge to graze it with your nail — going from his belly all the way back to the base of his cock, where you gently grab him.
You bend down on top of him, and he doesn’t hesitate to capture your lips in a messy, desperate kiss. But you don’t allow him to enjoy your lips for too long, as they move down to travel on his jaw and across his chest, breath fanning over all the wet spots your lips leave behind. You finally stop your journey on his chest, where you playfully graze his nip with your teeth, while your eager hand gets back on his cock, squeezing his base lightly before travelling further down, making him grunt at the feeling.
“Stop,” He’s out of breath, and the sound of his voice — laced with desperation and lust — makes your walls throb around nothing, “Please,” He pleads, throwing his head back.
The image of him being totally at your mercy makes you feral, almost like you want to continue your ministrations just to get more out of him. But it’s too much even for you, at least for right now, so you take pity on both of you.
You bend down, kissing his tip quickly before you take him inside the warmth of your mouth.
“Fuck!” He bucks his hips up, “I don’t think you should do this,” He’s almost crying, and his hands go up to his head in order to grab strands of hair he can pull at.
But you ignore him. Flattening you tongue as you take all of him, you indulge in the pleasure of finally being able to suck him off. Salty and heavy on your tongue as you move your head up and down slowly, you moan around him, and for a moment you think Donghyuck is going to throw you off and away from himself.
You touch him one last time after you release his cock with a pop!, and he lands forcefully on his back once again.
“I think you’ll be the death of me,” He mumbles, breathlessly as he lays unmoving, waiting to catch his breath a bit. He’s painfully hard, tip still leaking with precum, but he raises his head when he feels you getting on top of him. “No,” He shakes his head, “Wanna taste you first,”
You feel like you could cry. You want to have him in all the ways possible, yet it’s becoming unbearable for you to be deprived of any proper friction.
“Maybe later,” You tell him, already sliding your panties down your legs, “I need to feel you inside of me,” You moan as you sit on him for a bit, and he swears he can feel your clit throbbing on top of his unmoving and hard shaft.
You align him at your entrance, throwing your soaked panties at his head — and he doesn’t even bother to catch them on time. They land on his face, and he only moves one hand to grab them and keep them close for just a tiny bit to be able to smell your scent.
His eyes become glossy the moment you sink down on him, painfully slowly, and he can’t help the moan that rumbles out of his chest.
“Fuck, fuck, baby,” He curses through gritted teeth, sucking his stomach in a few times, “I don’t think I can- I don’t think I’ll last,”
He overestimates your willpower right now, because he’s not aware that your insides are melting with lust and pleasure, feeling the need to feel him all the way deeply inside of you.
The moment you start undulating your hips, walls squeezing him deliciously, he looks down at where your bodies meet, and he can’t help himself from bringing his thumb so you can get off faster. You moan at the friction his thumb provides you every time your clit hits against it as you move your hips, and he swears the sounds you’re making are not helping his cause right now, already feeling like he’s on the verge of spilling inside of you.
Instead, his thumb does the right thing, and you reach your climax fast, surprising him. It comes in powerful, delightful waves that are prodding you to go on and continue your movements, and Donghyuck is too lost in the image of you climaxing on top of him to remember to take his thumb away from your sensitive clit.
Your thighs are burning, everything below the belt feels like it’s about to melt, but you stretch your hands up to his chest as your hips keep rocking on top of his. He’s speechless, he’s feeling too many things, especially because he’s been on the receiving end all the time, and this way he found it easier to get lost in all the pleasure he’s been feeling.
He raises his head a bit, in order to have a better look at you, and he opens his arms before his hands travel to your hips.
You bend down, teeth grazing his jaw before you remember something, and you smirk as you get right up. Your hand travels to his neck, hand wrapping around the sides of his throat and putting the right amount of pressure.
His eyes become the size of saucers as he looks up at you, trying his best not to let out all the moans catching in his throat.
You giggle, and the sound of it has Donghyuck throbbing, “What happened to my talkative puppy boy?” You pout, delighted at seeing him squirming.
The choice of words, your tone, your relentless riding, the pressure around his neck, and the way your walls are squeezing him too tightly, it all becomes too much for Donghyuck to bear, and you see him rolling his eyes back before he lets out the loudest moan from the pit of his ribcage — and that alone is enough to turn you on again.
But you give in, stopping your movements yet still keeping him inside of you, and you collapse on his chest. You’re too spent to keep yourself upright right now, and Donghyuck feels limp as he tries to gather his bearings.
You place your hand on his chest, drawing soothing circles as you wait for him to catch his breath, an you giggle when you hear him cursing. His sweaty skin sticks to yours, and he grabs your hand to bring it to his lips.
He keeps you close, he’s literally where he wants to be — with your weight on top of him, he feels like this is the safest and best place for him.
He raises his head, looking at your intertwined bodies, right before a stupid but spent smirk shows up on his face, “Given our last activity, I think I just proved to you that I don’t need deodorant,”
You smack his chest when you register his words, but giggle nonetheless because only Donghyuck could get to ruin a moment by bringing this nonsense up.
“Pervert,” You move on top of him just slightly, but it’s enough to make him suck air through his teeth.
He smirks, voice already raspy as he mumbles out loud, “Oh, you have no idea!”
AUTHOR'S NOTE: SPEAKING MY TRUTH: we need to see more of obsessed and pervert!hyuck around (◞‸◟,) thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting for me to drop fics from this series! this series means a lot to me and im not planning to abandon it, in case you were wondering — it's just that i have to be in the right place with my creativity <3 i hope you enjoyed this one, and i'll see you babies for the next one! ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶ ꒱ྀིა
a/n: please do not read if uncomfy! majority of this has no direct contact between mc and haechan (yet). it does have a part 2 but still a wip hehe.
The set is dimly lit, all soft reds and blacks, the kind of lighting that makes skin glow like it’s already slick. Cameras positioned, crew quiet, air thick with the industrial sweetness of lube, latex, and the faint, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline—though here, it’s not so much anticipation as it is tedium, everyone waiting for the next instruction, the next cut.
Haechan is perched in his director’s chair like always—legs spread, arms crossed, black hoodie up, expression is half-lidded, mouth slack, utterly unruffled. Bored as fuck.
He likes to watch the scene as a whole, not the parts: the shudder of a shoulder, the matched arch of spines, the geometry of bodies weaving a single shape. There’s no eroticism to it anymore, at least not for him. If he feels anything, it’s the dull, satisfying click of a puzzle piece snapping into place.
Hundreds of scenes, maybe a thousand, have blurred together since he started this job. He’s watched every way a person can cum, and half the ways a person can fake it. He has memorized the pitch and cadence of moans, the difference between a real orgasm and a theatrical one, and the precise window—usually less than three minutes—before a boner becomes a liability on camera
His discipline is legendary; he’s never popped wood on set, not even once, not even when he was nineteen and the girls were all older and he had something to prove. He’s immune—a fucking monk
To him, porn stopped being exciting years ago. It’s just product now. Lighting. Framing. Sellable shots.
So today is supposed to be like any other. The schedule says: opening vignette, oral, first position, second position, cumshot, credits. The contract talent are already running lines and limbering up in the green room. There’s nothing on the call sheet that reads as unusual.
But then you walk onto set.
You’re new—he knows this before you even speak.
You’re the new girl, and it’s obvious. Everything about the way you stand—towel wrapped tight enough to choke arterial flow, eyes darting, breath lost somewhere in your chest—screams “first real gig.” No fake lashes, no caked-on foundation, no stage persona yet to hide inside. Just you, raw and exposed, skin already flushing from the robe drop and the sudden attention of three different lenses, each click and whirr doubling your nerves.
The scene’s supposed to be “natural couple, first time,” but the male lead—some generic, muscle-thick dude with a jaw you could sand plywood on—has all the sexual chemistry of a dishrag.
You think his name might be Chad? Whatever. He doesn’t even pretend to care. He’s flipping through his phone right up to the second “places, everyone,” gets called, barely glancing your way except to ask if you’re “tight with overs or can you take a big zoom.” You have no idea what that means, so you just nod, and he laughs without looking up.
When the camera rolls, Chad’s hands come at you—too fast, all palm, no finesse. It’s like he’s using your clit as a joystick: sharp, dry, mechanical. The friction stings. You keep waiting for him to notice you’re not… primed. He doesn’t.
You try to smile, a tiny “I’m good, keep going” nod, but it’s not in your voice yet. You’re trying—God, you’re trying—Your hips roll, hoping to catch a better angle, your own fingers twitching at your side, desperate to take over. Gasps, soft and uncertain, slip from your lips; you keep pitching your lines higher, like maybe you can sell it if you play the wide-eyed ingenue and act surprised by touch itself, but it’s obvious it’s not hitting right.
The crew is silent, but not out of respect. You can feel the collective disappointment in the air, a staleness that grows with each awkward grin. You catch the boom guy’s reflection in the glass; he looks like he’s holding his breath, his mouth twisted in a grimace like he’s physically pained by how forced it all sounds.
The camera operator is already bored, drinking his coffee with one hand while the other steers the gimbal dutifully back and forth. The only person actually watching is the director, Haechan, who hasn’t blinked for what feels like five minutes.
You’ve heard a dozen rumors about him—strict, never smiles, hates ad-libs, will shut down a scene if the lighting is off by half a stop. But he’s never once yelled, never once embarrassed talent in front of the crew. He just sits there, hoodie up, one knee bouncing, hands clenched on his clipboard. Judging by the little twitch in his jaw and the way his pencil is slowly being crushed into splinters, this is not the performance he wanted.
Chad misses his mark again, hand slipping, and you yelp, an ugly real sound through the room like a burst of microphone feedback.
Haechan’s jaw ticks.
“Cut,” he snaps, voice sharper than usual. The crew freezes.
Every head in the room snaps up—boom guy, focus puller, even the veteran makeup artist, who’s been boredly lint-rolling pubes off the sheets for the last twenty minutes. Chad, the male talent, straightens up like a scolded puppy, dick bobbing stupidly.
Haechan rises from his seat slowly. The room suddenly feels smaller. The whole crew tries to look busy, but everyone’s watching him from the corners of their eyes.
He crosses the set in three long strides, he doesn’t bother with the fake set stairs—just swings one leg up onto the platform and steps directly into the “bedroom,” the mock-up of a midcentury hotel suite they’ll probably tear down by tomorrow.
Haechan steps right up to the mattress, looming at the edge, and for a second you think he’s going to just call it—wrap early and go home. But then he looks down at you.
You stayed at your position: sprawled on the sheets, hair a mess already, thighs parted. Your skin is sticky with the glycerin spray they use to make people look “just-fucked.” Your chest rises and falls fast.
“Move,” he tells Chad, low, no room for argument. Chad scrambles off the bed.
Haechan doesn’t sit where Chad was. He remains standing at the edge, close enough that you can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, undercut with the faint salt of skin.
He doesn’t touch you. Not directly.
Instead he reaches for Chad’s hand. The one that was just pawing, ineptly, at your clit, dry and imprecise and barely tolerable. Haechan’s fingers close around Chad’s wrist. His grip is gentle but absolute. Chad doesn’t even try to resist.
Then, with infinite patience, he starts to move Chad’s fingers over your clit, guiding it in slow, deliberate circles. He moves it exactly the way you like it; not pressing hard, just... teasing. Perfect pressure. Lazy figure-eights that make your hips twitch involuntarily. Just shy of too gentle, slow enough to make you ache.
“Like this,” Haechan says, and his voice is all gravel and velvet, the kind of voice you can feel in your spine. Haechan’s eyes never leave yours.
You bite your lip. Hard. Trying not to whimper.
You try not to react. ‘I am a professional. I am being paid for this.’ you thought. But your body doesn’t get the memo.
Heat lances through your core, pooling there, making your thighs tense and your toes curl against the sheets. You force your breath to stay even, but it helps nothing. Haechan’s gaze is a hand all by itself, pinning you to the bed, and your body starts to betray you: nipples tightening, hips rocking up, a sound leaking out that was never in the script.
He watches all of it. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the brown of his irises.
He's still guiding Chad's fingers under his, but it might as well be his hand. The rhythm is his. The control is his. Every tiny hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes—he sees it. Drinks it.
Chad’s breathing gets weird and shallow, but Haechan doesn’t even acknowledge him. Chad might as well be a prop now—a toy in the director’s hand, moving exactly the way Haechan wants.
Seconds stretch. Haechan keeps Chad’s rhythm brutally consistent, never speeding up, never varying, until your entire lower body is shaking. You want to close your eyes, to escape the intensity, but you can’t look away from Haechan.
You don’t dare make a sound. You do anyway.
It’s a soft, broken whine. It feels like being split open under stage lights. You can’t remember the camera or the crew. It’s just you and him and the steady, inescapable pressure building inside your skull.
You’re trembling now. Not acting. Not really. The way Haechan’s guiding—precise, patient, almost tender in its cruelty.
Haechan’s throat bobs. Once. Hard.
He leans in just a fraction—enough that his breath ghosts over your knee.
“Better?” he murmurs. It’s quiet, like it’s meant only for you.
You nod. Barely. Eyes glassy.
There’s the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth before he finally releases Chad’s hand. Chad stumbles a little, like he’s forgotten how to stand on his own, but Haechan has already forgotten him.
“Good girl,” he says, so soft it’s almost sweet. Then louder, to the crew: “Reset. We’re going again. And Chad—” He finally looks at the guy. “Watch. Learn.”
Haechan steps back to his chair. Sits. Crosses one leg over the other.
But under the table, out of frame, he has to adjust himself. Discreet. Jaw clenched.
He’s trying for nonchalance, but his face—so carefully neutral a minute ago—is barely holding together.
Because fuck.
He’s so hard it hurts.
And he knows—deep in his gut—that this scene isn’t going to end with just one take.
Not with you looking at him like that.
The cameras roll again. Reset. Lights adjusted just so—soft, warm, flattering. The room hums with low chatter from the crew, but Haechan’s world has narrowed to one thing: you.
He’s back in his chair, legs spread wide like always, one elbow on the armrest, chin in his hand. To anyone watching, he looks the same—cool, detached, the veteran who’s seen every angle, every fake orgasm, every scripted moan.
Except right now, his pulse is hammering in his throat.
Chad’s back between your legs, trying again. Better this time—sort of. He’s following the rhythm Haechan drilled into him earlier, but it’s still mechanical. Predictable. Your body responds anyway because you’re a professional (or trying to be), arching just enough, lips parting on soft, breathy sounds that hit Haechan like a punch.
He watches your face—the way your brows knit when the pressure builds, the flutter of your lashes when it almost tips over, the way your mouth falls open on a silent gasp before the sound actually escapes. Those little, real reactions. The ones no one else notices because they’re too busy staring at tits or ass or whatever the money shot demands.
But Haechan notices.
He notices everything.
“Camera two, tight on her face,” he calls out, voice steady even though his grip on the armrest is white-knuckled. “Capture the eyes. The lips. Make it intimate. She’s the star—sell that.”
The operator nods, zooms in. Haechan’s gaze flicks to the monitor feed beside him—your expression filling the screen in high def. Cheeks flushed, pupils dark, lips swollen from biting them. Every tiny hitch, every shiver.
Your eyes flicker to him.
Just once at first. Quick. Like you’re checking if he’s still watching.
He is.
Always.
You hold it this time. Longer. Your gaze locks with his across the dimly lit set—through the haze of lights and lenses and bodies moving around. It’s not acting. Not really. There’s heat in it. Question. Challenge. Need.
Haechan doesn’t blink.
His jaw flexes. He shifts in the chair—subtle, but fuck, the friction against his straining cock makes his vision white out for a second. He forces himself still. Professional. In control.
“Slow it down,” he directs, quieter now, almost to himself. “Chad—tease. Don’t rush. Let her build.”
Chad obeys. Your hips roll up instinctively, chasing the touch. A soft whimper slips out—real, broken—and Haechan’s breath catches audibly. He covers it with a cough, but his free hand drops to his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Anything to stop himself from palming over his jeans right here, right now, in front of the whole crew.
Your eyes find him again. This time they stay. Glassy. Pleading. Like you’re performing for him. Not the camera. Not the future viewers. Him.
He swallows thickly. Leans forward just a fraction.
“Camera one—lower angle on her thighs,” he says, voice rougher. “Show the tremble. The way she’s shaking for it.”
The shot changes. Your legs part a little more, muscles quivering under soft skin. Another sound escapes you—higher, needier—and Haechan’s control frays another inch.
He’s never been this hard on set. Never this invested. Never this fucking gone.
You arch again, head tipping back, but your eyes snap right back to his like a magnet. Your lips part around a silent word that hits him like a physical blow—his name, unmistakable even from here, the shape of those syllables burning into his retinas.
He exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled.
“Good,” he murmurs, low enough that only he himself can hear it. “Just like that. Keep looking at me.”
He draws in a slow breath, like he’s trying to breathe around something lodged in his ribs.
And he knows—deep in his gut, where logic has already left the building—that this isn’t just a scene anymore.
This isn’t normal.
He’s directed hundreds of girls. Thousands of takes.
But this is different.
You’re not performing at the camera.
You’re looking at him.
And the worst part—the part that makes something tighten low in his stomach—is that he doesn’t want you to stop.
That’s the problem.
---
The break is short—five minutes, tops. Just enough time for the crew to stretch, grab water, reset lights that don’t actually need resetting. Haechan uses it to pull you aside, away from the main set, into the little curtained-off “green room” corner that’s really just a folding chair and a folding table with bottled water and a half-eaten box of donuts.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, hoodie a bit low over his eyes like he’s trying to hide how intently he’s looking at you. Professional. Always professional.
“Hey,” he starts, voice low so no one else hears. “You’re doing good out there. Really good. But listen—I know this industry chews people up if they push too hard. Especially the first few shoots.”
You nod, heart already doing that stupid flutter thing because he’s actually talking to you like a person, not just talent.
He drags one hand across his jaw, the shadow of stubble catching on his palm. “Look—I know it’s your first real set. This place, the lights, being so exposed. It’s a lot. The crew’s always more intense than you expect. They can be…” He shrugs, searching for the word, “overstimulating. Even when they don’t mean to.” He looks up, and for a split second, you could swear you see his mouth tighten, like he’s angry on your behalf.
You nod, because he’s right—it is a lot. Your body is still humming, not from what Chad did, but from the before and the after, from the fact that you can still feel Haechan’s eyes on you from across the room, even now.
He licks his lips, eyes flicking to your face, then quickly away. “I know the expectation is—” He gestures, vague, like he can’t be bothered to say the words ‘orgasm’ or ‘squirting’ out loud.
“You don’t have to cum for real every take,” he continues, eyes flicking over your face like he’s reading a script he’s memorized. “Fake it. Sell the build-up, the tremble, the little gasps—most viewers can’t tell the difference anyway. And honestly? Forcing it every time strains your pelvis like hell. I’ve seen girls limping off set after a long day. Don’t do that to yourself.”
Your breath catches. He’s… thoughtful? Actually concerned? You’ve heard horror stories about directors who don’t give a fuck, who just yell “harder” until someone cries. But here he is, warning you about your own body like he cares if you walk out of here okay.
He must say this to every new actress, right? Standard protocol. Still, the way he’s looking at you—soft around the edges, almost gentle—makes your stomach flip.
“And if anything hurts,” he adds, quieter now, “even a little. You tell me. We stop. No questions. Got it?”
You swallow. Nod again. “Got it.”
He gives you the tiniest smile—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—then pushes off the wall. “Good. Take two in a bit. Drink some water.”
He walks away first, leaving you standing there with your pulse in your throat and a sudden, embarrassing rush of warmth between your legs.
Because fuck.
He noticed. He cared. And now all you can think about is his voice saying “tell me” and “stop” like he’d actually listen, like he’d protect you mid-scene if you needed it.
By the time they call action again, you’re already slick. Not from Chad’s earlier fumbling. Nope. It was from Haechan’s five-minute pep talk. From the way his eyes lingered when he said “good.” From imagining what it would feel like if those careful, controlled hands were the ones touching you instead.
Chad slides back between your thighs, condom on, positioning himself. You spread a little wider, trying to look natural for the three cameras positioned around the bed.
He pushes in slow—standard porn entry shot, nothing special.
But your brain short-circuits.
You picture Haechan instead.
The way he’d hold your hips steady. The way he’d watch your face the whole time, cataloging every twitch like he did earlier. The low, wrecked murmur of “just like that” right against your ear. The way he’d probably tease you first—slow rolls, shallow thrusts—until you were begging without words.
Chad moves. Steady. Mechanical. Like a metronome with abs.
You close your eyes for a second. Imagine it’s Haechan’s weight pressing you down. Haechan’s breath on your neck. Haechan’s cock stretching you, filling you, owning every gasp.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.
The coil tightens fast—too fast. Heat rushes low, thighs trembling for real this time. Your nails dig into the sheets. A broken whimper slips out, unscripted. Your thighs lock around Chad's waist so hard he grunts in surprise.
Chad keeps going, oblivious.
But across the set, Haechan freezes.
He’s watching the monitor, jaw slack for half a second before he recovers. Your eyes find his through the haze—glassy, desperate—and you don’t look away.
You come.
Hard.
For real.
Waves crashing through you, back arching off the bed, a choked sob of his name almost escaping before you bite it back.
Your walls flutter and clench around Chad (poor Chad), but behind your eyelids it's Haechan you’re seeing. It's Haechan destroying you, it’s Haechan you’re coming for.
The cameras keep rolling.
Haechan’s hand shoots up—silent signal to keep shooting—but his other fist is clenched so tight on the armrest the knuckles are bone-white. His breathing is shallow. Visible. He’s staring like he’s forgotten how to blink.
“Cut,” he finally rasps, voice wrecked. Too late. The take’s already gold.
The crew starts clapping—thinking it’s great acting.
You’re still trembling, aftershocks rolling through you, thighs slick, heart hammering.
Haechan doesn’t clap.
He just watches you.
And when your eyes meet again—post-orgasm haze and all—there’s no pretending anymore.
He knows.
You know he knows.
And the look on his face says this shoot just changed everything.
---
The set lights dim one by one, the crew packing up with the usual post-shoot chatter—someone laughing about how the take was “money,” another clapping you on the shoulder with a genuine “First gig and you killed it, girl. Natural. We’re booking you again for sure.” Chad gives you a fist bump and a wink that feels oddly hollow now. You smile, thank them, heart still racing from the aftershocks, thighs sticky under the robe you’ve hastily tied.
You glance toward Haechan’s chair.
It’s empty.
He’s already gone.
No goodbye, no “good work,” no lingering look like before. Just… vanished. The director who’d been staring holes through you for hours suddenly can’t even meet your eyes on the way out.
The disappointment hits sharper than it should. You tell yourself it’s nothing—he’s busy, he’s a pro, he probably does this every shoot. But the ache between your legs pulses in protest, like your body knows better.
Meanwhile, across the city, Haechan barely makes it through his apartment door.
Keys clatter on the floor. He doesn’t bother with lights. The hallway is dark, just the faint blue glow from the streetlamp outside bleeding through the blinds. He kicks the door shut behind him, back slamming against it for a second as he drags in a ragged breath.
His cock is still painfully hard—has been since that last take, since your real, broken orgasm rolled through you while staring straight at him. The memory is burned behind his eyelids: your lashes fluttering, lips parted on that choked little sound, the way your hips jerked like you couldn’t help it, like it was *him* making you come apart.
“Fuck,” he hisses, already fumbling with his belt.
He doesn’t even get the jeans all the way down.
They catch at mid-thigh, boxers shoved just low enough to free himself. His hand wraps around his length—hot, leaking, so sensitive the first stroke makes his knees buckle. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold floor, legs splayed, head tipped back against the wood.
He doesn’t tease himself. No slow buildup. He’s too far gone for that.
He starts fast. Rough. Fist tight, twisting at the head on every upstroke, thumb smearing the pre-cum that’s been leaking since the second you locked eyes during that final thrust.
His mind replays it in filthy, high-definition detail.
Your face on the monitor—close-up, just like he’d ordered. Brows pinched, mouth slack, eyes glassy and fixed on him like the cameras didn’t exist. The way your tits rose and fell with every shallow pant. The tremble in your thighs when Chad pushed in deeper. The exact second your walls must have clenched—because your whole body arched, spine bowing off the sheets, a soft, wrecked whimper spilling out that wasn’t scripted, wasn’t fake.
He groans low in his throat, hips jerking up into his hand.
“Fuck—look at you,” he mutters to the empty hallway, voice hoarse. “Coming so pretty for me… weren’t you?”
He imagines it’s him between your legs instead.
Not Chad’s clumsy rhythm. His.
He pictures pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. Slow at first—teasing, shallow rolls just to watch your frustration build, to hear you whine his name. Then deeper. Harder. Bottoming out every time until your nails dig into his back, until you’re shaking, begging, “Haechan—please—don’t stop—”
His strokes speed up. Sloppy now. The wet sound of his fist echoing in the quiet apartment.
He replays your eyes—those little glances you kept throwing him between takes, like you were performing just for him. The way they went wide and hazy right before you tipped over the edge. The way your lips formed that silent, desperate shape—his name? A plea? He doesn’t know, but he pretends it was both.
“Wanted it to be me, didn’t you?” he growls, hips snapping up harder. “Wanted my cock stretching you open… fucking you until you couldn’t breathe… until you came all over me like that again—”
His free hand fists in his hoodie, yanking it up so he can see himself—thick, flushed, veins standing out, slick shining on every downstroke. He imagines it’s your wetness instead. Your heat. Your tight, fluttering walls gripping him so good he can barely think.
He pictures flipping you over, face down, ass up—grabbing your hips and slamming back in while you muffle your cries into the sheets. Or maybe on your back, legs over his shoulders so he can watch every inch disappear inside you, watch your face crumple every time he hits that spot that makes you sob his name.
His balls draw up tight. Heat coils low and vicious.
“Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he pants, voice cracking. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days… gonna make you come again just watching me lose it inside you—”
The first pulse hits like a shockwave.
He chokes on a moan, head slamming back against the door as he spills over his fist—hot, thick ropes streaking across his stomach, dripping down his knuckles. His hips jerk through it, riding the waves, imagining it’s your cunt milking him dry instead.
He keeps stroking through the oversensitivity until it hurts, until every last drop is wrung out, until he’s trembling and gasping against the wood.
When it’s over, he slumps there on the floor—jeans still tangled around his thighs, hoodie rucked up, cum cooling on his skin—and lets out a long, wrecked laugh.
Because he’s fucked.
Completely, irreversibly fucked.
He just came harder than he had in years… to the memory of a girl he’s directed for one single day.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow there’s another shoot.
With you.
He drags a hand down his face, still breathing hard.
“Shit,” he mutters.
He’s already half-hard again just thinking about it.
summary: One night during freshers’ week, followed by a quiet disappearance. No promises, no numbers exchanged, no reason to ever see each other again. But when you run into Mark on campus two years later, it becomes painfully clear that some nights don’t stay in the past — no matter how hard you try to leave them there.
pairing: student!mark x female student!reader.
genre: university!au, fluff, crack, angst, strangers to lovers, smut! mdni!
word count: ~15k
warnings: emotional slow burn, blurred lines, it’s giving ✨situationship✨, mark is a sweetheart, like tooth-achingly sweet, alcohol consumption, lots of flirting and awkwardness, he’s shy but confident at the same time(?), he says ‘dude’ a lot (obvs), talks of pregnancy, menstruation and sanitary products, oc is one confused human being pls don’t judge her, smut: fingering, unprotected sex, pull out method is used (don’t be silly), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, light choking, lots of teasing, nipple play, he’s a hard!dom for like a sec and then pathetic again, multiple positions, oral (fem receiving), brief masturbation (he watches lmao), cumshot, cum eating<3, he makes her cum while she’s on her period bc he's a king (she’s wearing a tampon dw), probs more…ya'll should know how unhinged i am by now so read at your own risk.
a/n: hi hi hi hi!! After many many requests, I wholeheartedly give you Mr. top yearner himself, Mark Lee! This part is mostly smut and emotional turmoil bc I had to somehow introduce their backstory. The second part is where shit goes down, so there will be a lot more plot in that one. This story is very dear to me bc it’s basically inspired from real life events (yes, I used to be a messy bitch back in uni, sue me), but my Mark wasn’t as nice as the one in this fic. Anyway, I genuinely hope you guys love it as much as I do and pleaseeeee do let me know your thoughts!! I would also appreciate ideas and guesses for part two as I’m still currently working on it. I can’t wait to read your comments and asks. Please don't hesitate to bombard me.
Love always,
Cookie <3
masterlist | ko-fi
Mark squints against the morning sun, nursing the headache pounding at his temples. Coffee in hand, he trudges along campus with Giselle beside him, who’s already mid-rant about something he’s only half-listening to. Maybe a date? He’s pretty sure it’s not too important anyway.
Last night’s party is still hanging around in his skull like a bad song he can’t skip. Every step feels like it’s happening underwater — students rushing, bikes clattering, the faint smell of coffee — but Mark barely notices
“—and then he—ugh, I can’t even—” she huffs, flopping her arm dramatically against her tote bag.
“Mm,” Mark mumbles, focusing on nothing in particular, willing the throbbing to ease.
Out of the corner of his eye, movement. Someone rushing. Head down. Bag bouncing. Textbook late-for-class energy.
“Giselle!” a voice calls, sharp but friendly.
Mark freezes. Head still fuzzy. He glances over—and it clicks.
Y/N. Shit. What the actual fuck. No way.
His chest stutters in a way that’s both familiar and alarming. Two years ago. One night. One too many drinks. Memories creeping in before his brain has a chance to protest.
“Mark,” she says, gesturing to him, “this is Y/N. We…uh, go to the same Pilates class.”
Simple. Casual. Like nothing else exists.
You raise an eyebrow, calm, clear recognition. “We actually know each other,” you say lightly, voice teasing but neutral. “Small world, huh?”
Mark’s throat goes dry. Words stick. Coffee threatens to slosh. His hangover doesn’t help. He wants to say something witty, something—anything—but his brain refuses to cooperate.
You glance at your phone, already in motion. “Sorry, I’m actually so late. Catch you later Gi!” You pause for a moment. “Good to see you.” That last bit is directed at him and all Mark can do is bob his head like an idiot.
“See you tomorrow!” Giselle exclaims, her chirpy voice penetrating his throbbing skull.
You dart off without another word, back straight, long strides taking you in the opposite direction from the library.
Mark stands frozen for a second, watching the familiar sway of your shoulders disappear down the path, stomach twisting, headache forgotten.
Giselle nudges him. “You good?”
Mark snaps back, clutching his backpack strap like a lifeline. “Yeah…yeah, fine,” he mutters, voice rough. But inside? His heart refuses to behave.
This must be some kind of joke.
“Dude.” Mark’s voice comes out in a whisper. As though he’s wary of people hearing.
Giselle takes an inquisitive look at him. “Why are your eyes so big?”
Great, now he looks insane.
“How do you know her?” Mark asks, completely ignoring Giselle’s valid question. He needs to know.
“I literally just said Pilates?”
“Oh…right.” He keeps walking and Giselle quickly follows. Her expression nothing short of baffled.
“Umm. What am I missing here?” She speaks in a rushed manner as she tries to keep up with Mark’s quick strides. Who is he even running from?
“Nothing.” Mark deflates as he quickens his step. The library couldn’t feel any further.
“Oi, spaz!” Giselle grabs onto Marks elbow. “Slow down and fess up.”
Her demands get through to him. He halts his pace and turns to face his friend properly for the first time since you walked away from them. With a heavy sigh he accepts that even the slight attempt of hiding something from her, would be futile.
“We slept together first week of uni.” The words come out so jumbled, he’d be surprised if Giselle caught them.
“Pardon?”
“We fucked. Two years ago.” He rephrases. Slower this time.
“Sorry. What?” The question more of an indication of shock than a demand of clarification.
“Ever heard of sex?” He tries sarcastically.
“Uh-huh.” Giselle’s frown almost resembles an animated character’s.
“I’ve had it. With her.” He points a thumb towards the direction you earlier walked off to and he can’t help but feel amused at Giselle’s flabbergasted reaction.
“How-”
“A party. Fresher’s week. C’mon dude, switch on please.” He’s embarrassed. Maybe even slightly irritated that his reckless escapades from freshers’ week have become such a big matter of attention.
“Okay. Sorry, I just- I pictured it and now I need someone to reset me.” Giselle pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closing as if trying to erase the picture from her brain.
Marks rolls his eyes at his friend’s exaggerated gag. “I could flick your big fat head.”
“Okay, okay. So…” She trails expectantly, completely dismissing his irritation.
Mark doesn’t really know what more he can say. He’s elaborated enough.
“Yeah..?” He gestures his hand for her to continue.
“Well, what happened after the…you know.” Giselle’s eyebrows shoot up suggestively.
“The sex?” Mark points out on purpose and snorts a laugh when his friend scrunches up her nose in disgust. He might as well make her feel as uncomfortable as he is.
“Yeah, that.” Giselle nods, the pained expression still on her face.
“I haven’t seen her since. Well, hadn’t.” He admits simply. It’s the truth.
“Shit, so you quite literally just fucked.” It’s a statement but it comes out more like a question.
“Pretty much.” Mark shrugs, struggling to keep an unbothered front. “She sneaked out in the morning and I just never saw her again.”
“You didn’t get her number or…?”
“I mean, I didn’t really get the chance. Plus…” He pauses to think. Or more like reminisce.
It was his first night out on campus, and you? You were the first person he noticed when he stepped foot in that house party. The first girl he brought back to his tiny, undecorated dorm at the time.
He didn’t really expect anything more than what he got. That’s what he approached you for initially. But he also didn’t expect you to disappear without so much of word after the night you had together.
Mark still thinks about it sometimes. Not because it was magical or anything of the sort. If anything, his performance could easily be described as bang out average.
What he really thinks about is how you two stayed up for hours. Naked. Talking, kissing, fucking then talking and kissing, then fucking again. He thinks about how he felt so comfortable. So at peace but also confused at the same time. How you’d only known him for a few hours but still trusted him enough to fall asleep on his chest, in that small first-year dorm bed.
Mark, never having been the naive type, he knew he couldn’t just date the first girl he met at the first party he went to on campus, but spending days typing your first name in his instagram search bar definitely wasn’t on his bingo card. Not only that, but unintentionally searching for you at pubs, bars, parties, uni corridors for weeks? Yeah, that certainly wasn’t on his bingo card.
“Plus, it wasn’t anything serious.” He concludes, sounding almost defensive.
“Aww, Markie poo. Did she break your heart?” Giselle pouts performatively.
“Tsk.” Mark kisses his teeth in annoyance, adamantly refusing to succumb to her mocking, as he resumes his quick steps. Giselle, of course, unfortunately for him, isn’t one to let things go. So she matches his pace.
“Oh, come on. I’m just playing-
“Wait. So, if you’re, like, friends,” Mark abruptly turns, index accusingly pointing at her, his steps coming to a halt again and Giselle exhales in relief. “How come you’ve never mentioned her?”
“I literally met her a month ago. She was on a year abroad last year.” Ah. Well, that certainly explains a lot.
“Damn, that’s cool.” He utters in surprise, as though he was hoping you were some kind of loser who was hiding out in a library. Meanwhile, you were out in god knows what country, doing god knows what and god knows who.
“Damn, you falling back in love already?” Giselle coos annoyingly and Mark starts walking again, dismissive of her teasing. “Wait! I’m sorry! At least tell me if the sex was good. Oh my god, is she like the best you’ve ever had? Is that why you’re hung up on her?”
“You’re a nuisance.” He mutters grumpily.
“Awh, really? I mean I could invite her to Chenle’s on Saturday but if I’m such a nuisance then I guess I won’t bother-
“Wait. Actually?” Mark’s head snaps toward his friend a lot quicker than he can comprehend, sounding too hopeful and probably a little pathetic, and Giselle’s sinister grin makes him realise his slip up.
Damn it.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Mark’s patience started to waver about two days ago. Now it’s close to non-existent.
There’s no way you’re not toying with him. You’re everywhere. Wherever he goes. The library? Tick. The park? Tick. The main building cafeteria? Tick. The psychology building cafeteria? Tick. His favourite café? Tick.
How can someone go from not existing to occupying every corner of this plane earth?
He’d gotten accustomed to not worrying about bumping into you, but now he’s always wary. Always alert. He’s even started putting more effort in his outfits, just in case you see him. Even though, he’s pretty sure you never notice him. At least not like he notices you.
And however wary he is, he still feels taken aback each time he comes across your presence.
And now, Mark is annoyed. Because he simply can’t enjoy his Saturday night like he always does.
He can’t get absolutely plastered with his friends like he always does to forget about deadlines and assignments. Because what if you’re here, at this very party? Yeah, Giselle did invite you and of course, you gave a very vague response — something along the lines of ‘yeah, that sounds like fun’ — and of course, you’re allowed to do as you please, but what if you turn up out of nowhere while Mark is blackout drunk? What if he embarrasses himself in front of you? Or worse, what if his big gob utters something stupid? God forbid.
And so, he takes it easy tonight. Small sips. Slowly consuming whatever his cup contains. He thinks it’s vodka with some kind of tropical mixer. Not really his cup of tea, but he settled anyway.
“What sort of pace is this?” Chenle asks, sounding almost offended.
“Huh?” Mark looks up from his cup, one hand swirling the liquid in his cup, the other splayed on the back of the sofa behind Chenle’s shoulders.
“Your drinking pace is embarrassing.” The younger boy explains. “We got no practice on Monday, so the whole two-day hangover excuse ain’t gonna save you this time.”
“I got other commitments too, you know.” Mark side eyes his friend. “Basketball isn’t my only worry, I’m in final year.”
“Blah blah blah. Don’t give me that shit, you’re acing all your exams. Pretty sure you’re on for a first class.” Chenle babbles loudly, definitely tipsy by now and Mark can’t help but wrap his arm around his friend’s shoulders, playfully trapping him in a headlock. Chenle doesn’t even fight him off, comfortably resting his head on Mark’s shoulder.
“Since when do you worry so much about me, huh?” Mark teases, squeezing Chenle into his side.
“Since when are you so affectionate?” Chenle questions suspiciously.
“I thought you said being a little gay for your bros is acceptable.” Mark defends, referring to the time they spooned while having a drunk, deep meaningful conversation about their childhood trauma and then fell asleep.
“Don’t remind me. I’ll get hard.”
“Get off me.” Mark shoves a giggling Chenle away, squishing him against a random girl sat next to them. And just like that, in the midst of apologising, Chenle’s already compromised attention span works in Mark’s favour, because a few minutes later, the younger boy is entrapped in a flirty conversation with the girl that laughs a little too loud at his bad jokes.
Thankfully, Mark’s gaze catches Giselle’s, who’s stood by the kitchen counter. She excitedly waves him over, holding a shot of clear liquid in each hand and he can’t help but scrunch his nose in disgust. The tilt of her head along with the disappointed expression on her face does enough to convince him.
Fuck it. One shot won’t hurt. He’s a big boy.
He spills a bit of his drink as he squeezes through the swamp of people that occupies the living room. Pitbull blares through the speakers and Mark realises that shot is definitely needed. He’s too sober for this chaos, so he rushes for the kitchen.
“Honestly, how the fuck does Chenle get girls so-
Mark is pretty sure the colour drains from his face the second he steps in the kitchen vicinity. There you are. Again. Like his fucking shadow. Haunting him. Only this time you’re mid-laugh, perched up on the counter, a filled shot glass in your hand and Mark realises that he’s walked right into Giselle’s trap.
“Hey, loser.” Giselle interrupts his trance, casually shoving the spare shot glass in his free hand. “Here. Do a shot with us.”
“Umm. Yeah, okay.” Mark doesn’t have the time to ponder his actions. As though he’s on autopilot, the second you and Giselle down your shots, he tips his head back, doing the same. He doesn’t even flinch at the burn, probably in need of it and the second his eyes land on yours, Giselle starts violently coughing.
“Jesus.” He mutters, quickly grabbing an empty glass from the counter, filling it with tap water before passing it to his struggling friend. “Down it, you idiot.”
And Giselle starts doing just that, but before she can finish the contents of the glass, she’s covering her mouth in panic. Mark steps closer, and the second he touches her shoulder in concern, she’s running out of the kitchen and down the hallway where the bathroom is.
Fucking brilliant.
“Do you think she needs help?” Your voice penetrates his ears, urging him to turn around and face you. As always, taken aback by your presence.
“I- um- nah. Nah don’t worry. She’ll be fine.” Mark tries to sound reassuring, but his voice has a slight tremble to it. Get a grip, dude.
“I can go check up on her if-
“Honestly, she’ll be fine. The woman can never stomach shots. Trust me.” His words are rushed. Partly because he’s telling the truth, and partly because he refuses to miss the opportunity of whatever this is.
“Are you two together then?”
“What? No.” He shakes his head so fast his neck slightly cramps. “No, we’re not. Just friends. We live together.”
He relaxes a little when you nod. A tight lipped smile adorns your pretty face and for the first time in what feels like forever, Mark finally gets the chance to take you in.
Here you are, again. Right in front of him. So close. Looking at him. As pretty as he remembers you. Albeit looking different in a way, still carrying the same calm aura.
“What?” You ask softly, smile a little lopsided.
“Nothing. Just — don’t worry.” He shakes his head again, eyes drifting down to his hands, twirling his drink in his cup again to distract himself from his fast heartbeat. “It’s weird.”
“I like weird.” You’re still smiling when he meets your eyes again.
His eyebrows raise a little when you pat the spot next to you, silently asking him to join you on the counter as more people crowd the kitchen.
His shoulder brushes yours briefly when he hoists himself up, the warmth hard to miss. He does his best to steady his breathing but feels like he’s miserably falling when he breathes in your sweet perfume. “I dunno. Just weird seeing you. Feels like I’m seeing a ghost. Kind of.”
God, that sounds so lame. He almost winces in pain.
“Wait, how do we know each other again? I know we do, but I’m having trouble placing you.” You say in genuine wonderment and Mark feels his heart drop to his stomach. He miserably prays that you’re playing a horrible prank on him, but your perplexed eyes tell him otherwise.
“You don’t re- we- um- freshers week? C’mon. Surely you remember.” He tries subtly, hoping he won’t have to spell it out for you.
You shake your head in denial. “I honestly have no clue what you’re on about.”
Fuck. You have actually forgotten. Were you that drunk or was that night so insignificant to you?
This is fucking horrifying. A nightmare he's hoping he can wake up from. “Yo, seriously?”
“Remind me?” You suggest lightheartedly, with the most innocent smile. “I have the worst memory, I’m sorry.”
What the actual fuck.
“Wha- you actually don’t remember? Like no recollection whatsoever?” He checks one more time, hating that he sounds so desperate. He really finds it hard to believe that you’ve forgotten a night he remembers so vividly. A night he often has to lock up in the back of his mind.
You snort, a short laugh escaping as your face shows nothing but amusement. “You’re really gullible, you know.”
Jail. You belong in jail for that. He’s suing you for emotional damage.
He scoffs loudly, hating that he almost fell for it.
You laugh a little louder this time and he can’t help the little smile that curls on his lips. “You fucking- are you having me on?”
“Sorry, it was just too easy.”
“Dude.” He whines, hiding his face in his hands. “That is actually vile behaviour. You’re going to hell.”
“For being too funny?” Your comical expression would have normally pissed him off if you weren’t this captivating.
He doesn’t have a comeback. He just stares straight ahead, jaw clenching to retain a smile, hands struggling not to squish the plastic cup in them and he almost flinches when your foot kicks his. Intentional, playful, soft as ever.
“Of course, I remember.” Your gaze burning his side profile is so difficult to ignore. So he succumbs. Head turning to face you, eyes finding yours. “Kinda hard to forget.”
“Really? That bad?” He jokes, although, he’s worried he might be right.
You breathe out a cute laugh, eyes dropping to your fumbling hands, fingers playing with the rip on your jeans. “I’m not insulting your performance, Mark Lee.”
He’s positive he’s blushing. His face and neck feel hot, hands are sweating and he’s very aware of your proximity. The music is loud enough for you to lean closer to speak.
“What are you insulting then?”
“I could be praising you know.” You side eye him for a reaction he refuses to offer. “Unless you’re not into that anymore.”
He can’t help the shocked laugh that escapes his throat. How can someone be so forward? Bringing up a kink of his you clocked back then? Outrageous. Uncalled for. And honestly? Kind of sexy.
“Well, this is embarrassing.” Mark nervously downs the remainder of his drink in a big gulp at a failed attempt to cool down as he’s pretty sure steam is coming out of his ears that don’t fail to pick up at the loud snort you let out.
“See? I remember a lot more than you think.” You tap your temple with your index finger. A harmless gesture, which Mark finds inexplicably attractive.
“Why hard to forget?” He redirects the subject, refusing to have a nervous breakdown before he finds out what’s important.
You seem skeptical, as though you’re assessing your words before you utter them and Mark’s nerves resurface. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you now.”
“What?” He presses impatiently.
Did he get you pregnant or something? Oh god, is that why you disappeared? Does he currently have a two-year old child running about?
“Okay, don’t make it a big deal.”
“Shit. Do I have a kid?” He accidentally thinks out loud.
“What? No, Mark, what the- no!” Your loud laugh helps him relax a little and he can’t help but notice the way you lightly shove him by the shoulder as you throw your head back. At least one of you is amused. “I was just gonna say— that it was my first time.”
Oh.
OH.
“Huh?” It comes out louder than intended. He can’t help it. You’re definitely lying. “As in you never— before that?“
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Shit.” He can feel his eyes widening to the max as he looks around in shock. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” You’re clearly holding back a laugh and Mark feels like he desperately needs air. Or a whole bottle of vodka. Yeah, that would do.
“I don’t know.” He panics. “I just— I mean, your first time is— you know, important. It should mean something. No?”
You narrow your eyes at him for a second and Mark decides he’s going to die. Here, tonight, in Chenle’s fancy kitchen. “First of all. That couldn’t be more of a stereotype. Second of all. Who said it didn’t mean anything?”
“I mean, it was pretty obvious it didn’t.” The words roll out like waterfall.
“What?”
“How much could it have meant if you just…left?” That seems to shut you up, your eyes wider than before, mouth slightly open. “Without a word.” He adds. He had to say it. After all this time, he finally gets to complain about something that bothered him long enough and he feels relief. A weight lifted off his shoulders.
He expects you to argue. To defend yourself, and the little nod you give, somewhat shocks him.
“Fair point.” Your attention returns to the rip on your thigh, your fingers pulling at the loose threads.
“I didn’t do anything weird, right? Like, I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable in any way, or…?” He can’t help but worry that maybe it was all too much for you, considering you hadn’t been with anyone else prior to that. Maybe that’s why you quietly escaped in the morning?
“No. Not at all.” You quickly shake your head with a sweet smile. “If anything, I don’t think it could have been any better.”
Mark feels relief wash over him, his limbs instantly relaxing. He nods with a satisfied pout on his face but inside he’s proudly gloating.
“Well, I’m glad I—ummm, you know.” He realises that whatever he’s about to say, could easily be misconstrued.
“You’re glad you took my v-card?” You ask with an amused frown and he can’t help but roll his eyes. Mostly at his stupidity, but also at your relentless teasing.
“No.” He gives you a pointed look. “Just glad I didn’t ruin it for you.”
Your fond smile makes him feel warm. In a good way this time.
“Can I ask you something?” He blurts out, curiosity getting the better of him. You simply give him a small nod as you take a small sip of your drink. “How come you didn’t say anything? Not that you had to obviously. I just feel like I would have been more careful if you had.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t.” Your purse your lips in thought. “I would have. But, with you, I figured it was unnecessary.”
“Oh, sorry, was I a little too vanilla for you?” He complains sarcastically.
“I’m not gonna give you feedback.” You retort with a grin and Mark swears your cheeks weren’t as flushed a minute ago.
“I didn’t ask you to.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.
It could be his delusion, but Mark feels tension brewing, and he wonders if it’s just him. Maybe it’s the alcohol finally catching up to him, but your silence betrays something he can’t quite decipher.
“Was it not obvious then?” You interrupt his inner thoughts, the question simple, easy to answer, but Mark’s brain short circuits for a moment.
“I mean, I wasn’t that experienced myself.” He clears his throat once. “I just thought we were both shy. Clearly that’s not the case for you anymore.”
“That a problem?”
“Nah. It’s been what? Two years? And you’ve spent a year in a foreign country. I’d be surprised if you were the exact same person.” He explains and he circles the rim of his cup slowly, suddenly a little bashful, but content at the same time.
“What about you? You think you’re still shy?” You slowly reach over, hand gently wrapping around his wrist gently before you bring his hand to your lap. Mark is about to question your actions but your fingers delicately untying the knot of his bracelet make him hold back his protest.
“At times.” He responds as he watches you fix the knot carefully.
And when you’re done and he’s about to remove his hand, your hold tightens, preventing him. His breathing stutters and so does his pulse. The heat of your skin on his, too much for him to handle, but he still obliges, letting his hand rest limp on your thigh, palm facing up, unable to properly touch you, but still enough for his brain to remember things. To remember how he touched you that night. How you touched him.
“What about now? Feeling shy?” You don’t meet his gaze when he looks at you, your eyes still on his hand as your thumb traces his pulse point. Goosebumps litter his skin, the tiny twitch of your lips telling him you’ve noticed.
“I don’t know. Do I seem shy?” Answering with a question is the only way his brain can muster.
“Hmm.” You finally eye him, carefully inspecting his face, and he feels exposed. “Maybe a little. I kinda think that’s part of your charm, though.”
His eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. “My charm?”
“Mhm.”
“You think I’m charming?” He can’t conceal the stupid smile that erupts on his face. Weak man. Maybe he does have a praise kink.
“You managed to get me in your bed. I’m not that easy.” You say with a casual shrug. Too casual. And Mark has to look away. If he could, he’d run away, but your damn hand is still wrapped around his arm, locking him down. It’s your fault he can’t escape and definitely not the fact that he doesn’t want to ever pull away from your touch.
“Dude, are you, like, flirting with m—“
“Do you wanna come back to mine?” Again, you’re too casual. No ounce of hesitation, just plain expectation.
“Now?” It’s the only word he can come up with.
“I mean, at some point tonight would be ideal, yes.” Your smirk irritates him. He wants to kiss it off your face. Maybe he can if he agrees to go back with you.
Should he?
“You want me to fuck you again?” He only realises he’s said the lewd words out loud by the widening of your eyes. Why does he always end up putting his foot in his mouth?
“To put it plainly, yeah, I guess I want you to fuck me again.” You say with the most demure smile.
The contrast scares him. You scare him. He should have been wise and ran for the hills the second he laid eyes on you two years ago.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He rushes to apologise but you cut him off with a squeeze around his wrist.
“Yay or nay?” You ask, a hint of impatience in your tone that makes Mark bite his lip to hide a smile. You’ve got one eyebrow raised, expression almost offended at the delay in his reply.
He quickly hops off the counter, empty cup forgotten on the surface, the skin on the arm you were touching only seconds ago, already tingling. But he’s made his decision.
You seem taken aback, the crease between your eyebrows betraying your confusion. And if Mark were to take a guess, he could say there’s a trace of disappointment in your eyes.
You’re about to hop off the counter when he cages you in. Almost in panic at the thought of you walking away from him. Your ass is on the edge of the surface and he can’t help but smile at the way you quickly grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself.
“Where you off to?” He asks quietly, only for you to hear. His hands settling on each side on you on the counter as he steps closer.
“Nowhere.” You match his tone, legs parting, allowing him to take up the space between them as your hands trail down to his chest. Your touch soft on his jumper, but he can still feel the weight of it.
He’s positive you can feel his insane heart trying to jump out of his rib cage. He doesn’t mind. Not when he gets to have you this close and feel the heat radiating off your body.
“Do you think about it?” His voice comes out in a whisper but he knows you hear him. “That night?”
“Sometimes.” You admit. Eyes anywhere but on his; avoidant.
“Are you embarrassed?” He leans down a little, levelling with you and you smile bashfully as you finally meet his gaze.
“More like flustered.” Your hands travel down to his stomach as your knees squeeze him in and he moves even closer, his torso flush against yours.
“Tell me. What do you think about?” He whispers, his lips brushing against the bridge of your nose as your hands slowly slide lower, until your fingers hook into his belt loops.
“Not here.” Your breath hits his chin and he desperately wants to lean in, but he refrains, enjoying your squirming a little too much.
“Why not?” He tilts his head, your lips just millimetres away. His hands decide to move on their own, finding their way to your waist as you inhale deeply. “Whatever it is, I’ve probably already thought about it.”
Your cocky expression annoys him. “Do I often occupy your mind?”
“You used to.” He admits openly as he delicately strokes along your ribs, thumbs smoothing over the undersides of your bra, your thin top making the touch more intense.
You smile smugly as you let your fingers slip under the hem of his hoodie, finding the bare skin of his lower abdomen and he hates that the simplest of touches affects him so much. It’s all effortless. Just a trace of a finger has him weak in the knees, his breath unstable, lips aching to be on yours.
“Mark?” You lean closer, your forehead dropping on his shoulder as you exhale a trembling breath.
“Hm?” He traces his knuckles up and down your spine, his other hand splaying on your lower back, where your skin is uncovered.
“I’m so wet right now, it’s fucking embarrassing.”
“Jesus.” He whispers, lips touching your ear and he feels your shudder as his hand slithers in your hair, lightly tugging to get you to look at him.
Your hands clutch at his belt, not really initiating anything, just holding. It’s enough for his blood to rush where it shouldn’t, heart pounding. Your hooded eyes don’t help either, and if it weren’t for the people occupying the kitchen, he’d be bending you over this counter right this second. The scandalous thought very unlike him.
“There’s a spare room here. I stay in it sometimes after basketball practice.” He suggests carefully, not really possessing the patience to go back to either of your apartments. Fuck being in an uber with a hard on.
You seem skeptical for a moment. “You ever fucked anyone in it?”
“No.” He answers quickly. “I don’t really do one ni—“
“Okay, yeah.” You nod, teeth trapping your bottom lip as you not-so-subtly stare at his mouth.
He knows what you want. He wants the same thing. But when he kisses you, it’s going to be private. No people staring or interrupting.
So he pulls away. Your shaky exhale makes him smile proudly. He made you nervous.
“Come.” He takes your hand in his when you’re back on your feet and he feels giddy at how easily you comply, how you follow him, naturally clinging onto his arm as he guides you through the crowd.
You squeeze on his bicep with the hand that’s not in his to get his attention and he slightly leans down to hear you over the music. You point your chin over to the occupied sofa, cheeky smile taking over your face as you take in the sight of a perfectly healthy Giselle, laughing her lungs out at something Chenle is so passionately rambling on about.
Mark shakes his head with a smile, but mentally makes a note to later grill his friend about the totally fake throwing up incident. He doesn’t even say anything, just keeps walking down the hallway, where both bedrooms are.
When you both enter the neat spare room, he shuts the door behind him and sighs at the loud crowd and music becoming nothing but a background noise.
“Is this Chenle guy rich or something?” You ask curiously as you look around, inspecting the spacious room.
Mark lets out a quick laugh, eyes following you around, observing you. “Yeah. His parents are loaded. Pretty sure his dad owns this whole building.”
You nod with an approving pout and all Mark can think is how adorable you look as you fumble with the bedside lamp, trying to figure out how it works. The second it illuminates, you let out an exaggerated gasp, your eyes widening and Mark doesn’t know what takes over him but he flicks the main lights off, surprising both of you.
He leans back on the door, resting his weight there, hands at the small of his back as he patiently waits for your next move.
“Smooth.” You comment with a small grin as you place the small lamp back in its spot.
He just shrugs, mirroring your expression as you slowly retrace your steps, walking back towards him. It’s difficult for him not to blush as you get closer and closer; his heart threatening to beat out of his chest again and again and he awkwardly lifts a hand to rub against his jawline. His eyes rake over you unintentionally, taking in the outfit you’ve got on tonight. It’s simple; an off-shoulder crop top and light-washed baggy jeans. Pretty. Easy to remove.
He feels hot at the thought of undressing you. What if he’s too clumsy? What if your earrings get tangled in your top? What if he accidentally pulls your hair?
“Are you just gonna stand there?” You speak tentatively, as though you’re enjoying the silence. You seem a lot more composed and calm than him. Not like someone who not too long ago uttered the words ‘I’m so wet right now. It’s fucking embarrassing’, but then again, maybe you’re always like this. Fluctuating.
“Where do you want me?” He asks, not intending for the words to sound sexual, but somehow, they do, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Composure slowly slipping away.
“To be honest, you look pretty good just like this” You halt in front of him, but still out of reach. “But for tonight’s purposes, ideally, I’d want you on the bed.” Fuck. “Unless you have any other ideas.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Dude.” He exhales a pained augh, hand covering his eyes in frustration. You simply just giggle at his misery.
Without him seeing, your hands are suddenly on him; one touching his chest, the other peeling his hand away from his face, forcing him to look at you. And he’s definitely not complaining. Before he has time to take in your pretty face, your palm is engulfing the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level.
He’s not sure who finally closes the gap, his mind too occupied with the softness of your lips and the way they slot with his. So effortlessly. Deja vu is inevitable when your arms wrap around his neck, holding him closer, and his limbs suddenly come back to life; the sliver of skin between your top and jeans so soft under his touch and so are your hands trailing from his hair down to the sides of his neck.
The kiss is slow, sensual, almost romantic and the little noise of satisfaction you let out goes straight to his already hardening cock. The way you kiss him, contrasts the demeanour you've held up until now. You’re going along with the pace he sets. You’re not leading and he wonders if it’s deliberate. Can he just do however he pleases with you or will you eventually take the upper hand?
He decides it’s worth a try by slipping a hand into your hair, tilting your head to the side so he can easily slip his tongue into your eager mouth and he’s rewarded with a low moan of yours, your lips parting for him, allowing him to taste you properly as you lazily glide your tongue with his.
He moves on autopilot, slowly walking you backwards. One hand still in your hair, the other hovering above your ass, keeping you close.
“Shoes—mph—off.” He mumbles against your lips before you obscenely lick into his mouth and he can’t hold back the grunt that escapes his throat.
It all becomes messy so quickly. His hands clumsily unbutton your jeans as you rush to kick your shoes off without breaking the kiss, both of you gasping and laughing as you stumble over your feet. You’ve somehow managed to turn the situation around and he only realises when the backs of his knees hit the mattress.
His back hits the covers with a push from you and within seconds, you’re straddling his thighs; bare legs on either side of him as you go back to kissing him. He surprises himself with the noise he lets out when both his hands grope your ass. Not just because it’s your ass he’s touching, but mainly because of the lack of underwear, and he’d love to comment on your hastiness but at this point he doesn’t really care. As long as he’s got you naked and in bed, he’s a content man.
“Take your top off.” He instructs in a whisper, and you oblige without a question, sitting up in a heartbeat and removing the last piece of clothing you’ve got on. No bra underneath and he mentally thanks the heavens. “Fuck.”
His hands caress your thighs absentmindedly as he takes in the sight above him. There’s something about the fact that you’re fully naked, while he’s not removed a single article of clothing. And you’re not rushing him either, patiently letting him enjoy the view, hands on his chest, ass directly above the very prominent bulge in his jeans. You seem comfortable in your nakedness and that turns him on even more, cock twitching in its confines.
“C’mon. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” Your voice is sultry, patience clearly wearing thin as his hands remain on your thighs and he abruptly sits up, crashing his mouth onto yours. One hand holds the back of your neck as the other slips between your bodies, shamelessly cupping your entire pussy, the heel of his palm rubbing against your undeniably swollen clit.
“Fuck, you’re…” He’s not able to form a complete sentence, interrupted by the loud moan you let out against his lips.
“I told you. It’s embarrassing.” Your fingers thread in his hair, desperately pulling, driving him insane.
“It’s fucking hot.” He’s corrects, completely enamoured with the way your body responds to him. You’re literally grinding on his hand, seeking relief, kissing him like a starved woman, spit coating both of your lips as he sucks on your tongue, earning a cute whine from you.
“Feel like I’m dripping on your jeans.” You complain, breathing harshly as the pads of his fingers slide between your drenched folds, spreading your arousal, making a mess between your legs.
“Cause you are.” He whispers with a smug grin.
He purposely avoids your clit, in the mood to tease you as his lips drag from your jaw down to the base of your neck. His tongue makes contact with your sweaty skin, tasting salt, your scent engulfing him as his hold on your hair tightens, pulling your head back to gain full access to your sensitive skin.
“Please, I really need you to fuck me.” You murmur weakly, the hoarseness of your voice causing his heart to quicken and his cock to throb painfully.
He’s so fucked. Beyond salvation. And you’re so fucking needy. But he doesn’t want to give into you just yet. It’s his turn to torment you a little.
“In a bit.” He dismisses your pleas with another suck on your neck, your crazy pulse delicious on his tongue.
“Mark—“
“Shh. You can wait a little longer.” Two of his fingers tease your entrance, slowly circling, dipping shallowly before slipping out and repeating the action.
He almost feels bad when your body starts trembling, so he snakes his arm around your middle, holding you as close as possible. Your messy kisses on his neck are cut short the second his fingers ease into you, following the curve of your cunt until they’re knuckles-deep. And when he curls them slightly, your walls tighten and so do your arms around his neck, face burying in his neck as he starts to slowly pump in and out, making sure to repeatedly hit that spot that made you tremble.
“This feel good?” He whispers against your shoulder, arm tightening around you, the pads of his fingers almost reaching your side boob.
“Yeah.” You sigh, sounding wrecked already and that urges him to quicken the pace. He starts jackhammering his fingers into you, cunt greedily sucking them inside, your slick dripping down his wrist, smearing on his jeans and the sleeve of his jumper. The filthy thought of never washing his clothes again crosses his unhinged mind.
You’re both sweating unimaginably, and now he wishes he’d at least taken a layer off, but he pays no mind to that as your body tenses. “You close?”
“Yeah. Don't stop.” Your nails dig into the skin of his nape, most likely leaving crescent moons and he desperately needs you to come before he combusts in his trousers.
He starts slamming the heel of his hand into your clit, making sure you’re being stimulated to the max and your whiny exhale reassures him. “Cum.”
And you do. Body tensing up for a moment before you start trembling against him, the secure arm around you helping you stay upright as you gasp for air.
“Oh my god.” Your hips buck up, pussy spasming violently around his fingers as he fucks you through it all.
“You’re okay.” His knuckles caressing your spine, attempting to calm you down as your body gradually goes limp on him.
“I think I just saw god.” You mumble half-conscious, causing Mark to let out a little laugh.
“Did you say hi?” He steals a little kiss off your cheek as he slowly pulls his fingers out. Your shudder makes him smile fondly and he lets his fingers lazily caress your slit, before they gently circle your swollen bundle of nerves.
“You’ve definitely been in at least one relationship since l last saw you.” The statement catches him off guard, and he pulls back a little to look at you.
“What makes you say that?”
You blink lazily, sweat dripping down the sides of your face. “You found my g-spot. Real fucking quick as well.”
“I need a girlfriend for that?”
“Well, someone’s taught you.” Your smile is teasing and so is the light touch of your fingers on his jaw.
“Situationships, I guess. No girlfriend though.” He takes in your expression, heart beating a little quicker at your silence. “Red flag?”
You give him a sweet smile. “I just came. All your flags are bright green right now”
He mirrors your expression as he leans in, silently asking for a kiss, which you easily give, slowly dragging your swollen lips against his.
“Wanna keep going?” He speaks softly, praying for an affirmative response.
“Yes, please.”
He moans at your words, hands trailing up your sides until they’re cupping your tits, tongue sloppily licking into your mouth. The whine you let out as he pinches your nipples, spurs him on, and he squeezes the supple flesh a little harder.
“Can I just fuck you? Please? I promise I’ll go down on you later.” The begging tone his voice carries almost makes him cringe. Pitiful.
You let out a yelp when he flips you over, your back on the mattress now, and he can’t help but notice the way your tits bounce a little as well as the slippery mess between your spread thighs.
“Yeah, no more foreplay.” You sit up as he stands between your legs that hang off the edge of the bed. “And take that stupid jumper off right now.”
He chuckles lightly at your frustration but obliges anyway. His jumper and t-shirt are off in one go and he quickly kicks his shoes off as you start unbuckling his belt, lust-clouded eyes gazing up at him.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He rasps as his hands join yours, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping.
“Like what?” Your seductive tone clouds his head and the kisses you start leaving down his happy trail make his hands shake.
You don’t give him time to answer, immediately shoving both his boxers along with his trousers down, deeming him incapable of thinking properly. Your warm exhale hits him straight where it hurts, his throbbing length twitching the second you wrap a hand around the base.
“Get on your all fours.” He instructs, tone purposely devoid of any warmth. He’s had enough of your games now. But still, his hands engulf each side of your face, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks. “Or I just cum on your face and we call it a night. Up to you.”
Your smirk is sinister as you scoot up the bed until your head hits the pillows and you swiftly turn on your front, knees spread wide, supporting your lower half as you arch your back like a pro, tits squishing against the mattress.
“Holy shit.” He exhales in awe.
You’re on full display. Ass up in the air, cunt staring right through his soul, inviting him in, and who is he to decline such an invite? As though the mental breakdown he’s experiencing isn’t enough, you shamelessly slip a hand between your legs, two fingers sliding through your dripping folds.
“Markie, please. It hurts.” You briefly look over your shoulder with a performative pout, shamelessly putting on a show for him.
“What the fuck.” He’s lost for words, standing there butt naked, staring at your fingers circling your clit before they slowly trail up, catching at your clenching hole and easily slipping in.
You’re an evil evil woman. He decides right there and then. And the moment you start fucking yourself, he sees red, any resolve left, completely forgotten.
He’s on his knees behind you within seconds. Hand ripping your fingers away before shoving your face against the pillows by the back go your head. His cock slips inside easily, walls vacuuming him in and he doesn’t wait for you to adjust; his free hand grabbing your waist as he starts slamming into you.
“You’re fucking filthy, you know that?” He grunts through your high pitched moaning. “Been torturing me since day one.”
Your muffled voice sounds like a song he’s been trying to find for a long time and he’s finally succeeded.
“M—markie,” You sound like you’re crying and he loves it. “Fuck, it's so good.”
“Shut up.” His thrusts become more intense, balls harshly slapping against your pussy, the wet sounds of your walls suctioning around him each time he pulls out, sending him into a frenzy. “I bet this is what you wanted—fuck—to piss me off. Huh?”
“N-no — I just wanted you.” You mumble in your delirious state, and of course, it goes straight to his head.
His eyes focus on the way his cock slips in and out of your sopping hole. A white ring of slick has already formed at his base and he’s afraid he might finish sooner than expected.
So he buries himself to the hilt to take a much needed moment. His head dips back in ecstasy, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he tries his best to compose himself and when he looks back down, your droopy eyes are already on him, neck twisted as you stare over your shoulder, face half-hidden.
You look nothing short of ethereal. Your skin glowing in sweat, back still arched beautifully, eyes glistening with want and unshed tears as they roll back briefly the second Mark experimentally grinds a little too deep.
“Mark?” Your voice is broken, his name sounding like a prayer.
“Hm?” He leans down, nose nuzzling against yous jaw as he keeps grinding his hips slowly, relishing in the mewls you let out.
“Want you close.” You whisper into the pillow, a little whimper adorning the end of your sentence. Your desperation breaks him.
“I’m here.” He reassures you with a sweet kiss on your cheek. “D’you wanna change positions?”
Your tiny nod pulls at his heartstrings in a way that’s foreign to him. He’s always been gentle by nature, soft spoken, sensitive. But this is untouched territory.
“Alright,” He leaves a kiss on your shoulder as he pulls out. Gentle hand patting your thigh. "C’mon, turn around."
With rushed movements, you eagerly flop on your back and his hips find home between your parted legs, the soft skin of your inner thighs dragging against his sides, making him shudder as he slowly slips back into you with a choked moan.
“You can still be rough. Just wanted to touch you.” You admit bashfully, eyes blinking up at him, eyebrows tensing as he bottoms out with a loud squelch.
Your hand delicately brushes the hair off his drenched forehead, your fingers threading through the strands and the clenching and unclenching of your velvety walls cause his eyes to flutter closed —the intense feeling of contentment clogging his brain up.
It’s unholy. The effect you have on him. It’s fucked. It makes no sense to him. He barely knows you, yet he welcomes everything you give him. Gives into everything you ask for, like it’s some sort of ritual. Something predetermined. A done deal with the universe. Like he’d burn in hell if he resisted.
“Do you actually want me to be rough?” He searches your face for a sign, but he only finds conflict.
“I dunno. I’m confused.”
“About what?” He carefully settles his weight on top of you, arm by your head, free hand caressing your ribs delicately, barely cupping the underside of your breast.
“I um—I liked it just now. How you were. But I kind of just—“ You sigh in frustration, hips slowly raising for some friction.
“Want it slow?” He matches your rhythm, grinding into you, going as deep as he can as he awaits for a verbal response. He doesn’t need it. Your bent legs spreading even further is enough confirmation, but he wants to hear it anyway. “You know I don’t mind vanilla.”
His joke lands. Your breathy laugh, hard to ignore as it hits warm on his shoulder.
“Don’t make jokes right now.” You scold with a little whine.
“Why not?” He gives you a chaste kiss before setting a slow pace; deep languid thrusts, his fingers fisting the pillow by your head as he tries to hold back from giving into the sensation of your warm, gummy walls enveloping his sensitive cock.
“You’re literally balls deep inside me.” Your hands pull his face closer, connecting your lips again, small pants mingling as you kiss him as slow as he’s fucking you.
“Whatever.” He mumbles dreamily in your mouth, palm finally engulfing your boob, gently squeezing the soft flesh and he involuntarily delivers a harsher thrust. “Shit, sorry.”
It’s not his fault. Your pussy tightening every time he does something new, has him reeling, losing the little control he’s got over his actions.
“No, keep going, it feels good.” You kiss him harder, holding both of his cheeks desperately as he quickens his movements a little, hips lightly slapping against yours, the lewd, squelching sounds of sex, loud enough to echo alongside your wet kisses and intense breathing. “Fuck—Mark—you—oh shit—right there.”
“Yeah?” He pants, unrestrained.
It’s pathetic. Beyond pitiful how your incoherent but praiseful words turn him into a whiny mess. He feels dizzy, and he’s pretty sure he’s drooling on your lips as his jaw goes slack, tongue slipping out a tiny bit, attempting to taste you in the hazy mess. His eyes roll back in raw bliss as your nails scratch down his back, arms trembling on either side of your head.
He feels helpless.
Your legs lock around his hips, only allowing him to pull a tiny fraction of his cock out before thrusting back in; quick short pumps seeming to do the trick for you both.
“Shit. You gonna cum?” He asks in awe. Your suffocating walls and trembling breaths a clear sign, but he still asks, needing to hear you as he looks down, taking in your flushed body. Your bouncing tits, a sight for sore eyes.
“Mhm.” You nod quickly, eyebrows tensing in a cute frown before your face nestles in his shoulder, your hot breath hitting his damp skin as he starts scattering a dewy mess of kisses up and down your neck. “Oh my god, I'm-”
“I know, I know.” He gasps as he puts extra effort in keeping up the same rhythm as your cunt squeezes him, his impending orgasm clouding his brain.
You go completely quiet for a few moments, before becoming a trembling mess beneath him and he knows you’ve reached your peak. He relentlessly pushes past the tight grip your walls have around him, desperate to keep your pleasure going as he starts fucking you harder through it, the cry you let out against his shoulder, a reward to his efforts.
“Shit—I’m close.” He feels lightheaded, breathing laboured as he tries to hold on for a little longer.
“You have to pull out.” You utter in panic, a thread of sensibility still holding onto one of you at least.
“Yeah, I will.” He rasps, hand grabbing onto your thigh, fingers digging. “If you fucking let me.”
“Shit, sorry.” You mumble in realisation.
You quickly unwrap your legs from his waist, the tremble in them still noticeable as he sits up a little, delivering three more stuttering pumps before dragging his sensitive cock out with a grunt, his release immediately spilling all over your pussy, a spurt landing on your inner thigh, a few on your tummy, while some of it drips on the comforter. He pumps himself empty, until he’s got nothing more to give.
You hold him close when he collapses on top of you with a tired huff, not even caring about the mess between your bodies.
It’s quiet for a few moments. Just muffled music and heavy breathing. Just your hands combing through his damp hair. Just his cheek squished up against your chest. Just his fingers tracing random patterns on your ribcage.
It’s only when his index accidentally brushes against your sensitive nipple that you whine, breaking the silence and causing him to breathe out a small laugh.
“My bad.”
“You’re good.” You pet his head gently. “Dude.”
He snorts at your mocking tone. A little surprised at how not awkward this feels.
“My guy.” He says casually, still a little out of breath, but joining the silly joking session regardless, and your chest vibrates under him in a giggle that makes him feel giddy.
“You got a really peachy ass you know.” Your unexpected comment makes him raise his head to look at you in question.
“Thanks, I guess?” His eyebrows furrow in a funny expression as his hand sneaks beneath your weight, playfully squeezing your asscheek, forcing a cute screech out of you. “I prefer yours.”
“Ah, of course. An ass man.” You state with a playful roll of your eyes. He likes it.
“Hmm, I dunno. I like your boobs just as much.” He drops his gaze to your chest in a very unsubtle manner. Intentional. An action which, of course, earns him whack in the head. “Yo, that hurt!”
“Stop being a guy.”
“I am a guy!”
“And for that, you’re suffering.” Your tone is sweet and so is your smile, but there’s an edge hidden.
“I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” He retorts, making sure to add some smugness in his voice, though, it’s become abundantly clear that you’re not one to back down. Your free hand sneaks down his back, nails harshly digging into the muscle of his ass, making him yelp in pain. “Ow! Watch it with the claws.”
“I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” You imitate his tone, mocking him.
“What kind of twisted way of flirting is this?” He hides his face between your boobs, nuzzling against the soft skin of your sternum as he allows his arms to circle around you, the gentle thump of your heart easing his nerves.
“Who says I’m flirting?”
Mark is aware of how oblivious he can be when it comes to girls, but he also knows a thing or two. And it’s the way your fingers scratch the back of his scalp soothingly that betrays you. Maybe even the goosebumps on your chest, just under the spot he kissed a few seconds ago. Or maybe it’s your legs tightening around him, holding him right where he wants to be. Could be the slight twitch of your hips under him as he moves to get more comfortable. Can it be the whimper you accidentally let slip when his lips start kissing across your chest?
“My bad, my bad.” He murmurs as he presses a wet smooch just millimetres off your clearly hardened nipple. “I must be losing the plot.” He continues, sarcasm intentional, and so is the light flick of his tongue against the erect bud. “You’re not flirting.” His words sound mindless, but he’s definitely aware of what he’s doing to you. And he’s loving your cute little squirms as his release from earlier smears between your lower halves. “You’re just being a brat, as per.”
“Don’t remember you being this annoying.” You complain breathlessly, back arching as you chase his tongue when he pulls back a little.
“Mm, things change.” He feels himself getting hard again, but he ignores it. He’s got other plans. Teasing you seems to have become his priority and you don’t seem to mind either. “I don’t remember you being this needy.”
“Fuck you.” There’s not an ounce of a malice laced with your tone.
A deep moan escapes your chest the second his lips wrap around your wet nipple, sucking lazily as his tongue licks obscenely. He releases it with a lewd pop before letting the tip of his wet muscle flick, forcing louder sounds out of you.
He hopes the remaining people in Chenle’s living room can hear you, discretion the last thing on his mind.
He lifts his body a little, creating space for his hand to slip between your legs. The wet mess even worse now, but perfect nonetheless, and he doesn’t hover this time. Two of his digits find your clit in no time, circling the same way his tongue circles your abused nipple. Slow. Gentle.
He can tell you’re still sensitive, overstimulated. But he wants more. Needs more. So he takes it. And you give it.
It’s sloppy, the mixture of both your essences making everything slippery and he feels the subtle pulse of your bud under the pads of his fingers as he rubs with a little more precision; your laboured breaths nothing but an encouragement. His mouth hangs open against your chest, lips dragging aimlessly, your skin covered in his spit and he can’t help but moan lowly when you tug at his hair a little too hard.
He really needs to feel you unravel again. The desire might as well be engraved in him by now.
“Can I go down on you?” He looks up, gauging your reaction and you’re nothing but hooded eyes and flushed cheeks.
“If you feel like tasting your own cum, go for it.” You respond casually, a lazy smirk forming on your lips.
“I’m an introvert, Y/N, not a fucking prude.” He mumbles carelessly as he descends kisses down your body, no hesitation behind his actions when he reaches parts painted in his release. He just licks it all up, like he’s done it a million times. And Mark realises he actually never has. Sure, he’s kissed girls right after they’ve given him head, but eating his own cum off someone’s skin is something he’s never explored before.
He greedily makes out with your pussy the second he settles between your thighs, tongue gliding gently up and down your slit, dipping a little when it reaches your entrance, your taste combined with his own, intoxicating him. The more he teases, the whinier you get.
You get so restless he has no choice but to wrap his arms around your thighs to hold you down — one hand splaying just above your pubic bone to ground you, the other just settling for your thigh — and when his fingers pull the hood of your clip up, just a tiny bit, revealing the cute but, he sucks. Hard. Then he flicks. Mercilessly. And he keeps interchanging between the two, letting your sounds guide him. Hard sucks and vigorous flicks just where you ache the most. He doesn’t need to do much more.
Within a few minutes—maybe two, maybe three—he feels the quaking of your legs, hears the intensifying cries, relishes in the hard tugs on his hair and when you’re cumming on his tongue, just like he wanted you to, he’s moaning with you, helping you ride the high for as long as possible.
“Fuck, s—stop.” You beg helplessly when it gets too much and he delivers one last kiss on your swollen bud before climbing up your body again.
Your tongue is in his mouth, tangling with his before he can process what’s just happened, arms wrapping securely around his neck, as though he would escape otherwise. You flagrantly lick in his mouth, tasting everything like you need it. And maybe you do. He doubts you need it as much as he does though.
You don’t seem to have a care in the world that his chin is smearing your combines fluids on yours. It’s dirty. Filthier than anything he’s ever experienced. And he feels corrupt. You simply have corrupted him. Ruined him without even trying, like it’s some daily routine of yours. And he’s gobbling it all up like a much needed fix.
He needs air. Needs to breathe. But all he seems to be able to do is kiss you again and again and again, until you release him.
“Do you think we’ll have to wash the bed covers?” You ask with a sincere look of curiosity, albeit out of breath.
It takes a second for the random question to register due to his hazy state, but when it does, Mark can’t help but let out a weak laugh.
“I think we might have to buy new ones.”
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
It takes you a second to realise why you feel so warm when you wake up. At first, you assume it’s the sun slipping through the curtains and hitting the skin of your back where the covers have fallen off.
But then you shift slightly. Your eyes flutter open, looking for the real source of heat.
Mark.
He’s on his side, facing you, his face tucked gently against your bare chest like he drifted there without thinking. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, heavy and warm, hand resting at the small of your back. Not gripping. Just there. Like holding you is something he does without effort — even unconscious. Like even in a deep slumber he’s decided you’re something to hold onto.
You stay still. Still taking it all in.
He looks unfair like this.
Sleep has softened every sharp edge he usually carries. His brows, normally expressive and quick to knit together, are smooth now. His lashes rest against his cheeks — longer than they have any right to be — casting faint shadows in the morning light. His lips are slightly parted, relaxed, the corners tilted just enough to make him look younger. Gentler.
Pretty.
The word slips into your mind before you can stop it.
There’s something almost innocent about him like this. No teasing smirk. No knowing glances. Just warm skin and steady breathing and a boy who trusted you enough to fall asleep pressed this close.
The faint stubble along his chin brushes against you when he shifts, softer than it looks. You trace it lightly with your fingertips, watching the way his mouth moves in response — a tiny unconscious reaction. His nose nudges closer, breath fanning against your skin. It tickles a little.
Your heart speeds up.
You hate that it does. Why would it?
You hate that it isn’t just physical. That it isn’t just leftover heat from last night. It’s something else. Something quieter and far more dangerous. It’s odd. The way your chest feels tight just looking at him. The way you’re memorising the exact shape of his lips, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek in the sunlight.
He’s too handsome first thing in the morning. Too warm. Too real.
Your pulse thuds harder than you’d like, and you swallow, trying to steady yourself.
This isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s too simple for it to feel like this. You’ve slept with the guy twice over the course of two years for crying out loud.
His fingers flex faintly on your skin, tightening for a brief second before settling again. Even asleep, he pulls you a fraction closer, like he’s afraid you might slip away. Just like you did last time.
Your heart betrays you again.
You brush his hair back gently, letting your fingers linger in the softness. He stirs at the touch, lashes fluttering before slowly lifting. His gaze is unfocused at first, hazy with sleep, and then it lands on you.
He freezes.
You watch awareness dawn in real time — the slight widening of his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. A faint flush creeps up his neck.
“Hi,” he murmurs, voice rough and small in the quiet room.
It’s so shy, it almost doesn’t sound like the guy from last night.
You don’t answer. You just keep looking at him, taking in the softness that hasn’t fully faded yet.
His lips press together briefly before he adds, quieter, almost unsure, “Still here?”
The way he says it makes something in you constrict.
Before you can respond, he ducks his face back into your chest, hiding like he regrets letting you see that vulnerable edge. His arm slides a little tighter around your waist, pulling you in closer. You feel the warmth of his cheek against you — and then, softly, almost absentmindedly, he presses a small kiss on the skin between your breasts before settling there again, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You should say something. Make a lighthearted comment. A joke. Something. Anything.
You don’t.
Instead, you tilt his face up gently, fingers brushing along his jaw. He looks startled for a split second, brows lifting slightly.
And then you do something that you shouldn’t feel that comfortable doing. You kiss him.
It’s soft. Slow. Not teasing. Just your lips pressing against his like you couldn’t not do it.
He makes the tiniest sound of surprise against your mouth — a quiet, breathy little noise that’s so embarrassingly cute. His hand flexes at your waist like he forgot what to do with it.
But he kisses you back.
Careful at first. Shy. Still waking up into it. Then a little surer, lips moving softly against yours, warm and unhurried.
When you pull back just enough to breathe, he’s looking at you differently. Still flushed. Still flustered.
Still holding you close.
“You can’t just do that,” he mumbles, even though his thumb is tracing absent patterns against your waist now.
And your heart, traitor that it is, keeps beating too fast.
“Do what?” you whisper back, close enough that your lips almost brush his when you speak.
He hesitates. You feel it — the flicker of nerves beneath the warmth. His gaze drops to your mouth like he’s debating something with himself.
It doesn’t take him too long to decide, it seems. His lips are on yours in not time again.
Not shy this time. Not startled.
Just slow. Sensual.
His hand tightens slightly at your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin as if to anchor himself. It all starts soft — just the gentle press of his lips to yours — but there’s intention behind it now. A quiet hunger that wasn’t there seconds ago.
You feel the shift immediately. The undeniable throbbing between your legs. Your breathing matching his quickened one.
His mouth moves more deliberately, head tilting to deepen the kiss, nose brushing lightly against your cheek as his tongue grazes your bottom lip, asking for permission you instantly give. Mouth parting for him without a thought, too excited to taste him. The faint rasp of his stubble grazes your skin when he adjusts closer, and you can’t help the small inhale that slips out of you.
He hears it, of course. You feel the corner of his mouth lift against yours before he kisses you deeper.
Your fingers slide into his hair again, nails barely grazing his scalp, and he exhales into your mouth — warm, shaky, almost reverent. His arm around your waist pulls you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, the warmth of him suddenly impossible to ignore when his skin drags against your sensitive and already wet cunt.
The sound of it — soft breaths, fabric shifting, the quiet press of skin on skin — fills the room and it all feels… different compared to last night. Unrushed.
Like he’s not trying to impress you. Not trying to prove anything.
Just kissing you because he wants to.
Your heart pounds harder than you like. Harder than it makes sense. You barely know him outside of dim lights and late-night tension and shared heat — and yet the way he’s touching you now, feels careful. Thoughtful. Like he’s memorising the shape of you through his hands.
No one’s kissed you like this.
Not like they could do it for hours. Not like it could become routine.
His hand slides slightly higher along your spine, slow enough to make you aware of every inch it travels. Your body reacts before your brain can catch up, leaning into him, hips shifting unconsciously closer, grinding, looking for release against the muscle of his thigh.
He makes that soft sound again — the small, surprised hum you’re starting to recognise — but this time it’s deeper. Less startled. More affected.
The kiss grows wetter, heavier, until breathing becomes necessary. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, lips parted, eyes darker now as they take in your lips. You can only imagine what they look like, judging from his swollen, glistening ones.
The innocence of it all has disappeared as his hand travels down your back, settling when it’s reached your ass, kneading softly. Once. Twice. And then just resting there. Intentional and comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
You realise, with a slow creeping clarity, how easy this would be. To wake up like this again.
To fall back into this again. Into him.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Next time you sleep with Mark, it’s in your bed. The one after that, is in his bed. And the one after that, in your bed again. And the one after that is memorable because he makes you cum in any position you can think of. The time after that, he’s rougher than he’s ever been; manhandling you like it’s his job, fucking you so hard, pain mixing with pleasure, your tears blinding you, your cries deafening you, until his hand is around your throat, shutting you up.
It gets to a point where the nights (and mornings) you’ve spent together, blur into one. It all easily becomes a habit. Calling him, texting him, meeting with him between classes. It’s all normal. Like it would be with a close friend.
For you at least. You’re not really sure how he feels, but the fact that he’s never complained, comforts you in a way. Other times, it makes you doubt everything. You try not to dwell on those thoughts.
Random hang-out sessions, that turn into lazy movie nights, become a frequent occurrence between the two of you.
Much like right now.
“What the hell?” You exclaim all aggravated, sitting up a little from your lying position on the sofa. Your feet shift on Mark’s lap and you can’t see his hand under the blanket, but you feel its warmth around your calf, through the cotton of your sock. It’s comforting. “Is that it?”
Mark chuckles lightly.
“I mean, yeah.” He shrugs casually as he pops a piece of pop corn in his mouth. “Thoughts?”
“I’m fucking sad.”
“Aww, dude, why?” He sits up a little too, getting more comfortable so he can look at you better as the credits keep rolling. “They said they’ll meet again.”
“Yeah, but we don’t actually see that.” You complain loudly, making him chuckle again. At least one of you is entertained.
“That’s the whole point.” He squeezes your calf once. “It all ends before sunrise for them, hence the title, but they get to experience so much in just one night that they don’t really need to know if they’ll actually meet again.”
“Is that why it’s your favourite movie? You’re into the whole soppy, enigmatic love trope?” You tease with a smirk, loving his flustered reactions a little too much.
The cute roll of his eyes makes you smile wider, without realising.
“I guess we’re not watching the second one then.” He says with a playful pout and you can’t help the excited yelp you let out.
“There’s a second one?”
His eyes widen a little at your excitement, tiny amused smile taking place on his face. “And a third one. But I’ve never seen it.”
“Well, we have to watch them.” You catch yourself moving closer. His hand slips higher on your leg, just below your knee, the warmth seeping through your comfy sweatpants.
“Oh, we have to?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, making your heart skip a beat at his subtle way of teasing you.
“Yes, we.” You say stubbornly, refusing to let him have his way. “You’re the one who suggested this ridiculously sad shit.”
He stares at you for a moment, in thought as he spreads his legs a little, letting your own dangle between them, bent knees hooked over his thigh. You instinctively move even closer, one of your arms stretching behind his shoulders, against the back of the sofa, as your free hand starts playing with one of his hoodie strings.
The familiar scent of his after shave mixed with a hint of detergent engulfs you. It’s distinct. The kind that could traumatise you if things ever went south with him.
“Did you not like it then?” His voice comes out quite this time.
You purposely avoid eye contact, though, you can feel his gaze on you, and you have to actively force yourself to not focus on the way his hand caresses your inner thigh. It’s nothing but innocent, but that does something to you. It feels domestic. Absentminded.
“No, I did.” Your eyes are still on your finger twirling the string on his chest. “Just hoped for a happier ending is all.”
“Hmm, you can’t always have a happy ending, though.” He says skeptically and for some reason the words sit heavy in your chest.
You ignore the unpleasant feeling and force your eyes onto his. “When did you become so wise?”
“Tsk, I’ve always been wise.” His cute nose scrunches a tiny bit as his eyes narrow in a challenge.
You try your best to mirror his expression as you tickle his chin with your index finger. “Sure, you have.”
Your teasing gets interrupted quickly. A giggle erupts from you as he playfully tries to bite your finger off. His pearly whites making an appearance; a silly imitation of a cat making you act all giddy.
He’s too cute for his own good.
And so you give into the urge to drop a very sweet kiss on his cheek. Your hand cradles his jaw as he tries to pretend an escape.
When you pull away, you have to bite your lip to hide your smile, your cheeks hurting.
He looks away, attempting to hide his own smile from you, tongue poking the inside of the cheek you just smooched a little too loudly.
“You’re still so shy with me.” You observe quietly and his frown makes you let out another giggle.
“No, I’m not.” He pouts adorably.
“It’s okay.” You lean closer as he sulks. Another kiss on his cheek, this time a tiny bit closer to the corner of his lips. “I like it.”
“Do you really think I’m shy with you?” He searches for a reaction in your eyes as he wraps a hand around your wrist, urging you to wrap your arms around his neck.
You give in too easily. It’s too difficult not to with his face so close to yours.
“Not always.” You admit, as you start playing with the hair at his nape. “You’re shy, like, maybe fifty percent of the time.”
“Fifty?!” He shrieks with an offended tone. “Dude, that’s still high.”
“And I still like it.” You scold, arms tightening slightly around him as his hands rest on your thighs, still draped across his lap.
“You just like being a pain in my ass.” He states with a knowing smirk, and you can’t even deny it.
“See? You’re not shy now.” You deflect, enjoying the back and forth dynamic you have going on with him.
“Stop flirting.” He scolds, hand squeezing your thigh softly.
“Mm, no.” You cradle the back of his neck gently with one hand as your other arm drapes casually around his shoulders.
“No?”
“No.”
“Just like that?”
You simply nod. “Just like that.”
He nods back with an approving pout. “Fair.”
The second he leans in for a kiss, a dull pain in your lower abdomen reminds you of your state and you panic.
“You can’t stay tonight.” You blurt out. The surprise evident on his face as he pulls back.
“Umm, okay?” His confusion pulls at the strings in your heart. “Is something wrong? Like, did I—“
“No.” You interrupt him, before he can make things even more awkward. Arm still around him. “I’m just on my period. So, we can’t…you know.”
Realisation downs on him. Eyebrows raising slightly, lips parting. “Oh.” He nods once. “Right.”
“Mmhm.” You give him an awkward, tight smile.
You could have cancelled tonight. Should have. But you hadn’t seen him in almost a week due to a stupid essay you had to focus on. And you hate to admit it even to yourself, but you missed him. A little more than you a friend misses a friend. But that’s another story.
“Are you feeling okay?” He asks a little too casually, but still concerned.
The way he sneaks an arm around your middle, is too smooth. It’s with effort that you manage to maintain your composure as he pulls you closer into his side, his hand resting on your lower back. Gentle and reassuring.
Your heart does something weird at the intimate gesture. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s the third day, so, it’s not too bad.”
He nods understandingly. “Okay, well…I don’t know if I’m being too slow, but why exactly can’t I stay?”
The question definitely catches you off guard, but you manage to stay grounded. “I mean, you can. You’re welcome to. We’re just not having sex.”
“Yeah, fuck that, I’m off.” He moves to playfully shrug you off, but laughs at the way you childishly whine, refusing to move, stubbornly clinging onto him. He settles back with a huff and you bashfully hide your face in his shoulder. “Y/N, I obviously don’t care. I’ll stay if you want me to.”
His voice is too soft. Too sweet.
You exhale loudly, feigning annoyance. “Fine. Stay then.”
“Ugh. Fine, I will.” You feel the delicate nudge of his nose against your forehead and, inevitably, you look up at him, still tucked safely in his side with your legs comfortably resting on top of his spread ones. “So, like, is kissing out of the question too?”
You snort at the silly question. “No. Kissing’s allowed.”
You’ve realised over time that you have a soft spot for his cheeky side. It’s rare that Mark Lee drops his serious stance, but you’ve managed to break through a few times now and each one of those has felt like a special reward.
His lips find yours for the first time tonight. The hand cradling your jaw shouldn’t feel that good on your skin and the arm around your waist shouldn’t feel as safe as it does. But you savour everything, matching his slow pace.
The kiss becomes less innocent with each drag of his lips against yours, but you can’t bring your self to pull away. Blame the raging hormones, blame the way he’s holding you so close, blame the universe.
You need him to keep kissing you.
The whiny sound you unintentionally let out, betrays said need, but Mark doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he deepens the kiss. More intent behind his touches.
“Come here.” He mumbles against your lips as he tries to manoeuvre you, and you quickly oblige, throwing a leg over him, straddling his thighs without a second thought.
He doesn’t seem to approve of your hovering as he shamelessly pushes you down by the hips, encouraging you to properly sit on him. And you do.
He lets out a delicious sound, which you hungrily swallow as your crotch meets his. Hard length familiarly nestling between your thighs, nudging against your needy clit, and you’re glad you opted for a tampon instead of a pad earlier.
“Are you comfortable?” He asks, pulling away slightly, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.
“Yeah.” You nod as you allow your hands to rest on either side of his neck.
“Is there anywhere I’m not allowed to touch?”
You smile at the cryptic question. He’s clearly testing the waters, while trying to be respectful of any boundaries. You can see right through him.
“My boobs are a little sore still, so be gentle.”
He nods. “Anything else?”
Your breath hitches as his fingers sneakily slip under the waistband of your sweatpants, eyes silently asking for permission.
You give him a chaste kiss. “You can’t finger me, if that’s what you mean.”
“Not exactly what I meant, no.” He murmurs as his hands completely slip inside your bottoms, cupping your ass over your underwear, deliberately urging you to drag your hips against his, fingers slightly digging into the flesh of your bum.
He devours your lips in another kiss. Heated, but lazy. Slower than ever.
Your tongues gliding languidly makes you unintentionally grind a little harder, allowing your sensitive clit to drag against his clothed cock and you feel your underwear slipping between your folds messily. He’s got you all wet and needy when he really shouldn’t.
“Fuck, I really want you naked.” He whispers in your mouth, hands travelling up your back, taking the hem of your baggy t-shirt with them.
There’s nothing else to do other than give him what he wants. So you reluctantly break the kiss, letting him remove your top before you rush to do the same for him.
Your sports bra is gone in no time, both your top and his hoodie are somewhere on the living room floor and the second your tits are free, he’s got both his arms tightly wrapped around your middle, biceps flexing deliciously. Your nipples feel extra sensitive as they rub on his skin; breasts squished against his warm chest, the sensation comforting and arousing at the same time, you can’t help the sigh you let out against his lips.
“Don’t really know where we’re going with this.” You speak all muffled as he eagerly tries to lick into your mouth, lips a little uncoordinated but you love it.
You’re more than aware of the double meaning your words carry, and the hesitation in his eyes when he pulls away, tells you he is too. You both seem to ignore the complicated side of the statement.
“I can still make you feel good, no?” His fingers splay in between your shoulder blades as his eyes inspect your face, lingering on your spit-kissed lips for a little too long.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls you by the back of your neck, his mouth finding yours in another wet kiss, lips parted wide as tastes you with a quiet hum, and you feel more wetness seeping out of you, drenching your panties.
A buck of your hips forces a moan out of both of you as your hands bury in his hair, gripping tight, searching for an anchor. You lean your head back with a soft exhale when he starts leaving wet kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. He licks, sucks, bites your flushed skin, tongue swirling on each mark he leaves behind, turning you on more than ever.
This is so fucking inconvenient.
He takes you by surprise when he licks a stripe from between your tits to your collarbones, painting your skin with his saliva.
“Ah, shit.” You tighten your hold on his hair and he lets out a little grunt that vibrates against your sternum, his quick breaths hitting your damp skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your nipples harden uncomfortably, asking for attention and he must notice as his hand cups one of your breasts, gently massaging the underside.
His lips find the raised peak, kissing around it, teasing you, forcing needy sounds out of you, and when he softly sucks it in his mouth, tongue swirling, you can’t help but grind down harder with a loud whine.
“Careful.” You whisper weakly when his tongue flicks a little too hard, making you jolt.
“Sorry.” He apologises with a sweet kiss between the space of your tits, and for a few moments, he gives all his attention to your slightly swollen mounds. Licking and sucking, carefully massaging them in his palms until you pull a little too hard at his hair, singling that it’s too much for you.
You force him to lean back as you trap him between your body and the back of the sofa. The sound he makes when you wrap a hand around his throat, exhilarates you, and you give into another make out session as you let your fingers lightly press on his pulse points, loving the effect you have on him.
You’re completely lost in his kisses and the way his firm chest feels on yours. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time and you really just don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just try to relax on top of him, arms loosely wrapping around his neck as you relish in the wet smacking sounds of your lips.
It’s his hand that sneaks between your crotches that urges you to pull away, but he holds you there, his other hand on the back of your head.
“Can I try something?” He mutters as his fingers slowly start undoing the knot at the front of your waistband. “Stop me if it’s weird.”
Fuck Mark lee and his persuasiveness. “Okay.”
You probably shouldn’t. It’s too intimate. Too vulnerable. And you normally wouldn’t let anyone else, but when Mark slips his hand past the front of your waistband, you let him.
He’s careful. No rushed movements as he holds you close, lips brushing yours as he gauges your reaction and your mouth parts against his when you feel the warmth of his palm, engulfing the seat of your underwear. He rubs lightly over the drenched fabric until his fingers find your clit, pressing a little harder, evoking a half desperate half surprised sound out of you.
You self-consciously wonder if he felt the thin string of your tampon when his fingers brushed past your entrance, but whether he did or not, he doesn’t really let on.
He starts rubbing you in slow tiny circles, the gentle friction making you breathe harder, fingers shaking in his messy strands.
“Can I touch you properly or is that a bit too far?” He must sense your contemplation as his fingers come to a brief halt. “I’ll stay here.” His fingers press on your clit, signalling what he means. “Won’t go anywhere else.”
You pull back a smidge, the need to look at his face getting the better of you. His pleading eyes, full of adoration, overwhelm you and you cowardly hide your face in his neck, arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders.
“What if I bleed all over your hand?” You whine dramatically. The thought of that actually happening, too embarrassing.
He breathes out an amused laugh. “I’ll live.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t.” You joke halfheartedly, but inhale sharply when he presses against the swollen bud again.
“At least you’ll die happy.” He giggles at the warning bite you leave on his shoulder, playfully shrugging you away, but his arm around your middle holds you close. “You wanna cum. I wanna help. So let me.”
“Fuck sake.” You sigh in defeat, forehead dropping against his shoulder. “If you touch anywhere other than—“
“I won’t. Promise.” He seals it with an intimate kiss on your shoulder, making you shiver.
“Okay.”
He slips his hand inside the front of your cotton panties, quickly finding your pulsing bud and you instantly melt against him with a relieved whimper, the skin on skin contact already feeling a million times better. His two fingers send you reeling, making you moan in his neck, your jaw slackening when he speeds up a little, rubbing harder, more precise circles on the bundle of nerves. His hold around you tightens when you start slightly shaking on his lap and you feel dizzy when he starts flicking from side to side, bringing you closer and closer to a dangerous high.
It’s addictive. The way he touches you, holds you, breathes on you like he’s the one being pleasured. It’s all out of this world. Too good. Too mind-numbing.
“Mmph—f-fuck—right there.” You beg, all out of breath and flustered. His fingers keep brushing a spot on your clit, too sensitive, the pleasure so intense, you can barely handle it.
“Yeah? Feels good?” His breathy tone adds to the hot sensation between your legs, your toes and fingers tingling as your eyes inevitably roll back.
“So good, Markie.”
He grunts when your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder. “Fuck, baby. Wanna see you cum.”
“Oh my god.” You whisper with a tremble, mouth ajar against his shoulder, your saliva smearing on his skin as you struggle to breathe, to keep a little bit of your sanity intact. “Mark. Ffffuck.”
Your release crashes into you with force. A muffled shriek erupts from your throat, resonating in the silence of the living room. You sound broken as he keeps rubbing fast and hard. Until your whole body shakes in ecstasy. Until the overstimulation is too much to endure.
Your walls are spasming so hard you’re worried they might accidentally squeeze the tampon out, and you have to grab his wrist in panic, forcing him to stop his torturous ministrations on your abused clit.
You slump forward. Body completely spent. Weight dropping on him in surrender as your brain floats somewhere unknown.
The gentle scratch of his blunt nails against your scalp, helps bring you somewhat back to the surface.
“Fuck, that felt—” You pant, struggling to form anything coherent. Your throat feels dry when you swallow.
“Intense?” He finishes your incomplete thought for you.
He has a tendency of doing that. Understanding you better than you can understand yourself sometimes. Unveiling thoughts and feelings you didn’t know you were capable of carrying.
You don’t like it. The grip he has on you — you feel it most when he's not even touching you. When he's not even with you.
And it’s too intimate. More than you can handle.
You often feel scrutinised under his gaze. Especially in raw, unfiltered moments like this. It never feels transactional. Whatever you have with Mark. It’s never just about fleeting pleasure. There’s always something underlying but undeniable at the same time.
Something undoubtedly there, but difficult to define in your head.
Something you wonder if his complex mind has been able to translate into words you always fail to find.
genre: smut, angst, established relationships, swingers au, 1960s au, introspection
synopsis: change always happens when least expected, much better when it feels delightful. it’s not until it’s too late that you realize how impactful the consequences can be.
warning(s): ADULTS ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! cuckolding, oral (f and m), fingering, cum eating, face fucking, rough sex,p voyeurism, cock hungry reader, sadomasochism, possessive and jealous tendencies, jaemin haunts the narrative, whiny reader and haechan, slight degradation, religious imagery and symbolism (who's surprised? not I), mentions of war and world/societal issues
disclaimer: this is purely fictional; in no way am I condoning this behavior, trying to offend anyone, nor is it meant to place such image on the idol, these are only characters. read at your own discretion.
an: happy belated valentine's gift
For an awfully chilly winter day, a cozy warmth radiates off you. Those around you have always known that cold environments are wicked against your presumably ill form. It takes one slight breeze — let alone the prickle you now feel in your skin — for you to shrivel and hunch over in pain. Wailing over frozen toes and the ache in your joints. Exaggerating that if you move a bone, it will snap in half from how horrible this cold treats you.
Jaemin had once told you the spirit of Satan that incubates in your soul was reacting and thus punishing you — as is his nature. He’d say that hell was freezing over and that Shaytan couldn’t handle the pain he inflicts. He couldn’t reap what he sowed like most people.
To Jaemin, it didn’t matter because he’d reassure you he would always be there to aid. Even through jests and laughter, because no matter the wickedness, he loved you and would strip down to the bone if it meant you were warm and safe.
You’d laugh and tell him neither of you would survive the Garden of Eden if he succumbed that easily. That within seconds you’d both be influenced by the wretchedness of that conniving snake and devour all the sacred fruit that the rest are too scared to eat. Even the snake itself because your hunger was insatiable.
Now he can be sure of how true your statement had been all those years ago, as you show no signs of frostbite and look like you do on summer eves. And the reason you both find yourselves in this predicament.
Your giggles are melody to his ears but a stake to his heart. They boom within his eardrums, louder than the galling crunch of shattered crystal glasses under both your soles and the vivacious psychedelic music that oozes through the cracks of this newly built mid-century home.
Jaemin smiles at you with adoration, hand itching to take yours but retrieves the instance both pair of feet come in contact with the transported east coast pebbles. Those that make both of you waltz and wobble until reaching the first step to avoid falling on the treacherous shards. Much like one trapped in malicious waves and surrounded by sadistic boulders.
That’s without mentioning the starved and slabbering bodies watching this young couple approach the property like trusting fawn searching for comfort and solace in the arms of it’s eventual predator. It will all lead to the consumption of one’s most vital organ at the end of the day.
There’s many things going through yours and Jaemin’s head but neither speak. He knows words and sentiments will be different but if there’s one thing he’s sure of, is that he’s just as happy as you with only the smile on your face.
Your head turns to the windows above, the slew of bodies dancing and the lack of clothes let another giggle out. Jaemin shrugs, a dry chuckle while he pulls out the nearly empty cigarette case. He thinks their movements are silly and anything but provocative but you’re amused. As amused as a pup discovering new things.
Thinking of it, Jaemin concludes that this is new for you. Before him, your only sexual encounters were self-gratification. You had gone in detail over dinner at an upscale restaurant as he ate raw oysters, it had been your fourth date.
He studied the way your eyes tentatively watched his mouth, your own twitching every time he consumed the meat and the lemon juice glossed his lips. He knew a salacious grin is what wanted to display on your face. Yet you over and over again covered it with self-effacement.
Jaemin hadn’t let you off the hook that night, rather he grinned like you had wanted to while sliding to your side of the circled booth and placed his cold hand on your exposed thigh. He asked if you had ever tried oysters to which you denied and he would only let you taste if you’d tell him a secret.
You had never wanted to try them and the deal was stupid. The look of an oyster disgusted you but Jaemin loved them and his hand against your warm thigh sliding up the mini dress reminded you of your own hands in between your legs.
With details and only for his listening, you explained the way your fingers felt on the bundle of nerves and how your fingers — plunged within you — had only brought satisfaction to you once. Explained to him how often you touched yourself trying to reach a high that you always brought yourself to but have grown restless and they weren’t doing it anymore.
He touched you for the first time that night, his hand underneath your satin girdle and panties pushed to the side while he taught you step by step how to eat the disgusting bivalve. He had opened your eyes and thighs that night to the pleasures of the flesh, discovering how insatiable you are.
If only Jaemin knew how dangerous oysters are if not careful.
The music had grown louder the instance you both reached the front door, opening without either of you knocking as Jaemin lit his cigarette. He unconsciously sighed the second he released the smoke, turning to the older woman with a huge beehive covered in a silk scarf that patted your cheek animatedly while you showed her the invitation. She laughed sardonically while looking at him, or so he thinks. Nowadays, everything is treacherous.
“Keys, pretty boy.” She purrs, pushing the crystal punchbowl closer to him. Jaemin gives it one look, one look to her, and back to the bowl before fetching his car keys. In a sea of single keys or neutral toned keychains, he frowns at the colorful keychains on his.
The instance they clink among the others, she fetches his face for a pat like she did to yours. Jaemin avoids it, turning to blow the smoke. Only the light scrape of her finger nails are felt over his hair.
The scene doesn’t seem foreign to him. While he has never tried swinging, he has been young and single with philandering friends and coworkers that strung him into their quests. Nearly naked women in their ripped girdles and their drunken laughter while playing among themselves is the least of his interests.
“Modern, aren’t they?” You ask, voice undulating exultantly. His head turns to look at you, handing you a drink from the open bar that he notices you hold back to finish in one go. “We can simply watch for now, we don’t have to join them.” You add at his lack of response, your excited shakiness warmed down with the drink; finally some signs of the cold corroding you.
It causes a smile to form on his lips, his own frozen chest warming up with your words and the smoke he inhaled, chasing it with the warm whiskey. Jaemin stops refraining himself and opts to let his arm slither around you waist, a slight squeeze as he exhales the smoke. He hasn’t spoken throughout the night but you figure his expertise has made him grow desensitized to these type of things.
Although, this sweet moment is cut short when the lights dim and the music turns erotic. Lulling all guests towards the conversation pit covered in red velvet. The transition from erotica to burlesque works to rowdy the guests. Whistles and hooting as their glasses clink with any hard surface. Hands cusped around their mouth as they scream for the same woman that greeted you both to take off the robe.
A silent giggle as the feathers of her skirt fly when she takes the red silk robe off. It matches with her wrinkled lips and the gemstones on her corset. It’s tightly cinched that her waist appears nearly non-existent. Concerning, even, but no one seems to care when her breasts are flying loosely with the tassels covering her nipples.
Her once tight curls, covered by the scarf are now loose and stable with pomade, only swinging when she gyrates her her hips and jumps slightly to make her bum bounce along the sound of trumpets and drums.
You had never gone to a night club, not even with Jaemin but he has. He’s explained what goes on in them and this seems similar to what he has detailed to you. While he remains unphased, you giggle, praising her as she moves on to the feather skirt and removes it, tossing it for anyone to catch it first.
With every shimmy of her shoulder, yours twitch feeling the same rhythm that courses through her body. She’s expressive and fun; beatitude noises leave her every time she meets the eyes of a guest, resembling a moan — sex without touching.
Nearing the end of her show, she lets her hands roam her corset cladded waist. Squeezing hard enough to make the top of it leave marks below her breast. She laughs and smiles comically the second she swings her upper body, not taking long before her tits encircle with the heart-shape pasties and tassels following suit. She lets one hand stop the assault of her own person to bring it up to her lips and blow kisses at guests. The song mellows out, followed by a fairly recognizable voice.
The whine of it makes your eyes close, lulling you into a state of delirium as you hear his words and that memorable chuckle. The pitch is as high as you remember, but also sultry and easily makes your thighs press together. Your brain makes you recall the one call that sold you to this idea. How dirty and adroit he had been, laughing at your timorous behavior.
You remember it being very erotic, nearly touching yourself inside of a phone booth. Had it not been clear, you probably would have and also had kept the call longer. But guilt had been eating you away. Jaemin’s face had popped up the second you let your hands graced your chest and rapidly hung-up on this stranger. The guilt and love you felt for Jaemin is what led you to ignoring the happenings for a month, yet this stranger’s cajole won and here you found yourself with your loving fiance who did everything to please you.
“You want that?” Jaemin had asked calmly, stopping his annotations on a colleagues research paper. “I want whatever you want.” You replied, an expectant smile that told him yes. He simply mirrored it, kissing your forehead, “I want whatever you want.” He concluded.
As cheering and clapping die down, the host smiles, bowing as if he had been the one to give this show. He scans the room, going down the steps into the conversation pit. He gives every single one of them a smile, nodding when reaching your and Jaemin.
“I’m glad you all enjoyed the beautiful tricks my wife offers. Perhaps one of you will be lucky enough to gain a private show tonight.” He winks, the other guests laugh but Jaemin doesn’t so neither do you. “It’s a special night for all of us lovers. It’s Valentine’s day! A day for love and friendship… Which is why we are all celebrating it together.”
Jaemin swirls his glass, from his peripheral vision he looks at how starved these guests are. They’re all fairly older than both of you, two other couples, and this man speaking. To an extent he wants to frown and feel pity for him. How can someone so young be entangled and in charge of something so lewd? But he’s the host overall, it’s obvious he’s nothing but a deviant himself and Jaemin is in no position to judge as he finds himself under the same roof. The reasons may differ but he’s here nonetheless and prior, he philandered himself, as well.
“We find ourselves some fresh faces,” The man scans the conversation pit for the millionth time this night, his hands move to the front. All the while his gaze lingers on you and your husband. Jaemin remains indifferent to the circumstances, finishing the drink he had been nursing this entire time. On the contrary, you don’t let your gaze linger for too long. His own is heavy and driven enough for the both of you that even his grin creates a force within you that you try so hard to restrain. At least with Jaemin beside you.
“That being so, I will go over the rules again.” He goes over the basics of this meeting. Comically as is his nature, the while his wife in the background acted out his every word. They treated it all like a joke but his voice was stern enough to let everyone in the room know that safe sex and boundaries were not to be ignored within these walls or ever. No matter how taboo contraception is.
“Boundaries are not to be crossed, these walls are thin and we will intervene. Protection must not be removed no matter what, only to dispose and replace if the fun continues.” The host nods, clasping his hands as his wife approaches him with the punchbowl filled to the brim with new and, or barely surviving car keys.
He frowns at the neutral array, quietly beaming when his eyes catch the colorful hues that belong to you and Jaemin. Melodic and animated noises similar to his wife’s leave his lips. Some expression you find goofy but ignore the while he swirls the keys around as if it was a delicacy he was to eat and not metal dirtying his hands.
“We should start with new couples. Right, dear?” His head tilts, his wife still exposed to the world within these walls. She hums with that same whine he has; her eyes wander, landing on the couple on the opposite side of the pit.
She shakes the punchbowl slightly, making sure keys flip around with every move. “Close your eyes, hun.” She coaxes, elongating her words with a cheeky smile as the woman digs her fingers through the pool of metal. Her partner had covered her eyes, egging her to keep digging and wincing when her fingers curled around multiple keys. His free hand itches to dig for her.
In that instance you figure he was more aroused at the idea of watching her have sex with another man hence his hesitance on her choosing just any keys. It’s most likely he already has someone in mind for her but the frown on his face as she pulls out a beat up scuffed Chevrolet key says enough.
In that instance an older man, gray haired and hanging belly stands up. You mimic the partner’s frown, merely upset yourself. The man’s forehead was lighter than the rest of his face, hands rough and calloused. It’s likely he’s a countryman that made a great effort to come this far for this night alone. He seemed kind… the kindness reserved for grandfathers and old men at diners. Not a man willing to wife swap with another.
The woman on the other hand didn’t seem to mind much. She laughs pleasantly as she takes the man’s hand, going up the first step out of the conversation pit. They don’t leave and she seems impatient but the veteran in this duo seems to halt waiting for orders from the hosts like dogs waiting to be given permission to feast among their favorite treat.
“Great… Louie is a tender lover. Wouldn’t you say, love?” The host turns to his wife, she doesn’t speak but creates and okay sign and kisses those same fingers with a loud smack. You think she would be a great sales model at the local department store. Or a more luxurious department store, taking into consideration this lavish lifestyle…
“Alright now, our next lovely lady.” Her husband’s body sways your way, nerves finally settling within your gut.
You’re sure if you get a man like the first one you’ll probably bail out and beg on your knees for Jaemin to fuck the disgust out of you. He would, you’re sure of it but he would also taunt you for wanting to try something as crude as this without thinking of the type of couples that could be involved. He wouldn’t do it out of anger or jealousy. He would do it to scorn.
But Jaemin’s gaze is anything but teasing or patronizing. His expression is neutral as if this was just another nuisance for him. His eyebrows lift and signals with his gaze for you to stand up. His lips purse, slicked by the syrup of whatever that drink had in it. He looked so pretty, you should probably leave with him now and continue the lifestyle you both carry…
“Don’t be shy, I won't bite. Unless you want me to…” The host grins, his gaze hasn’t dropped from you. His eyes shimmer with every move you make to stand up and when you reach him, he chuckles to himself like he achieved something by having you near.
Like Jaemin, he orders you to dig through the pile of keys without a word, only expressions. The sharp edges of keys and keychains make you wince, pondering on how the past woman was digging through like nothing. You could feel the scrapes from metal key chains, worried for it’s sanitation if they even made any damage. But ultimately you stop your search of Jaemin’s keys. Keys that you had dropped every time you grasped.
Steadily, you pull the lightest ones that bring the familiar sound of hooting and hollering. Your eyebrows furrow seeing their excited faces. Women among men laugh and the first woman’s partner looks at you with a pensive frown. Jaemin on the other hand seems to mimic the man’s emotions and not your confused ones.
The host takes a look at the keys in your hand, letting his eyes rake your face before taking them within his grasp. This being the first point of contact between both of you. His hands were awfully cold, a cold only you have been able to produce. His glossed lips part, demonstrating those pretty teeth.
“First night and we’re starting strong,” he nods, stretching his hand for you to take. Hesitantly you do so, allowing for a wolfish grin to spread across his pretty face. “Perhaps it’s faith?” He rhetorically questions, handing the punchbowl back to his wife.
Jaemin’s presence felt very dear to you, enough so that your facial muscles spasmed to not smile at the arousal you felt with the touch and words of this foreign man. His voice was huskier speaking to you than to the group that watched the interactions from behind you. His fingers caress your skin without making it seem like you’re to start your activities in front of everyone here. Your only suppressant was the painstaking force of your teeth on your bottom lip that allow him to know it would be a fun night.
Whether he felt pity for you or he was doing his job as a host, his gaze tears from you. Giving you enough time to breathe and turn to Jaemin who only smiles at you encouragingly. It was simple, nothing wide like all his smiles but he also didn’t seem hurt and especially not jealous. Jaemin was… himself. Calm, indifferent, and poised. Smoking his second cigarette of the night, this one matching the man’s that took your spot beside him. Salems, menthols at that.
You’re unsure of whatever was brewing in your chest watching the image, Jaemin didn’t give you much to go from and your facial expressions were beginning to shift. Had it not been for the cold touch against your jaw that drew your attention back to the man you’re to share a bed tonight — well, you’re not too sure what you were going to do anyways.
His thumb is soft against your skin, such a delicate touch that you hadn’t felt how he swept you off your feet and slid across the velvet up the steps of the conversation pit. Jaemin and guests all forgotten when the digit swipes your bottom lip. He inhales deeply, quivering when he exhales. “Smooth.” He claims, smudging the lip stain that clung to his thumb against his own lip. You reckon this is your first shared kiss.
Titillating, your eyes force themselves shut when he pulls fully away, his taunting grin engraved in your brain as he turns back to the guests.
“Oh, and before I part. A reminder: Those who cannot follow through will go into the cuck tabernacle and watch their partners that did. We respect your reluctance or desire to only watch but that isn’t all that fair to the willing party, is it?”
The finality of his voice leads you into the main hall, leaving the remaining guests while the first duo are lead into a different hallway before the four of you part ways. Within a few steps and with the keys he took from your hands not long ago, he unlocks the door he pushes open for you to enter first. His hand places itself on the small of your back, guiding you through the dim, spacious room. Only illuminated by the city lights entering through the curved glass wall.
Overlooking the hill, your breath hitches seeing how beautiful the city looked from here. You nearly forget you’re not alone as you approach the glass, amused by how small and bright everything looked from here. To an extent you understood why all the other guests had stood by the glass wall when you and Jaemin arrived. It felt great to feel bigger than everyone else.
“Do you like it?” He asks, approaching you with a glass of whiskey. Heart shaped ice cubes barely floating. You don’t let your words free just yet, nodding with a smile as you sip on the drink. Wincing at the harsh taste when it smoothly runs down your throat. He doesn’t comment on it but merely chuckles at your lack of expression regulation.
In the instance that he takes off his clunky belt off, your eyes shift around the bedroom. There’s some pictures of him with his wife on the walls. They’re nothing erotic like one would think, but they’re also nothing demonstrating warmth. On the contrary, the room looked very lived in with multiple items that belonged to either of them. Or perhaps both. With the shaggy hairstyle he has, her lavish up-dos, makeup, and the thick eyeliner on his waterline, you’re sure the products are shared.
You attempt not to dwell on the idea of having sex on another woman’s bed. It’s not like she cares to begin with but you put yourself in her shoes and you know if Jaemin had done something like this, you would have grieved for as long as you could.
Then again, Jaemin didn’t seem to care and had been on board with this idea when you first suggested it. He had also had multiple partners before you, in comparison. Perhaps he missed the exhilaration of sexual encounters with others as much as you enjoyed having sex. With him you have been able to discovered what you liked and have experimented everything under the sun. You love Jaemin, you’re going to marry him soon. But you also can’t quench this carnal thirst no matter how good he fucks you to the point you’ve gone numb before.
You both needed this.
To drown your inquisitive mind, the suave instrumental that greeted you not long ago drags the man in the room closer to you. Humming along the instruments as he seductively approaches you. You don’t have to turn around to feel his movement. You’re also able to see him undoing the loose knot of his muslin poet’s blouse through the glass.
The delighted grin you’ve held off for too long finally shows itself upon feeling his arms around you, pulling your exposed back closer to his now exposed chest. Bare skin to bare skin, the while his mouth ghosts over your neck. Hot breath taunting the awaited contact. His wavy hair tickling the neck he should be kissing by now.
His labored breathing is heard the longer he remains in that position. His hands roam whatever he can touch without giving you much pleasure. “You haven’t spoke once since seeing me. It’s very important for you to tell me what you want in these cases.” His head tilts slightly, nearly teasing you with the graze of his lips against your neck. You’re sure he’s doing it on purpose. You don’t need to look to know he’s grinning ear to ear at your shiver.
“I don’t know…” Is all you can muster. It’s nonsensical but also concrete enough as an answer. He doesn’t push for more right now, seemingly aware of what you mean. He’s rather engrossed in the swaying of your body against his, lead by his hands with the rhythm of the playing record.
“I found the invitation in the powder room at Marty’s a month ago. I thought someone left their brooch and peeked the contact number.” You speak, feeling his hands ease down your hips. Examining and studying every reaction to his touch. “I called only a few days later and— ah…” Your eyes flutter shut, head thrown back to land on his exposed shoulder, the lack of support from the knots making the black fabric slide down the bone.
He grins successfully, malicious even. Satisfied with how easy your body was. He hadn’t even touched any vital points. All he had done was add pressure to your upper thigh for you react so lewdly. So utterly needy…
“I knew I recognized that pretty voice.” He says, finally rewarding you with a tender kiss to your neck. So tender and wet; slow enough to drive you mad. Whimpering petulantly when he refuses to deepen it.
Ten days. It had only been ten days since New Years arrived and a tragedy had already occurred that had shaken Jaemin up enough to talk about it over dinner with his boss.
“It’s a calamity, I tell you! And it’s unconstitutional to deny Bond his seat... Dr. Wayne, you’ve seen the horrors of war. You’ve experienced them. I’m sure some members of the legislature have been veterans themselves. You know how much of an injustice this is.” Jaemin claims, the passion and sincerity in his voice drawing your hand to squeeze his thigh in order to ease the anxiety.
The older man of the two shakes his head upon finishing his old fashioned. “I bear the scars of war, son. So do you. But you will never make this country open its eyes to calamity. Whether we’re witnesses or the ones inflicting it. And it will only worsen…”
The doomed finality in his words threaten the night much to Dr. Wayne’s wife’s displeasure. The woman shakes her head, earrings clanking with her disgust. “You men and your wars… We’re having a nice night. Let’s not dwell on matters that don’t belong to us.” But it did belong to you. All of you. It simply has never occurred to her that there’s a privilege that only she and her husband bare.
“Come, Y/n. Let’s powder our noses before they continue.” She giggles, taking your hand and forcing you up — removing your comforting hand from your fiance that simply turned back to his boss.
You enjoyed the company of Mrs. Wayne. If you didn’t think about how ditsy and out of touch she was, she could easily remind you of your aunt. Fun, witty, and caring after all.
She had told you her entire life story when first meeting. Having grown her entire life as a socialite, her mother was strict and kept her away from men. Marrying Dr. Wayne had awaken her sexuality much like Jaemin had for you. Despite not telling you explicitly, she was good in masking the meaning of her message.
But now they’ve been married for over thirty years and she had once scolded you for trying to bring up your sex life with her — explicitly and not like her. She had told you that good women never performed fellatio and only performed sexual acts when procreating.
She was quite honestly upset that neither you and Jaemin had waited for marriage to fornicate. And far worse that it was a filthy game to both of you that you felt confident enough to bring it up to her as if she would enable your lecherous acts. For someone with seven kids and still trying for more, it had made you think it was a joke. Yet, she was serious and perhaps projecting.
That’s the first time she had shown disappointment in you. Reminding the both that despite your backgrounds only being similar in how adult figures treated sex around you, both of you threaded around it in completely different ways.
On the way to the powder room she had chewed your ear off about men’s nonsense and her own. You had drowned it out when she went into a cubicle and kept rambling. Only responding with hums and one word answers knowing she was looking for enabling, not communication.
You had no business in there; leaning against the pink marble shell shaped sink, you sigh upon noticing your reflection. You know much hasn’t changed but you have aged while your brain hasn’t as much.
Jaemin had once told you about arrested development. He had joined Dr. Wayne on a week long trip for a study and Jaemin had come back ecstatic. It’s not that he found a cure or needed to because truly no one was treating this as something fully serious. Not even your sweet and intelligent boyfriend (at the time). Rather, they had only gone to hear the stories of what led these people to this stagnation for their own amusement and half-bullshitted notes knowing they had already made up their minds on the matter.
Despite so, their stories felt reminiscent and coincidental that it had angered you. Jaemin and Dr. Wayne hadn’t cared for these patients. Blissfully ignorant to the fact that their partners were somewhat mirrors of those they heard and ignored only to use as pawns to scream ‘I told you So's’ to whoever had first discredited their initial thesis.
And truly despite it being years since then, Mrs. Wayne still had the emotional maturity of a fourteen year old with the conservatism of one taught by their equally ignorant privileged mother.
You weren’t too far behind, you had known since the day Jaemin introduced the term to you. You knew you were naive and sheltered as a child is. Your family had gone to far lengths to keep it as such and despite Jaemin’s introduction into your life cracking some of that down, you still felt a shell of that girl they had created.
Therefore, perhaps spotting that brass oyster brooch resting against the sink’s drain had been faith, a step into mental stimulants to rid you of this stagnant immaturity.
And so was your piquant 11:00am call with a stranger that as far as you knew could have been a disgusting pervert.
It doesn’t go to say it didn’t make you feel guilty for a month straight. Hiding from your fiance that you had enjoyed the verbal ravishing of a man you had never met, in cajoling efforts and enjoying it.
Guilt for betraying his trust and love despite never touching the other man. Guilt for thinking about his voice when Jaemin was gone for work and you felt needy. All until you had asked Jaemin if he was willing to follow through with this and like the loving devoted fiance he is… of course he did.
“The world is your oyster.” Haechan recites.
Haechan… You now remember clearly the name he had introduced himself with when he picked up the phone.
“You left me aching to hear more from you after that call.” He claims, lips finding their path down to your shoulder. “I kept thinking of it too…” you confess in a whine, his teeth nipping the marks Jaemin left last night. Arousal reaching you quicker at the thought of Jaemin being part of this despite not being present.
“Thought about it for too long, don’t you think?” he hums against your skin, lifting his head to kiss the shell of your ear. “I didn’t know how to bring it up to—” You hesitate, despite both of you wanting this; guilt gnaws no matter what. “To your husband?” Haechan answers for you.
“He’s not my husband.”
“Not yet.”
His grasp around your hand is harsh enough to make your fingers squeeze around the stone of your ring and imprint it’s form on the flesh. It’s not surprising how delicious you find this punishment. If you knew him better, you’d think jealousy had driven him.
“Does he mind?” Haechan questions, no longer holding back in ravishing your exposed skin. His hands knead your back, sighing contently with your shake of head. “He seemed awfully indifferent back there.”
“He’s a psychiatrist. I think he’s grown accustomed to react neutral in any situation.” You attempt to justify. Unsure yourself as to how calm he has been. You were thankful about it, he wasn’t upset and didn’t reproach you. Completely leaving his trust in your hands and compliant to your needs. But the twinge of guilt is what made you want more from him. You think, at least.
“So he’s okay with this?” Haechan asks, his fingers fiddling with a rose on your dress. “Yes,” you assure, “He said he wants whatever I want and I too want whatever he wants.” The finality and semi-confidence in your voice makes him hum in acceptance.
Despite it, Haechan is human and feels bitterness far more than anything else. It didn’t take a genius to understand Jaemin loves you. His body language was lax as his expressions were. He had shown no discomfort upon seeing another man touch you in the slightest because he simply loves and trusts you.
It makes Haechan bitter in a sense that a kid is when he can’t have what he wants. He wants to feel the comfort Jaemin feels with you and the weight of your love. He wants to dig into his mind and see what it feels like to love someone so much that they have no reason to be jealous of even a fly.
Yet, you were of no help either because you had given Jaemin the confidence to not fear for his love. You’ve given everything of you to him to the point that he’s not able to take care of it all and the reason you find yourself in this room. You had asked Jaemin for permission and one that he granted because he knew it meant nothing.
And it will mean nothing. Haechan is fully aware of that and bitter about it. Because he should mean everything to everyone, that’s what he’s grown to know.
It’s not common for him to feel this attached within the first meeting but every body that has passed the threshold of this home lacked love and security. They all used these meetings as a last resort to keep their relationship from falling and using the philandering as a crutch to seem normal to the exterior.
Everyone he’s met throughout this period no longer loved nor trusts. He’s aware you’re here for lust and repressed nymphomaniac tendencies; he decreed so during the phone call a month ago. But despite that, he had studies your expressions when the first woman pulled the keys and the obvious repugnance presented on your face told him that you truly were not cut for this. It had only been his suave talk that drew you here.
For him and only him…
Haechan feels gratification with this conclusion, smiling as he turns you around to face him. His hands have warmed up against your skin, dragging them to your face and cupping it as he leans in. The taste of berry sangria on his tongue that intrudes your mouth. Velvet against yours that tastes similar enough to make him moan.
“Beautiful…” He whispers against your mouth, enamored as he pulls back slightly to look at your face. “I’m glad my volubility did not scare you away.”
“On the contrary… it made me horribly wet. I nearly touched myself in public for you.”
Your confession makes his strained cock twitch freely against the taut leather. He moans louder than before, leaning to kiss you further in attempts to swallow all the words you had not granted him that morning.
His kisses grow frantic and needier. Your lips slot against his, turning from contained to dirty and wet. His fingers don’t attempt to hide the fact that they are caressing your nipples over the fabric of your dress.
His greed increases, recalling the delicious taste of your skin minutes prior, leading his mouth down the slope of your neck to the skin over your sternum. His tongue laps at your collarbones, savoring the smell of your scented powder and the taste of it.
“I couldn’t stop thinking of your meek voice… Your heavy breathing as I explained how you would get fucked if you came…” His words and teeth force you to pant, the tingle between your legs forces your knees to buck. He laughs mockingly as he presses his teeth further into your skin. “I could hear your whimpers that day. It drove me mad all day when you hung up suddenly. I couldn’t get myself to finish.”
You take the initiative to kiss him this time. Tugging on his shaggy hair enough to draw out another moan. He grins at the sting, mouth fetching yours and it’s not until you kiss him that he calms down. It returns to being clean and passionate, much more forceful but it’s all in the name of deprived arousal.
The instance his skin begins to burn, he pulls away. Dragging the muslin shirt off his torso, showing off caramel skin. Dewy from his grown arousal that finds no other way than to manifest through perspiration. He smiles upon catching your sight, bringing your hand to his soft peck, squeezing for you.
Your fingers twiddle his dark nipples, biting your lip seeing how they perk.
Jaemin had done this many times to you before, always managing to bring them erect. You now understand the delight of bringing someone to this state. So you’ll reward Haechan the way Jaemin does.
A sweet lascivious smile forms before dipping your head against his chest. Teeth clinging to the perked nipple before allowing your tongue to swirl around it. To finally allow your lips to stick, raking your hands over the other one and scratching enough to hurt but leave wanting more.
Throughout this ministration, Haechan withers and whines. His right hand patting your covered bum while his left teases himself. Touching the strained mound and rubbing for some relief just to stop when it begins to feel good.
You attempt to do the same to the other abused nipple, a delicacy he denies you. His hands tug at your hair like you had done earlier to his. Kissing you to get a taste of himself even if minimal.
He revels in the gasps and whimpers rooting from your throat. Pulling away only to look at your ravished lips. He grins wolfishly, biting his swollen lip, taking this opportunity to look at the pretty dress you wore tonight.
For him…
“This is too pretty of a dress for an occasion like this, don’t you think?” His fingers glide over the silk roses, pale blushed and soft against the pads. “Or am I this important to you?” His taunt holds sincerity.
You quietly laugh, taking his hand into yours. An intimate gesture that hitches his breath before masking it with a hum. “We went to a banquet before this. Jaemin’s team have been awarded for their research on Child psychology… The effects of events during their infancy which bleed into their adult life.” There’s a fondness in your voice that guts him; your belief and doting on your fiance. One he’s not sure has ever belonged to him through anyone he’s encountered.
There was no obligation to justify your attire nor give him context. He would have preferred if you hadn’t told him what you did prior to this and he surely wasn’t interested in your fiance’s line of work. But you still told him because you’re in love with and proud of Jaemin, even in the arms of another man.
He clears his throat, eyes lift to yours. “Jaemin... That’s your fiance’s name.” He utters with ascertain. To put a name to the face you love mars his mood, not gravely to stop but enough to feel the need to be punitive towards you due to his inhibitions.
He sighs calmly, pulling mere millimeters away to look at you and the dress again. The shape held by the petticoat lining of ivory faille and linen. He smiles at the ribbed touch, kissing your cheek when he meets with the roses and silk vines that spread from the straps to the hem of the skirt. Met at the peak of the plunged “V” back that displays two larger roses at the cinched waist. He twirls you like a ballerina in a music box, stopping when you’re facing each other again.
“Is this an invitation to deflower you?” He jests, cradling your face before his fingers dig into the center of a rose. “I don't see that possible. Must I remind you I'm engaged?” You entertain, mirroring his action, thumb caressing the softness of his cheek. He turns to kiss the pad, an airy chuckle when your nail slightly scrapes his upper lip.
Haechan shrugs, slipping the straps down your arm. Holding your hand like a debutante at her inauguration. Your stage in the shape of a circular bed and a heart-shaped velvet headboard.
“But it is your first time without Jaemin.” He justifies with sly sharpness, laying you down once fully stripped down to your girdle and panties.
His hands don’t caress your breast for too long, opting to pet them delicately before trailing off your body onto his. Your lips part, words that haven’t formulated wanting to cascade from your mouth. Your eyes track his movement, yet your focus is on the discarded dress Jaemin had bought for you.
A dress he spent long enough saving for you to wear at this night’s banquet. There was pride in the way guests complimented both of you and one that you would’ve liked for him to express behind closed doors the way Haechan is doing now. Ravishing your body and enjoying the fruits of his hard labor.
But it’s not him that enjoys what he worked hard to obtain. It’s another man that you have only talked to once and who isn’t treating the delicate custom piece the way Jaemin would have.
“Donghyuck,” He interrupts, unzipping his burnt amber leather pants. “You can call me Donghyuck, or Hyuck.”
“Hyuck…” You try out, muted and whisper like as your eyes rake his nakedness. By nature, your teeth take your lower lip, clinging hard enough as your restless hands unclasp the garters from olive stockings, leaving them hanging on your satin girdle.
He smiles with a nod, kneeling before your feet. The action blowing your pupils; his hands were cold again, a delightful coolness to your warm thighs as he parts them, further pushing the girdle over your hips.
“Precisely like that.” He answers giving no time for you to react or respond as he pulls down your matching panties. Slick and warm from your arousal that has been brewing since before you left the banquet. Anticipation from his words during the phone call replaying all night.
Hyuck isn’t soft nor a clean eater. He’s rough and famished like a predator that hasn’t been satisfied in centuries. If he was Dracula, he thinks you would be his Elisabeta.
Frenzied, he tugs harshly at your stockings, ripping the fabric off your legs despite your complaints. Those he overturns into pleasured mewls while his tongue intrudes your hole and scoops further slick that he spreads over your cunt.
If he thinks you’re too quiet, he nips your clit. Sadistically laughing against you when you yelp in pleasure. Simultaneously tugging his hair and pushing his face further into your core. Rewarding him with mewls and chants of his name, “Hyuck… Hyuck, Hyuck, Hyuck!” — As much as he rewards you with more stimulation.
Delighted, Donghyuck looks up at you, eyelids heavy and lower half of his face smothered in nothing but your arousal. He sighs heavily with a smile that you’ve seen only on Jaemin’s face before. “You’re so sweet… You taste so sweet, Y/n.”
Whether it’s from the feeling of his fingers intruding your walls — thick enough to stretch you with the first intrusion — or his salacious use of your name. But what you’re sure of is that you want more of what he’s giving. More so when you know this is only the start.
His plump lips are swollen from this ministration and his natural plush, coming in contact with your scathingly hot cunt. Encircling the mound as his fingers revel in the tautness of your opening. The muscles flexing around his digits to grow accustomed to the plunging. It stings in a way only a masochist could enjoy and a sadist could appreciate.
It helps that his lips and tongue generously alleviate the fever of your cunt. Velvet kitten licks that turn flat on the vulva as a whole. Reaching your clit, he sucks on the nerve like you had his nipples. The action concomitantly makes you writhe in pleasure, displayed through shrieks of joy and laughter at his audaciousness. One that he replicates when you caress his shaggy hair. Locks turning curlier the further he sweat and they stick to his forehead.
You grow restless the further he continues his assault against your cunt. Moaning and wailing his name to let you release. But he does not relent; his hips jut against the bed, fingers curling within you with each thrust. His mouth seeks to consume every drop of arousal produced by you while punitively forbidding you full pleasure.
Like a pained martyr wanting to be in the hands of God, you writhe underneath his mouth. Begging and imploring for him to let you finish and thence give him the same pleasure he’s brought to you.
“Donghyuck, please! I can’t hold back anymore.” You cry, tugging at his curls with every jolt from his tongue flickering your clit. He feels the need to laugh at your misery but it’s also very endearing. Heartfelt enough, he opts to wrap his lips around your clit once more, lightly sucking while his fingers caress your accustomed walls.
He pats your thigh, indicating that it’s fine for you to come. Fortified when rather than sucking, he kisses your cunt and his fingers no longer thrust. With such, you moan loudly, holding his head between your thighs while you writhe from expelling such pleasure.
“Donghyuck!”
You cry, panting heavily. Your legs shake, scathing around his head and even if he’s suffocated he doesn’t let go. Instead, he helps you push them further until both of you are satisfied and you’re left spent on the bed. With a heaving chest and a sore cunt that has not yet received everything he promised you that morning.
Satisfied with his accomplishment, Hyuck smiles up at you. His head on your thigh, heat easily could have merged your skins if it was merciless but it’s fond due to his care. His eyes cannot move elsewhere, stuck on your face as you try to calm yourself down.
He blows cold against your cunt, hoping that helps your new found pleasure. It doesn’t, it makes you twitch under the slight graze of his breath and makes your eyes open to look down at him. To witness how beautifully consumed he looks.
Swollen pink lips, glossed by your come. Teeth showing themselves when your eyes meet his, teeth that tortured and enamored you at the same time with their sadistic caresses on the most vital organ of your cunt.
Your hand shakily reaches for his face in attempts to caress his delicate features. Those full cheeks that you could possibly spend long enough touching for comfort and amusement. Hyuck must have read your mind and did not seem to share your sentiment. He allows his smile to softly falter at the weigh of reality that you much rather ignore, patting your thigh as he stands up. His strained red raw cock springing when no longer restrained by the bed.
Your eyes instantly draw to the phallic, quivering at how it twitches under your gaze and its dire need for release. You feel your mouth salivating, pooling within your closed lips wanting to be felt all over him. He lets you watch, allowing his fingers to softly rake his torso in a manner of restraint. Only the layer of tension makes this even more excruciating and it truly doesn’t help that when your hands can no longer remain to your sides and reach for him, he takes two steps back to leave you hanging from the bed. Just like with your attempt to caress his face.
Hyuck doesn’t smile tauntingly nor does he let out an airy laugh like he does when he mocks you. He leaves you in silence through his course towards a vanity to pull out a rubber. You think this is worse than his playful taunt. Because it’s simply that, playful but this is uncertain and silent, and you’re not sure what it could possibly mean after only being eaten out.
It could be your inexperience? Jaemin was the only man you’ve been with and he’s always been more than worshiping after every single act. Hyuck had been doting during the act and kind enough after but he wasn’t Jaemin and you don’t know what to think after rejecting your fellatio and touch.
“Let me,” You beg in a whisper, crawling on the bed in his direction. Your knees sink onto the mattress, following his every move. From his fingers grasping the carton box of Trojans, to them ripping the rectangular foil open and letting the red piece lay over a jewelry box.
“Please…”
Haechan doesn’t let your pleas distract him from the action. He stares into your eyes as he rolls the prophylactic, letting you know that he won’t grant you the satisfaction of pleasing him. Of touching him…
As if it was the biggest tragedy you’ve ever encountered, a heavy and pained sigh leaves your throat. Your hands don’t hesitate to cover your face. Dizzy from this denial and lack of gratification. Perhaps you are insatiable and greedy, but you are not satisfied with only his mouth. You want to feel him, taste him, touch him.
The action creates a flutter within his being. A warmth bigger than that of your legs around his head, one that makes him feel as feverish and dizzy as you. Seeing you so upset and sickly over not being able to consume him. It was pride, he’s sure of it. Arrogance and pride, something he knows all too well and that he’s reveling upon right now.
Yes, this is how he wants you. Craving him and only him.
It brings back the tease that he is, his laugh increasing in volume while your face is buried in your hands, desperate for him to move onto the following step. To give you something now that your cunt feels empty and needy again. You would like to think that if you weren’t this hot and bothered, his patronizing would upset you. But no matter how you look at it, you’ll always take whatever is given no matter how degrading as long as you get your fix.
“It won’t feel good with a condom,” He justifies despite his harsh grasp on your hair, forcing you to look up at his goading pout. He could be berating you and you’d still want to kiss those lips. “Maybe next time.” He adds before you can beg again, his grasp on your hair aiding his handling to get you to lay back on the bed.
It’s harsh and punitive, the kind that creates adrenaline in you that you wish for more. It leaves your chest heaving, grinning at him as he gets on the bed, crawling between your legs. Hyuck simply responds with that smile and chuckle you’ve grown to like more and more this night. Pushing your shoulder down as he takes your legs, parting them further and around his hips.
Jaemin had always been soft since the beginning. He’s experimental, audacious, an adrenaline junkie when it comes to locations, and open to any desire of yours. But there’s a softness in his touch that leaves you restless and far more insatiable than you think you are. There’s been multiple cases where he breaks the mold and becomes as rough as you want him but it doesn’t take long for him to return to what he truly is and it leaves you hollow, yearning for the thing that comes once in a blue moon.
Perhaps if Jaemin was rougher, you wouldn’t be here. On the brink of coming with the bruising shove of fingers on skin by a stranger.
Haechan is a tease in the manner he grabs his cock and presses the tip against your opening. Giving you hope and taking it away when he doesn’t penetrate you. He plays around, rubbing his latex clad penis over your warm and wet sex. Smiling wider every time he thinks of something snarky to say, yet he keeps it in his head before teasing your entrance once more until you’re clinging onto his arms, begging and begging.
“Please don't,” You whine, nails digging into his scalp when you bring his head closer. Tears pooling on your waterline, eyebrows upturned in despair. “Stop teasing, I need you.” It is then that he lets out his thoughts, using your gesture of proximity to plant his lips on yours. A languid tender kiss in which one hand held your hip and the other his cock, rubbing slowly to not excite himself furthermore. Wanting the pent up need to be used on you and not himself.
His tongue intrudes your mouth, you can slightly taste yourself. His tongue is sweet and silky against yours. The nectar of your arousal interlaced with his already saccharine saliva, flowing in between your mouths as he slowly but surely penetrates you like you had begged.
Though he had prepared you, the girth of the shaft was larger than that of his fingers. It stretches the muscles of your cunt as he goes in. Donghyuck was no cruel man, sadistic and somewhat of an ass, but not cruel to not let you adjust to the stinging stretch. Allowing you periods of grace until you’d nod to let him know to continue this pattern until he was able to bottom out.
With every move, your lips part allowing his tongue to deepen in the cavern of your mouth. It brought a great pleasure in Donghyuck to have you so pliable for him. So ready and accepting of whatever as long as he brought you the promised pleasure.
Something else to envy your fiance for…
“I can tell he doesn't fuck you well if you’re this tight…” his words force your hand to cover his mouth, moaning when he begins to thrust in retaliation. His now free hand attempts to pry yours off his face, some muffled words here and there along the lines of:
“Admit it,”
“I bet I’m bigger than him, there’s no other reason for you to be this tight.”
Or, “Hm, maybe he doesn’t fuck you. Maybe he does. Maybe he simply doesn’t know how to do it well so you lie. You lie to keep your perfect boy happy.”
Donghyuck only got meaner and rougher, enough that it made vexation mix with your strangled moans as he thrusts into you. Truly in your head there was no reason for him to bring Jaemin into this. Matter of fact, you’re sure this was meant to make you forget about him for an hour or so while you enjoy the pleasure inflicted upon you.
But he’s all you’ve thought about and you’re not appreciative that Donghyuck is manifesting him in this instance. Not this despective, at least.
You stop struggling with Hyuck, freeing your hand and connecting it with his mouth again. This time a little too harshly, comparable to a slap. Your eyes widen slightly as he halts his thrusts, boring into yours. “I’m sorry…” you begin, apologetic that you had grown rougher without intent.
“I’m sorry, just… don’t bring him into this. He’s more than satisfactory.” The gradual change in tone from repentance to assertion didn’t ease Hyuck’s resentment. It fueled and frustrated him further. He’s well aware he shouldn’t care, you haven’t done anything special for him to feel this way but that same doting sentiment you brought when it came to your fiance egged him further into this bitter pit.
Donghyuck ignores your words, his hands sliding down your arms, thumbs caressing your breast until they reach you hips all the while he fucks into you again. Grunts that turn into moans, reaching down to kiss your neck. This position forces his hips to jut, enough to grant a different feel when he thrusts and force moans out of you.
His kisses are tender, nipping when he thinks back to seconds prior. You wince when it does happen but forget when he hits your sweet spot and your pained expression turns to one of pleasure. It’s when your hands reach his head, holding onto him for dear life knowing you couldn’t hold back longer that he took this opportunity to speak again.
“Does he let you do that?” He asks against your ear, nipping the lobe. Moaning into it when you clench around him. The mention of Jaemin turning you on despite your insistence to not bring him up earlier.
Donghyuck is unsure how to feel now. If he mentions your fiance you get turned on but if he doesn't, then how is he meant to spit out his venom? It’s a double edged sword and he loses each time.
“Do what?” You ask panting, your sweaty hands slide down his equally sweaty back and he grips your upper body. Groaning when he helps you sit over his lap. The new position helps you sink on his shaft, feeling yourself shake slightly when you feel him to the hilt.
“Take your anger out on him.” Donghyuck mentions so calmly like it means nothing. He did it in a manner that felt so normal while he didn’t seize his movements, burying his face in your neck while holding you close to him. As if he wanted to merge your atoms together and make one out of you both.
Your hands clung to his body, hugging him tight against you while your own hips began gyrating against his. You wanted to make him forget what he had brought up but you knew it wouldn’t be enough. Not when his fingers dig into your skin practically begging for you to vindicate him.
“I didn't mean to be rough with you.” You explain in between labored breaths.
“I don’t care. You can do it again if it makes you feel good.” Hyuck justifies, kissing your neck in the process. “Soft or rough, I want to make you feel good, Y/n. Come on,” Donghyuck pulls back, letting your arms slide from his body despite his thrusts not seizing.
He takes your hand into his, placing it over his cheek. “Please,” he begs in a whisper, groaning when your hips continue moving against his in hopes bringing him to a climax will make him forget this foolery.
It doesn't. You should've guessed when it comes to someone as adroit.
“Do you want that?” You ask cautiously, holding onto his shoulder with your free hand. Donghyuck looks at you, eyes as glossed as his lips when he begins to speak.
“I want whatever you want.”
Your breath hitches, pupils dilating at his words, and your lips part while your breath comes out shakily. It doesn’t take long for your to let your hand fall against his face like he had begged. Feeling the skin vibrate against yours, stinging your palm deliciously.
While he relishes in the impact and the wonderfully hot sting, you relish in your climax. Moaning shakily as you come around him, your hands searching for his and clinging to them hard enough despite the tickle.
Donghyuck doesn’t come but he does feel gratified with your compliance in making him feel needed and heard.
You pant, smiling to yourself as you rapidly come down from that high. Haechan replicates your expression, your smiles turning to laughs that mute when he kisses you. It’s messy and rushed, lips barely slotting, yet making sure your tongues meet. Playfully, he nips the muscle before sucking on it and swallowing your surprised moans.
Jaemin has never done this… His kisses are tender and if ever feverish, they’re still neat and painless. Never obscene.
Both of you last for minutes in that position, kissing to no end despite your lungs begging for air. Yet, if there’s one thing they should’ve learned tonight, is that neither you or Hyuck are opposed to self-inflicted pain.
He’s still hard and you’re on your second orgasm but this works to heighten that exigent pleasure. Your hips jut slightly, forcing a moan out of him that reminds you that he hasn’t come not even once. His self-restraint far stronger than yours will ever be.
Swiftly as he has been this entire night, Donghyuck helps you off his cock. He shudders at the loss of contact and compression. It twitches under your gaze and it reminds you of how much you want to taste him. While he’s still on the bed and you’re settled before him, you reach forward. Hyuck doesn’t hesitate to catch your wrist, preventing you from even feeling the weight on your palm.
There’s no other way than to whine, lunging forward even if it’s to just settle your face on his thighs. It doesn’t matter, you kiss the skin while imprinting your orisons on it. Lips burning with the touch of his flesh when they fall against it. Every time you attempt to move further up his thighs, he shoves your head.
“Fuck, please… Just a touch.” You whine, salivating at the sight of his heavy red cock mere inches away from your face. You feel delirious, as dizzy as someone stranded in a desert only at arms length from a pool of water, their ultimate salvation. Salvation that he keeps denying while he gets off the bed.
He struggles to steady his breathing, grasping your arm to pull off the bed and drag you willingly towards the window. Donghyuck kisses you hungrily like a starved man that hasn’t ate throughout lent, taking fasting as seriously as Jesus had done.
But Donghyuck was anything but holy and his years of believing were past him. Instead he’s in these four walls as a married man corrupting a closeted nymphomaniac that’s months away from marrying the love of her life. Someone that Donghyuck has grown an agenda towards without knowing him nor you. His only basis stems from having you. Someone so willing and sweet. Someone that should be meant for him, and things like this remind him why his heart harbors no more space for higher beings and their promised universal love.
Donghyuck sighs shakily when you separate, kissing the side of your head before leading you to the glass wall. His lips trail onto your neck and shoulder blades, groaning softly with every grace of his erect cock against your backside. Pushing you against the glass and letting the cold bite onto your skin, receiving the feeling with a squeal but no attempt to push back. To an extent it felt like a cool balm to your excessively scalding body.
“Look how pretty the night is.” He nudges your ankles to part your legs. You hum a response, dumbly nodding as if the words hadn’t processed. Haechan laughs, amused at how easy you falter. How easy it is for you to turn docile and willing. “It seems neighbors are having some fun of their own.” He points out, houses on far lower levels demonstrate a group of people having a lovely get together. Nothing like the one him and his wife are hosting.
He takes advantage of your distraction to push through your aching folds, forcing a guttural moan out of you while your knees buck. Your hands are too sweaty to hold onto the glass, but he makes sure to hold you by the waist, clinging tightly to your still kept girdle.
“Wouldn’t it be fun if they saw you like this? So open and pretty for me…” He sighs contently, throwing his head back at the image. Their appalled (or perhaps pleased) looks seeing how he pistons into you. Rough yet pleasurable that you wail for more and more while you press against the glass, leaving the imprint of your body against it.
“You would want that, right? To have someone look at you being fucked and exposed.” He moans against your ear, kissing the outer shell before gripping your chin, forcing you to look back at him. You’re so far gone and he’s enjoying it like the little shit he is.
Enough so that he grasps your inner thigh, bringing your leg around his torso and letting the muscle burn as long as you both feel good. All to bring down a bucket of ice cold water that you can only respond to by pushing back on him.
“What if it was your fiance down there watching how good I fuck you? Would you want him to see that I make you come fast?”
His thrusts are relentless, he mouths the words to provoke you but all he’s doing is turn you on and anger himself further. Either way, you’re on the receiving end and you don’t care if he’s roughly intentional or not.
Donghyuck is frustrated. With himself and with you. He’s known you for only a night and like in true selfish manner, you’ve enamored him. If someone was to keep such a delicacy and diamond in the rough of a woman, it should be him. Not Jaemin and most definitely none of the other men in attendance.
It’s faith! He’s called it, it’s faith that led you to him and for such his frustration grows more and more. How is he meant to claim his days of believing are gone when he’s convinced faith is what led you here. Maybe you were God sent for him to recover his faith. Yet he knows if that’s to happen, he’ll be blasphemous and find religion within you in the chapel between your legs…
His thrusts don’t seize and his noises become louder than the prior activities. Donghyuck’s grasp on you is harsher, imprinting his fingers on your thighs and upper body. Lips ravishing your neck and shoulders like a death row inmate, savoring their last meal.
Donghyuck can only express these frustration through his words and harsh grasps. “Do you want him to see how you’re begging to have my cock in your mouth knowing you can’t? To see how hungry you are for another man you won’t pledge eternity to?”
It’s the latter that causes you to throw your head back onto his shoulder, moaning loudly like he had dug a dagger into your heart with such cruel words. Cruel but truthful, because you truly did want to taste and feel him in your mouth. And you won’t deny that having Jaemin experience that would make you flood. Not for Haechan’s cruel intentions but because you’d experience this debauchery with your lover.
This time Hyuck can’t hold you up when your knees give up. He slides down with you, grunting as he holds his hips from fucking into you until you’ve reached the carpeted floor. He doesn’t speak again, he’s run out of things to make your emotions thither over the precipice but nothing does it and it’s more probable that he breaks than you.
But the words replay in your head with every thrust, every kiss to your skin. Specifically to those to your temple, like the ones Jaemin gives when he fucks you from behind. It’s all so familiar and warm that for your third orgasm, you’re not able to verbalize your pleasure. Instead your body does the talking, shaking while clenching around him. Your breath fogs up the glass, the most sound you make is that of panting while you come down from your orgasm and the squelch between your thighs as he continues his plunging.
He lets you spasm beneath him while his movement grows languid, exerting little to no force. Simply holding you up knowing you’ll turn into putty if he drops his touch from you. Donghyuck allows his words to be soft and caring now. Uttering pet names that make you smile stupidly against the glass wall and let tiny pleased noises with each one. He’s so sweet… when he wants to be.
When he no longer feels any movement from you, he sighs to himself while pulling out. The action makes you groan, so accustomed to the feel of his penis plunged into you and secreting the cavern in the most wonderful way. What was once warm now feels cool with the breeze passing by and it reminds you that it is yet another winter day. Not the scalding summer that you experience with Donghyuck.
Through the reflection on the glass you watch him. His pained expression when he attempts to touch his cock. It’s swollen and sensitive, having suffered eons in restraint. He pants heavily, removing the not yet soiled condom but one that suffocated him. You muster whatever strength is left in you, crawling his way and catching his attention when your hands grasp his calves.
Donghyuck turns startled, breath hitching in the back of his throat while you look at him. Calming his thumping heart, Donghyuck looks down at you. Right hand cradles your cheek, burrowing into it and kissing his palm while looking at him like your Lord and savior. Having you before him like Mary Magdalene asking for forgiveness for her adultery. But Hyuck knows he’s not the one you should ask if you’re going to. He’s farther from Jesus of Nazareth.
“Please… let me feast upon you.” You whisper against his thigh, kissing it softly. Peppering kisses over the skin, tasting the saltiness on your lips. Reminiscing on those lovely beach days where all you could taste was sea salt even if you didn’t submerge in the murky waters. But this night you did and will continue to do so if he allows you a taste of the phallic that’s brought you pleasure more than once this night.
“I don’t think that’s possible.” He swallows, eyes fluttering shut to avoid the lewd image before him. He’s sure if he allows you to, you’ll consume him whole. If you do, he’s unsure how much he can restrain himself from not holding you captive and away from the world.
Donghyuck grunts, shaking his head with the words ‘Jaemin, you lucky bastard.’ repeating over and over in his head as you continue to make out with his thighs.
“Hyuck… Hyuckie, please…” You beg softly, licking a long stripe within his inner thighs. His breath shudders, holding onto your hair as a warning. Yet it’s becoming increasingly harder for him to gulp down his strained arousal. If he doesn’t come soon, it’s likely he’ll never do so again and that sounds more painful than anything he’s ever experienced.
“No. I can take care of myself.”
But he is stubborn and if he wasn’t so pained, he’d laugh at your petulant groan and expression. Seeing in your blazed eyes how you want to tug at his cock and make him ache for keeping himself away from you. So close yet so far. You can feel him but can’t taste him and that only frustrates you further.
“Don’t be so greedy!” There’s so much frustration and entitlement that if it wasn’t for how much the words affected him, he would’ve found you cute.
“Greedy?… Greedy?! I’ve been fucking you all night and you’re still not satisfied!” His voice booms throughout the room, his grasp on your hair turns rough. It stings ever so deliciously that it bothers Donghyuck how cock hungry you truly are.
No matter the situation, you’ll be both satisfied and de-satisfied like the nympho that you truly are.
It doesn’t help that you nod hungrily, lips parting and slowly sticking out the red muscle lathered in saliva that little by little trickle down from it. So hungry, so needy, so insatiable…
“No! No I’m not. I will never be until you let me taste you!”
You. Until you let me taste you.
Perhaps it’s the greed and selfishness. The dire need to be desired and have attention be solely on him that sells him on it. Because in Haechan’s head, you had confessed your dire devotion to him. A devotion eternally strong enough that nothing will rid you of lechery but the taste of his cock and come in your mouth. Very much like communion bread and wine.
He scoffs a laugh, that beautiful grin that you have missed within these minutes. That’s what he receives you with before answering once and for all.
“Fine. If that will soothe your soul."
And like a depraved fiend, you mimic his pleased grin reaching forward while he grips his cock. Pumping once, then twice, then thrice before slapping it over your lips. Instantly painting them with droplets of pre-come that he lathers over them before letting you kiss his tip.
You smile at him like this is the most divine meal. Your tongue pokes out, taking some of those droplets into your mouth to get a taste of his essence. Your eyelids to flutter, gripping his thighs and bringing him closer to your face before slowly easing the phallic into your mouth.
Donghyuck moans and eases into it like the first time he penetrated you. His hands feel antsy, tingling with restraint to not touch you while you sink further down his length. Your tongue swirls around the shaft, savoring the feel of every vein and taste of him. To rile him further, you moan around him, the vibration from your throat forcing him to unconsciously thrust. You gag, curses leaving his lips apologetically while his hand caresses your face.
When your nose reaches his pubic bone, Donghyuck can’t hold back. He grasps both sides of your face. Guiding your bobs until he takes over and begins thrusting into your mouth. The squelching from your throat, your tongue swirling around his tip to draw out pre-come, and the drops of saliva that cling to your lips feels filthier than any porno he’s ever seen or any experience he’s ever had.
Donghyuck doesn’t know how he’ll function knowing his best orgasm will stem from someone that he most likely won’t ever see again. If he’s realistic and perceptive enough, he knows this is it. So how is he meant to survive when you’re so willing and needy just for him? Having waited eons upon eons to taste him like this until he finally gave out and rewarded you.
He’s not sure nor does he want to dwell. Not when you look so beautiful before him on your knees, lips wrapped around his swollen cock and moving against it for him to reach an orgasm. Petting his inner thighs and teasing his testicles with your warm hands. Any touch, any graze drives him closer and Donghyuck can no longer hold back.
“Is this what you wanted?” He pants, hips jutting against your mouth. His fingers rake your damp hair with every move. His nails had been perfectly trimmed, yet the sting of them raking against your scalp brings onto the pleasure of this action.
“To have me this way? Taste and consume me?” Donghyuck eggs on, his thrusts are shaky and sloppy. He can’t hold back anymore and your enthusiastic nods don’t help. He wants to present himself as strong but his whines and shaky moans say the opposite. He’s held back his orgasm for so long that this is enough to push him over the ledge.
“Y/n… y/n, y/n, my sweet y/n…” He chants like you had done with his name when he first laid upon you. Everything was full circle and with this stream of pleasure, Donghyuck lets go. His come spurts into your mouth, trickling down your throat like communion wine aiming to cleanse your soul. This would do the opposite but for this night it all feels heavenly.
Donghyuck shudders under your grasp, hips faltering as he aims to calm himself down. Any moans shush and turn into labored breaths, nodding to himself trying to dispel the haziness in his head. He gives it a few minutes and appreciates that you make no effort to rip your lips from his soft penis. It’s warm and homey, he wonders if you do this for Jaemin too until he’s ready to separate. It’s a nice feeling he could get used to but one that doesn’t belong to him.
With a final sigh, Hyuck pulls back. A soft chuckle when he hears a pop and sees the string of saliva connecting you to him. He smiles tenderly, bringing it upon his fingers and softly smearing it against your swollen lips. It’s tender and domestic, as if it had been rouge you misplaced and he’s helping you with it. In the process his thumb rids of some spilled come, bringing it into his mouth to savor what you have.
It makes him crave more, wondering if this is what you felt when he kissed you after cunnilingus. Wonders if it made you want to feel his mouth more and more like he does right now.
Donghyuck grasps your upper arm, helping you onto your feet and leading you to the bed. It feels different than the first time he had done so. His movements are slow and tender, kissing you softly enough to catch you off guard. You hesitate for a second before kissing him back, arms wrapping around his shoulders. It doesn’t prolong, that earlier guilt flooding you as the minutes tick.
Both of you have come and Donghyuck seems as spent as you, shouldn’t this terminate now? You don’t mention it, settling beside him when both of you calm down and any semblance of tension is gone. No longer enmeshed in search of sexual gratification.
Hyuck had been conscious that this felt different than all his encounters. He was convinced faith in fact did choose you for him. The probability of picking his keys were slim, yet your fingers found him like the oyster brooch had found you. Carefully, he pulls you to his side, taking you under his arm. A sense in you told you to stand up and end it. You both got what you wanted, Jaemin could be waiting for you.
Or he couldn’t. Perhaps he’s still busy himself…
The thought sours your mouth rubbing your face to rid of any expressions. Hyuck is good in reading those and after tonight, an empathetic side of you doesn’t want to hurt him either. So you relent, getting comfortable beside the warm body that embraces you as his hands memorize the skin he won’t feel again.
You both lay silent for what feels like an eternity. It’s comfortable and warm but eventually it turns static and the cold outside finally affects you like it had tried to throughout this entire night. You feel your joints grow rigid and your eyes turn to the discarded dress.
“You didn’t fully explain how you found the invitation.” He attempts to distract, fingers turning your face to his. A timid smile on his face that makes you frown. He seems completely different from the man that ravished you not long ago. It’s upsetting even to have this much control outside of the context of swinging.
“Um, again, found it on the sink drain of a powder room. I thought of handing it over to the restaurant staff in case someone came for it but…” you pause, turning to the decor of this room. So familial and full of life. “But it was too pretty,” You smile fondly, “I noticed the phone number inside and thought it would be better to hand it directly to the owner and well…” You smile, looking back at him.
Donghyuck chuckles, nodding as he turns back to your dress. “I suppose you brought it then.” He answers with a nod; you shake your head. “Don’t presume I’d hand it back.” You joke, smiling when he turns to look at you. He laughs in response, something you replicate. “Would you mind if I keep it?” You ask, he shakes his head with a tender and relaxed smile now.
“No, but I do believe you deserve a prettier brooch than that cheap thing.” He answers, pulling away from you to walk towards a jewelry box on the vanity. You sit up, draping the bedsheets over you as your eyebrows furrow, watching his moves.
His fingers thread lightly over the filigree of the brass jewelry box, flipping the clasp open. You hear the clank of metals among themselves as he decides on what piece to grab. It takes him a while and despite the bed sheet, your skin develops goosebumps.
“Ah,” He tells himself, smiling when he turns to you. He approaches you again, crawling on the bed. His flaccid penis makes you blush as if you hadn’t almost sacrificed yourself to taste it. He’d taunt you but he doesn’t want this moment to mar.
He brings it closer to you, opening the blue velvet box. It’s so reminiscent of Jaemin’s proposal that words clog in your throat and your eyes sting. You attempt to shake your head but the muscles refuse to move. You know it’s not like that. The box is larger, rectangular, but you still can’t accept it. This isn’t how things are meant to be.
Donghyuck ignores the turbulence within you, smiling fondly as he pushes the box further as an offering. “Something blue, something old, something borrowed, and something new.” He utters in a sigh, a slight smile as he looks at the jewelry pieces. His fingers hover over them, not allowing any light to gloss over. Yet in the darkness, the blue gems shine no matter what.
“I can’t.” You let out in a whisper, finally being able to shake your head. “I can’t see why not?” He answers with a smile, unclasping the diamond crusted bracelet. It fits big on your wrist and the metal is rather cold but he only hums. “I trust it will fit you well anyway.” He answers before taking the earrings. He doesn’t put those on you, he simply places them on your palms, closing your fingers around droplet sapphires.
You close your eyes trying to understand his reasoning. He shouldn’t reward you like this. It’s all so beautiful but it creates a pit in your stomach that you’re not able to understand. On one hand you feel confused, almost offended. You’ve always heard men treat their ‘whores’ like this and that’s the last thing you want to be to Donghyuck.
Sure, you just fucked him and only came in search for him but it was all under the guise of experimentalism. Trying to get a fix outside of Jaemin and you’ve received that already. But you don’t want to feel like a whore… you’ve grown with the mindset that that’s the last thing you want to be. Mrs. Wayne would be further disappointed.
On the other hand, you feel guilt. How would Jaemin react? How would he feel to see that a stranger has gifted you these gems presumably as a wedding gift. It feels patronizing to an extent. Is he mocking Jaemin? Is he mocking you? A deeper part of you feels ecstatic to be given this fortune. After all diamonds are girl’s best friend but your pride and ego is hurt on behalf of yourself and Jaemin. Donghyuck means well, you see it in his warm gaze but to anyone outside of this room, it won’t seem like such.
You sigh heavily, shaking your ahead as you attempt to hand the earrings back but Donghyuck had already moved stealthily, crawling behind you to place the sapphire diamond drop necklace around your neck. Clasping it to ever so slightly grace the exposed skin of your neck. So smooth and warm, tempting enough to kiss, but he’s aware his time has come to an end.
“And your something old.” He utters silently, taking your other hand to place an orchid shaped brooch. It glimmers under the moonlight, much like the other jewelry he has draped over you like a ruler would on their favorite concubine. The only exception that you couldn’t be kept, not as he wishes he could.
You let silence flood the room, it’s still static and cold. Confusing and somewhat cruel, “Why?” You ponder out loud, turning your head to look at him. His expressions are neutral, that smile hasn’t faltered and it only grows while formulating a response. “Why not?” He answers, moving off the bed towards the nightstand, pulling out a cigarette. It’s a menthol like the one offered to Jaemin earlier.
“Because,” You begin, shifting your body towards him. “You just can’t.” You justify with no basis. You’re just speaking words, words formulated by the what woulds’ and what if’s of society. Jaemin had never cared for them and it seems Donghyuck cares far less. “But why not? I have them, I gave them to you. That’s it.” He shrugs with the limp stick between his lips as he trudges around the room to pick out clothes. That alone makes questions flourish in your brain but right now, you focus on the jewelry.
“It just doesn’t make sense. I’m sure these are dear to you, you don’t even know me.” You answer, a laugh at how absurd this is. “You don’t know me either and you gave yourself to me.” He answers, tapping his cigarette against the glass ash tray. “Soon you’ll learn that many things in life don’t make sense.” Donghyuck says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Not everything needs a reason to be, Y/n. It’s okay to enjoy things when presented to you as long as you learn to let go or know that it won’t always be offered.”
The words are mostly uttered to himself, exhaling the smoke that smothers his throat purposefully so. Donghyuck had grown to be petulant, childish, and demanding. Things that he cannot be when it comes to you.
“Now come, let’s shower before you leave.” He smiles wider, standing from the bed to take your hand. You let the words sink, not fully convinced but this once you’ll revel in indulgence. If you’ve indulged in the taste of foreign flesh, what more harm does it do to take the fruits of such?
You smile in return, nodding at his words and acceptance. “I had fun, by the way.” You admit before standing up, taking his hand. Donghyuck restrains himself from leaning in to even kiss your forehead. He simply nods, holding his lovely smile. “I did too. More than I could imagine…”
Donghyuck hadn’t trespassed during the shower, it felt like a last goodbye of intimacy without any touching. He had talked about things that didn’t matter to you nor to him. Talked about his wife in passing like it was only a ghost inhabiting the house that did no harm. His voice wasn’t warm but it wasn’t unkind either.
You had asked him in between jokes while you blow dried your hair if he often brought women into the room recalling your earlier inquiries. He had denied it with a heaviness as he uttered: “No, my wife would kill me.” You had questioned the meaning but he ignored it to not dwindle the mood again. He wanted to remember you cheerfully before you left the quarters that you later were reassured belonged to him and his wife.
Neither of them had been able to bring any of the swing meet attendees or anyone for that matter unless specified into this room but Donghyuck broke that rule for you because in his words, you were God sent to recover his faith… A faith so cruel that strips you away from him.
He hadn’t walked you out of the room, the heaviness in his chest weighed his every move as he helped you get dressed again. Apologetic for your destroyed stockings and disgusting girdle that you both decided to simply throw away.
If he can will himself to when the day comes…
Instead, Haechan watched you cross the threshold of the bedroom and dwell in the moonlight alone while you calmly walk down the corridor with a tranquility that turns to happiness when Jaemin himself walks out of the neighboring room.
You sweet lovely Jaemin. He greets you with that wide smile that you’ve loved since day one. Glimmering pearly whites and pretty pink lips that part to speak your name ever so fondly. You sigh contently, jumping into his arms like a woman who had been waiting for their lover to return from war. Ignoring the slight stains of rouge on the collar of his shirt.
“Nana,” You sigh contently, kissing his cheek as he grasps your hand to walk down the empty corridor. He doesn’t question your washed hair, he doesn’t question the lack of stockings or makeup, and he doesn’t even frown when seeing the beautifully wrinkled gown he was supposed to enjoy.
His keys jingle in the pocket of his suit jacket, drowning your enthusiastic words. He listens intently, humming as a response and only turning to you when you let silence linger for a bit too long. He’s always been so attentive. Whether it’s due to his career or his loving nature, Jaemin always listened and knew the right thing to say.
Until now.
“Well I’m glad you enjoyed yourself love, it surely looked like it.” He begins, squeezing your hand as you both wobble around the shards of crystal still lingering at the front of the home. It was far darker outside now, not even the moonlight or the sign lights could illuminate the expressions engraved in his face hearing every detail of your rendezvous.
On a safer path, Jaemin lets your hand go. Patting your cheek without looking at you while walking.
“I couldn’t go through it. All I thought about is you.”
Jaemin walks away, calm like he always is. Calm like arrival and calm as he exits. Leaving you behind to be swallowed by the forces of guilt that had corroded your body long before existing. Submerging you in the daunting realization of Jaemin’s perpetual affliction.
PAIRING: pervert!roommate!haechan, friend!fem!reader
GENRE: smut, fluff (if you squint), comedy (I TRIED)
CONTENTS: explicit smut (kissing, breeding(USE PROTECTION EVERYONE), fingering, public sex, oral (fem receiving), overstimulation, dirty talk, mating press
WORD COUNT:
SUMMARY: Between a mocking bank balance and a looming eviction notice, Y/N is one Friday away from moving into an NYU study cubicle permanently. Desperate for a roommate to cover the rent, she’s ready to accept anyone—anyone except Lee Haechan. He’s charming, devastatingly handsome, and the most irritating person she’s ever met. But when the "Full Sun" himself offers to be her financial lifeline, Y/N has to decide what’s worse: being homeless, or living with the man who knows exactly how to get under her skin.
PLAYLIST: I don’t exactly have a playlist but Roll with me - Haechan would be a good song.
NOTES: Hello! I'm a new writer here and I hope you'll enjoy my babyy.. I haven't proof read anything but please tell me if you like my writing style! tell me if you wanna be tagged.
The smell of cardboard, cheap packing tape, and Haechan’s oddly expensive cologne filled the cramped hallway of Y/N’s apartment. It had been seventy-two hours since the library incident, and yet, watching Jeno effortlessly hoist a heavy box of electronics over his shoulder, Y/N still felt like she was watching a slow-motion train wreck.
She stood by the kitchen counter, her knuckles white as she gripped a glass of water. It was happening. Lee Haechan was officially invading her sanctuary.
Her mind, usually a fortress of logic, was currently a chaotic mess of "What have I done?" and "Oh god, he’s actually hot." As Haechan walked past her to drop a duffel bag, his shirt rode up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his tan hip bone. Y/N’s brain immediately took a treacherous detour. She found herself imagining him walking into the kitchen at 7:00 AM, shirtless, hair a mess, that annoying smirk softened by sleep. She imagined the steam from the shower hitting his tan skin, the way his voice would sound all raspy and deep in the morning—
SMACK.
Y/N slapped her own cheek with enough force to make Chenle drop the stack of hangers he was carrying.
"You okay there? The fumes from the tape getting to you?" Chenle asked, eyeing her with genuine concern.
"Mosquito," Y/N lied through gritted teeth, her face stinging. "Huge one. Very aggressive."
"Right," Chenle snorted, turning back to help Jeno maneuver a floor lamp.
In the small kitchenette, Jaemin was already making himself at home, humming a tune as he flips the steak he’s been cooking. He looked like a domestic prince, his prettiest heartthrob title well-earned even while wearing a simple oversized hoodie. He glanced over his shoulder at Y/N, catching her panicked expression and offering a sympathetic, albeit amused, smile.
Haechan, however, was in his element. He was thriving on the chaos. He walked over to where Y/N was standing, leaning one arm against the counter right next to her head, trapping her in his space. He looked down at her, his dark eyes sparkling with that bratty energy. His face looked cute but we all know how mischievous a Lee Donghyuck is.
"You know, Y/N," Haechan started, dropping his voice to that low, flirtatious register. "I know this is a big adjustment for you. Having all this," he gestured vaguely to his own face and body, "available to look at twenty-four-seven? It’s a lot of responsibility. I promise I’ll try to wear clothes at least forty percent of the time if it helps you focus."
He gave her a slow, exaggerated wink, leaning in just a fraction closer.
Y/N stared at him, her annoyance finally snapping the tether of her internal panic. She didn't back away. Instead, she tilted her head, looking him up and down with a clinical, unimpressed expression.
"Donghyuck," she said, her voice flat and loud enough for the whole room to hear. She leans in and pinched his ear, earning an “owww” from him "The only thing I’ll be 'focusing' on is how someone with a forehead that big manages to have such a tiny, underdeveloped brain. And as for the clothes? Please, stay covered. I’ve seen more muscle on a rotisserie chicken, and frankly, looking at you for too long feels like staring at a solar eclipse—it's mostly disappointing and results in permanent eye damage."
A series of sharp, muffled snorts broke the silence. Chenle let out a dry, nasal sound of amusement while shaking his head, and Jeno ducked his chin into his shoulder, a short puff of air escaping his nose as he continued to haul a suitcase. Over at the stove, Jaemin’s shoulders shook slightly; he kept his back turned, but the way he gripped the wooden spoon told Y/N he was doing everything in his power not to let a full laugh escape.
Haechan visibly couldn’t find the words that could counter her remarks as he rubs the throbbing ear. His brain visibly rebooting as he searched for a comeback that didn't exist. He looked like a puppy that had just been told it was going to the vet instead of the park. He just gave her a finger and silently turned around to grab another box from the hallway, his ears turning a bright, tell-tale shade of red.
Y/N took a long, satisfied sip of her water, the dread in her chest easing just a little. If she could keep him shut up like that, maybe—just maybe—she’d survive the semester.
The digital clock on the microwave glowed a sharp, neon green: 12:42 AM.
Y/N padded into the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the cold linoleum. She was restless, her mind still reeling from the fact that Haechan’s boxes were now stacked in the room across the hall. Seeking the comfort of a glass of milk to drown out her racing thoughts, she reached for the cupboard, only to freeze when she realized she wasn't alone.
Haechan was leaned against the refrigerator. He looked nothing like the polished, sharp-tongued brat from the library. This version of him was raw and dangerously soft. He was clearly half-asleep, his body slumped with a heavy, uncoordinated grace. His hair was a chaotic nest of dark strands, sticking up in every direction, and his skin looked warm and slightly flushed from the heat of his blankets.
He wore a black oversized shirt (whom he wore halfway; he only wore one of the sleeves), and a pair of low-slung, thin grey sweatpants. The fabric hung loosely off his hips, the elastic waistband resting precariously low, revealing the deep, V-shaped lines of his torso. Because of the thin material and the way he was standing, the prominent bulge of his frame was impossible to ignore—a stark, bold silhouette against the soft grey fabric.
His eyes were the most distracting part. They were heavy-lidded and drowsy, barely half-open, giving him an alluringly seductive, dreamy look. He looked at Y/N through his lashes, his gaze lingering with a slow, hazy intensity that made the air in the small kitchen feel thick and pressurized.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured. His voice was a deep, gravelly rasp, vibrating in the quiet room. He didn’t tease. He didn’t smirk. He just watched her.
Y/N felt her throat go dry. “Water,” she managed to whisper, stepping forward to reach for the faucet.
The kitchen was narrow—too narrow for two people, especially when one was Lee Haechan. As she tried to sidestep him to get to the sink, her hand accidentally brushed against the front of his sweatpants. It was a fleeting, soft contact, but the heat radiating from him was immediate. Her knuckles grazed the firm, heavy curve of his bulge through the thin cotton.
The world seemed to stop. Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She gasped, pulling her hand back as if burned, her face erupting into a furious, deep crimson. She looked up, ready to find him laughing or throwing a lewd joke her way.
But Haechan was dead serious.
He didn't move away. Instead, he straightened up slowly, his heavy-lidded eyes darkening as they tracked the movement of her hand, then moved back up to her face. He didn't say a word. The silence was deafening, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the sound of their breathing.
He took a single step closer, his warmth enveloping her. He reached out—not to grab her, but to slowly reach behind her for a bag of pretzels on the counter. His bare chest nearly brushed her shoulder, the scent of his skin, warm and musky, filling her senses. As he pulled back, he let his gaze drop to her lips for a fraction of a second, a look of pure, unadulterated attraction that felt more intimate than any flirtatious comment he’d ever made.
A tiny, knowing smirk finally tugged at the corner of his mouth—not the bratty one, but something darker and more confident.
“Good night, Y/N,” he rumbled, his voice low enough to send a shiver straight down her spine.
He turned and walked back toward his room, the grey fabric of his sweats swaying with his stride. Y/N stood frozen in the dark kitchen, her hand still tingling from the accidental touch, her face burning so hot she was sure it would glow in the dark.
The morning sun filtered through the grime of the kitchen window, casting long, dusty beams across the linoleum, but the air in the apartment still felt heavy with the lingering tension of the night before.
Y/N was hunched over her coffee mug, staring into the dark liquid like it held the secrets to the universe, or at least a way to erase the memory of her knuckles grazing grey cotton. Her skin still felt hypersensitive; a phantom heat blooming wherever she imagined him standing.
Then, the floorboards groaned.
Haechan drifted into the kitchen like a ghost. He looked every bit the exhausted; (probably from the heavy studying session Haechan was doing last night.. and probably some gaming) his frame lean and lithe rather than bulky. His collarbones were sharp, peeking out from the wide neck of a faded black oversized graphic tee that hung loosely off his shoulders. He had that specific kind of gamer boy allure—slender, but has some muscles (due to Jaemin whining at him to go to gym) his tan skin has that somewhat unhealthy glow from hours spent in front of a monitor, with long, delicate fingers that looked like they belonged to a pianist or a surgeon.
He didn't say anything at first. He just moved to the counter to fill a glass of water, his movements fluid and cat-like. His eyes were still heavy, that alluringly drowsy look from last night replaced by a quiet, mysterious intensity. He looked effortless, like he hadn't spent the last six hours tossing and turning—unlike Y/N.
He leaned his hip against the counter, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He took a slow sip of water, his Adam's apple bobbing rhythmically. When he finally looked at her, he didn't give her the usual annoying beam Y/N despises. Instead, he gave her a look that was lowkey and dangerously observant.
"You're staring again, Y/N," he said, his voice still holding a trace of that morning rasp. It wasn't a shout; it was a soft, private observation that felt like a hand on her waist. "Is there something on my face, or are you just admiring the view from a different angle this morning?"
Y/N felt the heat rise instantly, a tidal wave of crimson crashing over her cheeks and neck. She could feel her ears burning. The image of the "view" from last night—the grey sweatpants, the silhouette she wasn't supposed to see—flashed in her mind like a neon sign.
"I—I was looking at the... the cabinets," she stammered, her heart racing. She scrambled to find her footing, desperate to regain her savage armor. She stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the floor. "And trust me, Haechan, the only 'view' you provide is a cautionary tale about what happens when someone forgets to eat a vegetable and spends too much time in a dark room. You look like a Victorian orphan who found a Discord server."
Haechan’s lips curled into a tiny, knowing smirk. He didn't look offended; he looked fed. He liked the reaction. He liked the way her breath hitched when he took a half-step toward her.
"A Victorian orphan, huh?" he murmured, his gaze dropping to the way she was nervously clutching her bag. "Is that why your hands were shaking last night? Worried about my nutrition?"
Y/N couldn't take it. The proximity, the mysterious weight of his gaze, and the sheer embarrassment were too much. "Shut up! Just... move!"
She didn't wait for a reply. She bolted, turning on her heel and marching toward the safety of the bathroom. She kept her back straight, her stride hurried, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Behind her, Haechan didn't move. He stood perfectly still, the glass of water forgotten on the counter. His half-closed eyes tracked her exit with a predatory sort of calm. As she walked away, his gaze dropped, lingering shamelessly on the sway of her hips and the fit of her jeans. He didn't say a word, but the smirk on his face deepened, dark and satisfied, as he watched her disappear behind the bathroom door.
The following three weeks settled into a rhythm that was surprisingly… easy. The initial heart-stopping tension of that first midnight encounter had been buried under a mountain of mundane roommate habits. Y/N found herself actually thankful for the return of the bratty Haechan. He was back to his usual self—tripping her shoes in the hallway, making savage comments about her taste in reality TV, and flirting with such high-velocity cheesiness that it was easy to deflect with a roll of her eyes.
The apartment had become the group’s unofficial headquarters. Some afternoons, the living room smelled like the spicy, fermented tang of the kimchi and the other side dishes Jaemin would drop off "to make sure Y/N doesn't starve under Haechan’s watch." Chenle would often be sprawled on the rug with his laptop, while Jeno took up the entire loveseat, the space feeling warm and lived-in. It felt normal. It felt safe.
Until Tuesday afternoon.
Y/N walked into the kitchen, her eyes landing on a stack of crusty cereal bowls and a sticky orange juice glass sitting in the sink. The deal was simple: she cooked, he cleaned.
"Lee Donghyuck!" she barked, turning toward the hallway. "I know you can hear me! These dishes aren't going to walk themselves to the dishwasher!"
Silence.
Annoyance flared in her chest—the kind of comfortable annoyance she was used to. She marched down the short hall and reached for his doorknob. Usually, she’d knock, but he’d been especially irritating that morning, and she wanted to catch him mid-nap to scare the life out of him.
She twisted the knob and swung the door open. "Haechan, if you think I'm—"
The words died in her throat, evaporating into the stale, warm air of the room.
The curtains were drawn, leaving the space bathed in a dim, hazy amber light. Haechan was propped up against his headboard, his laptop discarded to the side. He wasn't sleeping. He was wearing the same thin, grey sweatpants from that first night, but they were pushed dangerously low, bunched around his mid-thighs.
His head was tilted back against the wall, his throat exposed and flushed. One of his long, slender hands was wrapped firmly around his cock, his knuckles white as he moved with a slow, rhythmic, and agonizingly deliberate pace.
Y/N froze, her hand still glued to the doorknob. She should have turned around. She should have screamed. But her brain had disconnected from her limbs.
Haechan didn't startle. He didn't scramble for a blanket or dive for cover. He didn't even stop. Instead, his heavy-lidded eyes slowly opened, finding hers across the room. They were dark—nearly black in the shadows—and glazed with a raw, carnal focus. He let out a low, shaky breath through his teeth, his grip tightening as he continued the motion right in front of her.
He looked utterly shameless. There was no embarrassment on his face, only a heated, mysterious challenge. He looked incredibly seductive in his disheveled state, his lean torso glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He stared at Y/N as if he wanted to ravage her.
"I told you," he rasped, his voice vibrating with a deep, jagged edge that made Y/N’s knees feel like jelly. Haechan was struggling to speak as he continues to give her a show. “I have a lot of... pent-up energy. Y-You want to stay and watch, or are you going to h-help with the dishes?"
The spell broke. Y/N’s entire face felt like it was literally on fire, a heat so intense it made her dizzy. She let out a strangled, incoherent noise, slammed the door shut, and stumbled backward into the hallway.
She didn't stop until she reached her own room, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it was painful. She slumped against her door, sliding down to the floor and burying her face in her hands. Her mind was a chaotic loop of the sight of his hand, the sound of his breath, and the sheer, terrifying audacity of his gaze.
She was officially clueless. How was she supposed to look him in the eye over Jaemin’s grilled steak and kimchi ever again?
🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when the front door buzzed, signaling the arrival of the cavalry. Normally, Y/N would have welcomed the distraction, but tonight, the sound of Chenle’s loud laughter and Jeno’s heavy footsteps felt like a countdown to an execution.
Inside the kitchen, the air was suffocating. Y/N was aggressively chopping green onions, her movements jagged and uncoordinated. She could still feel the phantom heat of Haechan’s gaze from an hour ago.
“Hey, something smells good! Ohh.. jigae!” Jaemin chirped, walking in with a fresh bag of groceries. He paused, squinting at Y/N. “Are you okay? Your face is the exact color of ground gochugaru. Did you burn yourself?”
“Steam! The pot… it’s very steamy,” Y/N lied, her voice an octave too high. She didn't dare look up as the door to the hallway opened and Haechan sauntered in.
He looked infuriatingly refreshed. He’d showered, his damp hair messy and dark, and he was wearing a clean black t-shirt that made his tan skin look even deeper. He moved behind Y/N to reach for a glass, and as he did, his hip brushed firmly against hers. It wasn't the accidental bump of a roommate; it was a slow, intentional slide of fabric against fabric.
Y/N jumped, nearly taking off a fingertip with the knife. “Watch it!” she hissed.
“Sorry,” Haechan murmured, though his voice held that same jagged, low-timbered rasp from his bedroom. He leaned down, ostensibly to look at the cutting board, but his lips brushed dangerously close to her ear. “You’re so jumpy today, Y/N. Need me to help you… relax?”
He pulled away before she could swing the knife at him, a tiny, private smirk playing on his lips. He was clearly reveling in her misery, feeding off the way her hands shook as she transferred the onions to a bowl.
Dinner was a blur of muffled snorts and casual banter from the boys, while Y/N sat as stiff as a board. Every time she reached for a side dish, Haechan’s fingers would "accidentally" graze the back of her hand or his knee would knock against hers under the table. Each touch was like a spark of electricity that sent her heart into a frantic gallop.
“Y/N, you’ve been staring at that piece of meat for five minutes,” Jeno noted, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with a fever?”
“I’m fine! Just… midterms!” she blurted out, shoving the meat into her mouth so fast she nearly choked.
After dinner, the real challenge began. Chenle had been hyped for months about the digital release of a new sci-fi thriller, and he wasn't taking "no" for an answer.
“Everyone, shut up and get comfortable!” Chenle commanded, grabbing the remote.
The living room was tiny. Between the boxes Haechan still hadn't unpacked and the limited furniture, space was at a premium. Jeno and Jaemin claimed the two ends of the small loveseat, and Chenle sat cross-legged on the floor, leaving the middle cushion for Mark. But when the dust settled, there was only one spot left—the armchair where Haechan had already made himself at home, sprawled out with his long legs draped over the side.
“No space,” Haechan said simply, his heavy-lidded eyes fixing on Y/N. He patted his thighs with a slow, rhythmic thud. “Sit here. I don’t mind being a chair for the night.”
“I’d rather sit on a cactus,” /N snapped, her face flushing anew.
“Y/N, just sit down!” Chenle groaned, not looking away from the opening credits. “You’re blocking the screen and the subtitles are going fast. Either sit on him or sit on the floor, but stop moving!”
The floor was covered in Chenle’s electronics and Jaemin’s grocery bags. With a heavy, defeated sigh, Y/N moved toward the armchair. She lowered herself onto Haechan’s lap, trying to keep her weight as light as possible, her body rigid with tension.
The moment she sat, she felt his hands settle firmly on her waist. His grip was possessive, his fingers splayed against the denim of her jeans. He pulled her back so she was tucked against his chest, her back flush against his lean frame.
Y/N expected a joke. She expected a witty comment about her weight or a cheesy pick-up line. But when she glanced back at him, Haechan’s expression was unreadable.
The playful savage was gone. He looked focused, his eyes fixed on the screen, but his thumb was tracing slow, absentminded circles against her hip bone. The darkness of the room, lit only by the flickering blue light of the TV, made the contact feel ten times more intimate. She could feel the steady thrum of his heart against her shoulder blades, and the heat of his body was a constant, distracting hum that made the movie's plot completely impossible to follow. She could feel an unmistakable “something” poking her ass.. She’s desperately convincing herself that it’s just the remote even though she knew the remote was placed neatly onto the lap of Chenle.
Haechan leaned his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. He didn't say a word, but his grip on her waist tightened just a fraction, as if making sure she wasn't going anywhere.
ʕ ◍•ᴗ<◍ʔっ🫧 ʕ ◍•ᴗ<◍ʔっ🫧 ʕ ◍•ᴗ<◍ʔっ🫧 ʕ ◍•ᴗ<◍ʔっ🫧
The blue-tinted shadows of the sci-fi flick danced across the walls, the only source of light in the stifling room. Despite Chenle being so excited about the movie, it turned out to be very boring, causing everyone to be sleepy. On the floor, Chenle’s head had lulled back against the sofa, his soft snores joining the rhythmic breathing of Jeno and Jaemin, who were out cold on the loveseat. Mark was literally sprawled all over the floor, face buried onto the throw pillow.
The silence of the apartment felt heavy, charged with a frequency that made Y/N’s skin prickle. She was still perched on Haechan’s lap, but the rigid posture she’d started with had long since melted. She was trapped between his lean thighs, her back pressed against his chest.
Haechan remained silent, his gaze fixed on the screen, but his hands were far from idle. His touch was lowkey, subtle enough that if anyone woke up, it would look like an innocent embrace. But Y/N knew better. His palms, warm and slightly calloused, began a slow, agonizing trek upward from her waist. His fingers splayed across her ribs, inches from the swell of her breasts.
Y/N turned her head slightly, casting a pleading, wide-eyed look at him. She tried to knit her brows together, to look stern and authoritative, but the heat in her cheeks and the way her breath hitched betrayed her.
Haechan didn't look back. He simply tilted his head, his heavy-lidded eyes reflecting the flickering screen. He looked entirely clueless, the picture of a focused movie-goer, yet his thumb deliberately swiped upward, just barely grazing the underside of her breast. The contact was electric, sending a jolt straight to her core.
As the movie reached its climax—a chaos of orchestral swells and flashing lights—Haechan shifted. He shifted his weight, pulling her more firmly into the crook of his lap. Under the cover of the darkness and the heavy blanket draped partially over them, his hand dived lower.
Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as she felt his long, fingers slip beneath the waistband of her jeans. She reached down, her hand weakly trying to shove his away, but he was a silent force. He didn't use strength; he used precision.
His palm pressed flat against the thin silk of her panties, the heat of his hand seeping through the fabric. Y/N bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, her eyes darting to Chenle, whose hand was inches from her feet. The danger was intoxicating. The sheer audacity of him doing this with their best friends three feet away made her head spin.
Then, he began to move.
His middle finger found her, rubbing slow, torturous circles over the seam of her underwear. He knew exactly what he was doing. His touch was rhythmic, mimicking the pace of his breathing. He leaned his face into the crook of her neck, his nose brushing her pulse point, which was drumming like a frantic wingbeat.
"Hyuck," she breathed, the word barely a ghost of a sound. It was supposed to be a protest, but it came out as a broken whimper.
He didn't stop. Instead, he hooked a finger under the edge of the silk, sliding inside. The sensation of his cool, slender finger meeting her slick, swollen heat was almost too much to bear. He began to move in a slow, shallow rhythm, his thumb finding her clit and applying just enough pressure to make her back arch instinctively.
Y/N buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She was terrified of making a sound, terrified of someone waking up to find her being thoroughly unraveled by the brat she claimed to hate.
Haechan’s smirk was hidden against her skin, but she could feel it. He was secretly ecstatic at her reaction, feeding off her silent gasps. He leaned in, his lips hovering against her earlobe.
"Be quiet, pretty," he whispered, his voice a jagged, seductive rasp that vibrated through her entire body. "You wouldn't want to wake Chenle, would you? He’s been waiting months for this movie."
He picked up the pace, his finger curling inside her, finding the exact spot that made her toes curl and her vision go blurry. His free hand sliding inside her shirt and begins to massage her boob, flicking, and pinching her nipple. He was relentless, a lowkey predator in the dark, claiming her right under the noses of their unsuspecting friends.
The orchestral swell of the movie’s climax masked the frantic, uneven hitching of Y/N’s breath. In the shadows, Haechan was a ghost of pure sensation. His hand was a steady, rhythmic contrast to the internal chaos he was wreaking.
He slid a second finger inside her, his knuckles brushing against her inner thigh as he began to move with a devastating, curling motion. Y/N’s head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes rolling shut as the friction of his thumb against her clit intensified. Every time she tried to pull away, his grip on her waist tightened, anchoring her to him.
"Look at them, Y/N," Haechan whispered, his voice a dark, jagged thread of silk against her ear. "So peaceful. They have no idea how loud you’re breathing right now. No idea how wet you’re getting on my hand."
He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, inhaling her scent like he was memorizing it. "Do you think Jeno would wake up if you moaned? Or maybe you want them to see what I’m doing to you."
The threat—the sheer, delicious danger of it—pushed Y/N over the cliff. She felt the coil in her gut tighten to the point of pain. She gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles white, as the first wave of the orgasm crashed over her. She buried her scream in the crook of her elbow, her body shuddering violently against his. Haechan didn't let up; he followed her through it, his fingers relentless until her tremors began to fade into a heavy, boneless heat.
He waited a beat, feeling the last of her muscles twitch, before he slowly, smoothly withdrew. He adjusted her jeans with a casual flick of his wrist, his hand returning to her waist as if it had never moved. He didn't look at her; but she looked at him, breathing heavy. He then simply leaned his head back against the chair, his chest rising and falling in a slow, satisfied rhythm. He sucked his fingers clean, giving her a wink.
A few minutes later, the credits began to roll, the screen fading to a bright, sterile white that illuminated the room.
“Ugh… what time is it?” Chenle groaned, rubbing his eyes and sitting up from the floor. He stretched, his joints popping in the silence. “Did I miss the ending? Who was the killer?”
Jeno blinked awake on the loveseat, looking disoriented but as handsome as ever. “I think I fell out around the second act,” he mumbled, reaching over to nudge a sleeping Jaemin.
Jaemin stirred, yawning widely. He reached for the lamp on the side table, and the room was suddenly flooded with warm, yellow light.
Y/N felt like she was vibrating. Her face was flushed a deep, undeniable red, and her hair was slightly disheveled. She sat frozen on Haechan’s lap, her legs feeling like lead. She didn't dare look at anyone.
“Whoa, Y/N,” Jaemin said, squinting at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Was the movie that scary?”
“She’s just… sensitive to sci-fi,” Haechan’s voice cut in, smooth and effortless.
Y/N finally gathered the strength to stand up, her legs wobbling dangerously as she stepped away from the armchair. She kept her eyes on the floor, her heart still thudding against her ribs.
Haechan stood up behind her, stretching his arms over his head. The movement caused his shirt to lift, and Y/N’s eyes involuntarily flickered to the faint, damp smudge on the grey fabric of his sweatpants. Her breath caught.
He looked at her then—a quick, piercing glance. He didn't smirk, and he didn't joke. He just looked at her with those heavy-lidded, mysterious eyes, a silent acknowledgement of the secret they now shared.
“I’m gonna… go wash my face,” Y/N managed to choke out, already halfway to the hallway.
“Don’t take too long,” Chenle called out, reaching for a leftover slice of cold pizza. “We still have to decide who’s paying for the bubble tea!”
As she ducked into the bathroom and locked the door, she could hear Haechan’s voice in the living room, casually arguing with Chenle about the movie’s plot holes. He sounded perfectly normal. He sounded like the same bratty roommate who forgot to do the dishes.
But as Y/N leaned against the sink and caught her reflection—pupils blown wide, lips swollen, and skin glowing—she knew nothing in this apartment would ever be normal again.
The morning air was thick and silent, the kind of quiet that feels heavy with the ghosts of the night before. The other boys had cleared out hours ago, leaving behind only a few empty soda cans and the lingering scent of Jaemin’s steak.
Y/N stood at the kitchen counter, her hands trembling as she tried to pour coffee. She hadn't slept; every time she closed her eyes, she felt the phantom pressure of Haechan’s fingers and heard that jagged, dark whisper in her ear. She was wearing an oversized hoodie, trying to hide within the fabric, her hair pulled into a messy knot.
She heard the floorboards creak. Her heart didn't just speed up; it slammed against her ribs.
Haechan didn't announce himself with a joke or a loud greeting. He drifted into the kitchen with a slow, predatory grace. He was wearing a black sweatpants and nothing else, his lean torso exposed, his tan skin glowing in the morning light. He didn't look at the coffee pot. He didn't look at the window. He looked only at her.
He moved toward her with an agonizingly slow pace. It wasn't the bratty Haechan who was approaching; it was the man from the dark living room. He narrowed the distance until he was standing just a foot away, his warmth radiating off him in waves.
Y/N straightened her back, desperate to reclaim some shred of her dignity. She gripped the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.
"Don't," she said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat, trying to sound stern, trying to be the Y/N who could shut him down with a single insult. "Don't even start, Haechan. What happened last night... it was a mistake. You took advantage of the situation because everyone was there and I couldn't—"
She stopped when he took another step, invading her personal space until the tips of his toes brushed hers. He didn't say a word. He just stood there, his heavy-lidded eyes tracing the lines of her face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
"You're a prick, you know that?" she tried again, her voice wavering. She looked up at him, trying to glare, trying to find the words to ruin him. "You think you're so smooth, but you're just... you're just irritating. You’re lucky I didn’t scream and have Jeno toss you out the window."
Haechan remained silent. He didn't defend himself. He didn't laugh. He slowly reached out, his long, slender fingers tracing the edge of the counter behind her, effectively boxing her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, and his gaze dropped. He stared at her eyes for a long, suffocating beat, and then he slowly, deliberately, fixed his gaze on her lips.
Y/N felt her breath hitch. She wanted to run. She wanted to push him away. But her feet were rooted to the floor, her body betraying her with a surge of heat that made her dizzy.
"You talk so much, Y/N," Haechan finally whispered, his voice a deep, vibrating rasp that seemed to echo in her very bones. "But your body tells a completely different story. You didn't seem to think I was 'irritating' when you were coming on my hand in the dark."
His eyes snapped back up to hers, dark and raw. "So, go ahead. Do something. Push me. Hit me. Tell me you hated it." He leaned in closer, his nose brushing hers. "Or finally admit that you've been wanting me to do that since the day we met."
The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N fell silent, her mouth dry, her heart beating so violently she was sure he could feel it through the air between them. She looked into his alluringly heavy-lidded eyes and realized she had no more insults left. The savage armor had completely shattered.
Haechan didn't wait for her to find her voice. He moved in, his hand sliding from the counter to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose hairs at her nape. He tilted his head and crashed his lips against hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision—an outpouring of weeks of repressed tension and hidden glances. It was hungry and desperate. Y/N let out a muffled moan against his mouth, her hands flying up to grip his bare shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin. Y/N is not sure what she is doing, but she feels that she wanted this. That she wanted him.
He tasted like coffee and something uniquely him—warm, musky, and addictive. He backed her up against the counter, his body pressing firmly into hers, letting her feel the hard, unmistakable evidence of his desire against her thigh. He kissed her like he wanted to consume her, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythmic, possessive dance that sent Y/N’s head spinning.
She was lost. The kitchen, the rent, the friends—none of it mattered. There was only the heat of his skin, the pressure of his mouth, and the devastating realization that her annoying roommate was the only thing she wanted.
The air in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on, charged with the electric friction of their bodies colliding. The initial kiss had been a dam breaking, but as Haechan deepened it, his tongue sweeping against hers with a territorial hunger, the last of their restraint evaporated.
He groaned into her mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through Y/N’s chest. His hands, usually so steady on a keyboard or a controller, were frantic now. He gripped the hem of her oversized hoodie and yanked it upward. Y/N lifted her arms blindly, letting him toss the garment onto the floor. She was left in just her bra, her skin prickling as the cool kitchen air hit her, followed immediately by the scorching heat of Haechan’s gaze.
He didn't wait. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of her collarbone before traveling lower. He unhooked the front clasp of her bra with a practiced, impatient flick of his long fingers. As the fabric fell away, he let out a jagged breath, his eyes darkening as they fixed on her. He leaned in, his warm mouth engulfing one breast, his tongue swirling around the peak before he began to suckle deeply.
Y/N let out a high, broken sob, her head thumping back against the upper cabinets. The sensation was sharp and agonizingly good, his teeth grazing her skin just enough to make her toes curl. His hand moved to her other breast, kneading the soft tissue with a possessive, rhythmic squeeze that matched the pull of his mouth.
"Hyuck," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his messy hair, pulling him closer.
He pulled away just long enough to look up at her, his lips glistening, his expression raw and completely stripped of his usual sarcasm. "I've been losing my mind for weeks," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. "Fuck.. I’ve been Thinking about this. Thinking about you."
He didn't give her time to respond. He reached down, unzipping her jeans and peeling them over her hips along with her lace panties. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his lean waist as he settled her onto the edge of the granite counter.
He knelt between her thighs, his eyes never leaving hers as he pried her legs wider. He leaned in, his breath hot against her inner thigh, before his tongue finally made contact with her.
Y/N’s hands flew to the counter, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge. He was methodical, his tongue flicking and swirling against her clit with a focus that was terrifyingly effective. He used his fingers to stretch her open, his thumb working in tandem with his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming—the cold stone under her thighs and the molten heat of his mouth. She watched his head move between her legs, the dark strands of his hair messy against her pale skin, until the tension in her gut snapped. She came with a violent shudder, her heels digging into his back as she cried out his name into the empty apartment.
He didn't let her come down.
Haechan stood up, his face flushed and his eyes wild. He kicked his grey sweatpants down, revealing himself—fully hard, pulsing, and desperate. He didn't move to the bedroom; he couldn't wait that long.
He pulled her off the counter and down onto the floor, the hard wood a stark contrast to the heat of their skin. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his fingers interlocking with hers in a crushing grip. He moved over her, his lean, lithe body pressing her into the floor in a brutal mating press. He pushed her knees up toward her chest, folding her small frame until she was completely open, completely vulnerable under him.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low growl.
When she met his gaze, he drove into her in one deep, unyielding thrust. Y/N’s breath left her in a sharp gasp, her internal muscles clenching around him. He was thick and uncomfortably large for his lean frame, filling her so completely it felt like he was reaching her very center.
He began to move—not with the slow rhythm from before, but with a frantic, possessive urgency. Every thrust was deep, his hips slamming against hers with a dull thud that echoed in the quiet kitchen. He was relentless, his chest heaving as he stared down at her, watching every flicker of pleasure on her face.
"You're mine," he muttered, the words sounding less like a flirtation and more like a vow. "Do you hear me? Only mine.."
He increased the pace, his body vibrating with the effort to hold back. Y/N was a mess of sensations—the friction of his skin, the weight of his body pinning her down, and the overwhelming feeling of him stretching her further than she thought possible. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their sweat-slicked chests were glued together.
The end came suddenly. The sensation was fucking delicious, Y/N was so tight for him. He could!nt take it anymore.. Haechan’s breath hitched, a strangled sound leaving his throat as his back arched. He drove into her one last time, pinning her to the floor with the full weight of his body as he came, a deep, hot release that filled her to the brim. He stayed there, buried deep inside her, his forehead resting against hers as they both gasped for air, their hearts beating in a frantic, synchronized rhythm against the cold kitchen floor.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, a dark, satisfied smirk finally returning to his face. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her swollen lips.
"So," he whispered, his voice returning to that low, seductive hum. "About those dishes... do you still want me to do them, or should we go to the bedroom and try a different position?"
Y/N couldn't even find the energy to roll her eyes. She just pulled him back down for another kiss.
pairing: haechan, donghyuck x afab!reader. genre: an attempt of humor, smut (it happens but not the main plot). content: a lot of movie references, reader is a bit goofy, college au, coming of age, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, bestfriend!haechan, stoner!haechan, badboy!hyuck, racer!hyuck. use of condoms, drug consumption, alcohol consumption, use of vibrator, mention of virginity, haechan is a jealous womanizer, donghyuck is actually a sweetheart, high sex, oral sex, pussy drunk hae, multiple orgasms, fingering. featuring: johnny, 7dream.wc: 29k
an: couldn't kill my darlings so bear w me. the world building is a bit slow but it'll catch up the pace pretty quickly!! the writing and prose is a bit different from what i'm used to. tagging: @yesohhsehun —lmk any misspelling, ty
playing: alive empire of the sun ; ribs lorde ; tongue tied grouplove ; can i call you tonight? dayglow ; backburner niki ; i could be the one avicii ; why'd you only call me when you're high? arctic monkeys ; bad omens 5sos ; i wanna be yours arctic monkeys ; little freak harry styles ; heroes david bowie.
description: haechan and yn have known each other since they were five years old, and have been inseparable ever since. they come as a pair and do everything together; maybe they're destined to get married and all that, maybe that's why they both suck on dates. after a series of romantic disasters, they both conclude that maybe they belong to each other, but a lot of obstacles stand in the way of finding out, and one of them is haechan's twin brother: lee donghyuck.
the apartment smelled like a cigarettes after sex song.
living across four good looking guys seems like the dream of any first-year college student from jeju island and the fanciful idea that one of them would fall in love with her, if it weren't for the fact that what you've collected from actually being the girl next door comes down to their incredible abilities to cajole girls and non-commitment treaty; it seemed that romanticism is dead for them, just like the smell that emanates as if there were a deceased animal in their dorms.
the idea of that village girl soon died too.
you dislike it, of course. they probably wouldn't get away with everything they do if they were a little less good-looking. they would have to be expected to get the odds on their favor, like lucky charms; if you rub their dicks you get three wishes…, or something like that.
so when you go to their dorms moved my desire, three pairs of heads turn toward you while watching tv when they alert your presence. “hi, yn,” they say in unison as you head to their fridge.
the truth is that between the four of them, they don't put together a functional neuron, and they're pretty okay with you assaulting their fridge every weekday…, so you guess you're okay with it.
“don't mind me. i ran out of eggs for a omelet, i promise to do groceries tomorrow…” your words die little by little when you find everything but eggs, “uh... why are there underwear in the fridge?”
a spoiled blond boy comes jogging up to you in a bathrobe that reveals more than is necessary. jisung giggles nervously as his hands rush to close the opening of the only piece of clothes he's got a friday night, taking the garment from your hands, “those would be mine.”
“why...?” you start asking before you think of better questions, such as how could they live in this pigsty? looking at the mini football table used as a pile of dirty laundry.
“well, it's cold outside, and i don't have a dryer, of course...” his eyes widens and sparkle as an idea runs through his mind, “can i use your hair dryer? pretty please.” you stare at his hands joined in prayer, and his eyes large and bright.
“sure…” he grins and mutters a victory while you keep thinking you’re hundred percent sure he can afford a washing machine with dryer. “so you've been washing this by hand?” you’re also sure he hasn’t thought of that one yet.
“no. i wash them in the shower,” he answers, obviously.
that'd explain why he's in a bathrobe.
a smug eyebrow shoots upwards and you hold back a silly smile. “with you?” you watch him nod and your grin falter, “why don't you use the tub? that way you can wash all of them at the same time.”
he squints, “i hadn't thought about that one. yn, you're a genius.”
his skin is cold and soft and his hair tickles your cheek when he hugs you fleetingly. “honey, i meant that you don't have to bathe with them…”
jisung ignores your words as he thanks you greenly before you can even think why no one has told him that til now… then you remember a couple of similar scenarios perpetrated by his roommates, and why it makes sense they didn't.
your eyes sweep the room, noticing that something is missing. there's jisung who finds himself in a bathrobe at ten o'clock at night, mark the illicit racer who nibbles on his nails and seems on the verge of an anxious collapse. and there's jaemin the part time bartender at your favorite café, reading the newspaper.
“where's haechan?” you ask, suddenly dead curious.
jisung glances at the living room as if he barely notices that the characteristic silly boy is missing. “oh, he's not here.”
“no way, sherlock,” mark mumbles under his breath, moving to another position on the couch.
jaemin gives him a sidelong glance causing mark to shrug unapologetically, before he closes the newspaper like an old soul and answers you, “tutoring a girl from our law class.”
you see, the irony is exquisite but the word conceals another implicit meaning of which you're aware.
but more important, it leads you to realize something deep and uncertain.
“d'you mean he's…?”
“if it's anything to do it, i think she's way out of his league,” jisung compensates, putting on the underwear underneath his robe. “i don't think he'll make it to third base.”
“i don't think he'll make it to first base,” mark replies.
despite their attempts to counter that he's probably quite sunk in a girl's throat right now, you still can't believe it. pronouncing it is not so easy to digest either.
“guys, don't be mean. he's got game!” given the honey-eyed boy's antics, you very much doubted it was true. only, until now, you hadn't noticed it.
“he's with ryunjin,” mark points out.
“yeah, he's not gonna make it,” you conclude.
of course haechan is a heartthrob. you always expect to find him in some empty classroom making out with someone, or walk into his room to find him smoking a joint. he tutors girls because marijuana and alcohol haven't been able to fry the last neurons in his brain so then he can get money for weed. to even think he also does it to have an excuse to go to their apartment and get laid makes you… uneasy.
of all things, it was a fact that haechan was partly hot and partly idiotic.
“are you okay?” jisung asks you, carefully.
you remove the palm from your forehead, almost lost, “so does this means…?” three pairs of eyes look at you bathed in different emotions expectantly just as you wet your lips to pronounce, “haechan's not gay?”
just as if he had been summoned by telepathy, the fourth member of a three-room apartment appears through the front door, and consequently, all of you hold your breath in expectation.
haechan sports his dark straight hair parted in half that forms two commas on his face. his olive skin highlights his features and makes him look very, very attractive. but of course, what he has of handsome he has of asshorse.
“gay? who's gay?” haechan sweeps his eyes over your frozen faces in complete confusion until he bursts into laughter and his cheeks take on a warm color. “see? i told you not to wear those silly clothes, jaemin.”
the boy allows him to pat his shoulders while he smiles smugly. he's also sporting his best cologne and has put on one of his fluffy jackets; and until recently you now know that he's done all of that to see a girl.
jaemin stares into the void until the sunny boy moves to another place of interest: the fridge. his eyes beams as if it contains stars waiting to find something in it, then everything goes out. even his smile fades away.
mark shifts in the chair and looks at haechan staring inside, “uh, where's my pot?” his hands rummage the few things in the fridge in search of it, almost incredulous.
“i threw it away.” four pairs of eyes go to jaemin, who remains oddly calm.
“you mean you flushed it away,” jisung corrects, holding up a finger.
haechan's face freezes into an indescribable grimace and then you realize the reason behind mark's chaotic behavior: he’s in drug abstention.
“what do you mean you flushed it away?” you wonder.
“down the toilet.” haechan makes a muffled sound.
even though you're close to him, you barely manage to decipher the low and strangled noise he makes next. “come again, darling?” you ask, rubbing his back.
his lips move closer to your ear as the others watch the scene. letting out a heavy sigh, you reluctantly say, “haechan says he won't speak to you anymore. that... you shouldn't have done that... that..., that was eighty dollars worth of weed, h-how dare you, huh?” you repeat out loud on the go.
“new house policy.”
“what does that even mean?”
“no parties on weekdays. no girls...”
“GIRLS?” jisung makes a mockery of fainting.
“in plural, you're good,” mark explains, biting his nails.
“and no weed.” until that last, haechan had handled the situation calmly, though you were beginning to believe that he was in denial.
“how did you manage to flush eighty dollars worth of weed down the toilet?” you say after haechan's whispering.
“he put in on a blender,” mark explains.
haechan's eyes fill with indignation. “you make smoothies in a blender! juices! cocktails!”
“chocolate milk,” jisung adds all of a sudden.
you witness the rift forming on both sides. the palpable tension mixing with the smell of illicit substances in the apartment.
it makes you want to do something, certainly. although you couldn't deny that despite wanting the "girl from the island" to vanish, you still found this somewhat excitingly hot. you could just intervene, make them reconcile, calm the waters; you...
you just wanted eggs for your omelet.
when the silence settled after heated words were exchanged between both parts —and jisung, you announce your farewell.
“wait, you're leaving?”
suddenly, everyone is aware that you are a little overdressed just to cook some omelets a friday night…, which you're not.
“nice skirt.” jisung's eyes form two crescents as they run down your legs before haechan hits him in the back of the head, causing the blond to murmur an apology with a laugh.
“got plans?” he’s the one who asks with wonder, eyes glued to you as you nod and send him a wink you’re sure he gets it.
“the ring.”
haechan chuckles shortly, stretching the right corner of his lip up in a haughty grimace. “how do you know about the ring, bumble bee?”
“chaeyoung introduced me to it,” you say proudly.
haechan's features soften when you smile. “does she know that you sleep with stuffed animals?”
“haechan!” your mouth opens in awe, watching others pretend they haven't listened. “they're not... they are collectibles!”
he clicks his tongue, rubbing the place you hit him. “you're not meant for the ring.”
“i am so meant for the ring.”
it was customary for students to gather at one point, isolated and confined from the city to carry out certain illicit activities. illegal races, drugs, and others were common in these meetings where their whereabouts were usually said minutes before they started.
“you're too sweet,” he replies in a remark, and your jaw almost hit the floor.
well, it was partially true that the meetings bordered on the deathly side, but you come from a small island where the only dangerous thing is to get hit by a bicycle; someone forgive you for wanting to taste a little adrenaline for the sake of your soothing young soul.
the others watch you argue heavily and somewhere in between, jisung scratches his head.
“i'm pretty sure they're talking in code,” jisung refers to the others, with narrowed eyes. “maybe some jewel or jeweler.”
jaemin pats his shoulder and comes in the second you and haechan stop murmuring at hearing what the blond just said. “well, fare you well. goodbye!”
you stop jaemin from pushing you to the exit to look at jisung with amusement. “wait, they haven't taken you?”
surprising? no.
the euphoria and danger of the moment blended together like a psychedelic cocktail. the guest list was a bit narrow and confidential, in case of informants. some students skipped the challenge of going while others were totally oblivious that things like that existed.
“to the ring?” jisung tries, opening his crescent eyes.
jaemin makes a gesture behind him to stop you from revealing anything else as haechan reaches out to him, in tenderly affection.
“you're still a baby.”
“i'm twenty three, though,” he chuckles. “wait, you guys knew about the ring?” he wonders, emphasizing the name funnily.
“yeah. maybe. no, not really...” the boys say one after the other.
“then, good news!” you say next, excited.
“she'll buy us groceries tomorrow,” jisung interrupts you, smiling smugly even though he has a fortune greater than yours.
haechan's eyes gleamed with emotion, hands grabbing yours as he puts the best performance in his galore “would you buy us some food?”
“of course, yeah. i meant another good news,” you correct, dancing your eyebrows to jisung. “the ring, tonight. there will be a lot of fun,” you mention, slowly, eyes darting to haechan in confidentiality; then he looks at you, totally oblivious.
“i'm not in the mood tonight, jaemin threw away my medicinal herbs.”
jaemin rolls his eyes, “yeah, me and jisung pass too.”
“do we?” the younger looks at him clueless.
you look at jaemin, dumbfounded. “what, why? sometimes no one gets shot.”
jaemin narrows his eyes and approaches you as if you were his new sworn enemy. “there will be drugs, baby.”
“okay, let's get going!” haechan shouts and you stifle a belated laugh.
he starts pushing you toward the door, suddenly changing his mind and looking strangely excited, just as mark has a surge of energy from the couch.
“can i come with you?”
“sure,” you downplay its importance. “everyone can come.”
“are your girlfriends coming?” jisung asks, very excited.
“they are,” you say, tapping his shoulder playfully. “so? i drive,” you ask the rest, watching mark's eyebrows come together.
the boy sweeps the room, counting the heads, and as far as you can see, his math doesn't add up. “we'd be too much for your car, wouldn't we?”
“don't you worry about it.” you and haechan share glances; although his seems a little hesitant.
forty-three minutes later, you find yourself on the dimly lit street of your residential complex. the sky is dark and devoid of moon and stars, while small snowflakes begin to levitate in the air. it is june and it has starts to snow in the city, where five friends warm up each other in the freezing night.
“i present to you: my ride.”
mists come from your lips in the cool night, and your cold-flushed fingers point at your parents' best gift that they lent you for college a week ago.
“is it... behind that ugly van?” jisung wonders, burying his hands in his jean jacket; cheeks tinted with a pink color due to the cold.
haechan hides his high-pitched laugh behind a fake cough and you roll your eyes. “that is my ride. say hello to gertrude,” you announce, unlocking the bodywork, “she's the best on the block. she has speakers, gps, lights, a sunroof, and... sliding doors!” you say, effusive. your eyes glance expectantly at the boys, sharing looks with each other. “okay, never mind. have fun walking to the party.”
“oh, my god! a van! dang!” they exclaim, voices layering on top of each other as they slowly approach the van.
“at least pretty girls are coming with us,” jisung mutters reluctantly as he enters the back seat.
“chaeyoung and liz?” you wonder through the rearview mirror. “of course! they're already there, my friend.”
you see the reaction to your words live when he slides nostalgicly into the seat until he rests his head on the backrest, just as you shout with crescent excitement, “seat belts on, kids.”
ʚïɞ
as you make your way through the bodies in the vibrant gloom of fishing port outside of the city, haechan stands in the other corner of the party, shuffling a deck of cards in the company of several people around him.
his fingers are snappy, teeth catching his lower lip in concentration while he and mark exchange some words before the game begins and the bets start to come in. you're still amazed at his skill with his hands, passing the cards from one to the other while shuffles them that you don't realize when you bump into your friends.
“what?!” liz yells in your direction when she sees you approaching, too busy by the way, making out with her boyfriend.
“i didn't say anything!”
“oh.”
her fingers points behind you to the drink chaeyoung offers you when she arrives. “you made it!” they both start jumping around you in celebration.
“yeah. why wouldn't i?” you ask, slightly curious. the blonde and the brunette share a look that reveals a lot of the message. “oh, my god. why does everyone hate my van all of a sudden? it has taken us to our destination on numerous occasions.”
“i'm just saying you've been saving lately, you could just buy yourself a car.”
“but she's special to me!”
it was… moderately true. but you were hoping to spend your savings on something worthwhile. besides, what's wrong with it? it may be a prehistoric old lady, with dents, and worn paint, but it had been a gift from your parents... after they got a pickup truck recently.
preserving it meant holding onto that piece of home you were homesick for. every scratch, every sticker, every worn seat held a story of adventures. selling it felt like letting go of a part of yourself, a tether to your past that you weren't ready to let go.
“as long as it rolls,” liz tags your side playfully.
you toast clinking your beer with hers and drinking it in one gulp, almost choking with it when you spot something in the crowd, “oh, my god. there he is again.”
“mmm?” chaeyong says, looking everywhere, “who?” she watches you cover your face as your eyes travel to the figure of the boy on the other side of the party.
“jeno?” liz inquires unexpectedly, miraculously separating from her boyfriend.
“he's one of the racers.” chaeyoung stim.
“well, he won't stop staring at me, he's like obsessed,” you mention.
you and chaeyoung remove your sunglasses and peek a glance at the boy with his back turned having a pleasant conversation with a girl before he senses your eyes across the room and looks over his shoulder; he stares back at you with a mixture of emotions that don't convey anything pleasant.
“yeah... obsessed. not at all that he hates you,” chaeyoung mocks.
you chuckle, “i swear!”
“perhaps you should stop hooking up with guys and ghost them afterward,” she says nonchalantly as she stares at jeno longer, “or... maybe when you go on dates, avoid bringing up the dick of your friend like he's some sort of your impossible love.”
you're too stunned to speak, “what- i don't do that— first of all, haechan's not a dick. second of all, i have a bad memory, unfortunately. and i think you’re lying.”
“i’m not.”
you cross your arms, smugly and one hundred percent sure, “give me an example then.”
“the ghosting thing or the second? cause i can think of some. eric,” she pronounces, “shotaro, jaehyun, let's not forget about jaehyun. mingi...”
“okay, i got your point.” reluctantly, “but that doesn’t explain why he hates me.”
“you threw your beer on him the other day,” liz answers, taking a break from french kissing her boyfriend in a public space.
“but why i don’t remember?”
“you were wasted as fuck.”
“well, accidents happen…” you trail off.
“you took his after.”
oh.
“i'll go get us more beer,” chaeyoung laughs, giving liz an eye, “just for us,” she adds, looking away after seeing her and chenle tongue-kissing.
as chaeyoung leaves you alone to fetch drinks, you wander aimlessly through the crowd, surrounded by swirling lights. the bubbling beer encourages you to join the swaying of bodies, carried away by the euphoria and debauchery of the night that slip from your memories, like hazy reminiscences.
a guy makes his way towards you smiling like a charm, before your eyes register his face drain of color and disappear the way he came. “what the fuck?” you breathe, running your tongue through your teeth just to make sure you didn't have a piece of broccoli stuck between them. but it turns out that, to your relief, it had nothing to do with you and more of this lurking sensation behind your back only to find jeno making his way to you.
alcohol evaporates from your system with a snap of your fingers as you unconsciously remember the suspicion that he hates you from your friend, so you flee to the golden boy's shelter.
haechan's eyes fill with pure amusement when he sees you arrive laughing where he's with mark and jisung; very high. very exaggerated. “hae, you're so funny.”
“haven't said anything, gorgeous,” he chuckles in awe.
you laugh more, wiping away a tear. “may i?” you point to his lap and sit down simultaneously when he agrees.
his tongue pokes his cheek where stars form an uneven triangle as you wrap your arms around his neck, getting closer. “what?” you inquire nervously under his gaze.
he hums casually, denying.
he has a cigar tucked behind his ear that he proceeds to hold between his fingers. “fire,” he says in jisung's direction, where the boy very promptly hurries to take out the lighter.
your fingers grasp the cold object when mark lights his doobie and hands it to you, igniting the flame for him.
haechan takes the cigarette between his lips and comes closer to the fire, the hot light bathing his golden features. some strands of his hair burst into melted honey as he takes a deep puff before his hand lands on your bare back in an unmeditated gesture, blowing the smoke out into the starless sky when he leans back.
you take the opportunity to take a look around, hoping jeno is enjoying the show. nervousness and butterflies start to blossom in your gut when he's nowhere to be found just as haechan leans dangerously towards you and you're able to smell the essence of weed when his lips go to your ear. “you're moving too much, sweetheart.”
he moves away from you to scan you, and you can't figure out why you're out of breath so suddenly for the dimensioning. “are you drunk?” he asks suddenly.
“i can't sit on your lap like good buddies?” you ask, punching his arm slightly, but he's very unfazed.
“buddies,” he repeats, thinking out loud as his lips take another puff. “yeah, we're buddies. and you're basically chasing away my chances to hook up tonight.”
you roll your eyes, “should i get off...?”
“no need,” he cuts you off.
you've known haechan for as long as you can remember. he's been your firsts times of everything. he's your best friend. although sometimes it feels like something more*.* and feeling special is the same as feeling stupid, because for haechan, acting like this, means nothing.
he likes to exist in the middle of the lines.
he moves and everything suddenly glows around him, in his path. it's impossible not to stare at him. it's easy for him as well; he's good-looking, he's delicate and relaxed. he's open and kind. he lets everyone in, but no one stays.
you're a bad friend, aren't you? thinking of him romantically. doing it when you know now that he has never been interested in you in that way but now with the newfound knowledge of why; it's hard to act like before when you know he's surprisingly attracted to girls, and he's never flirted with you even though he does it the way he breathes.
“is he already jealous?”
your eyes shoot out at haechan, staring at you with suspicion and victory as he hits the nail on the head easily, referring to your intense attention to your surroundings in case you see jeno on your radar. “what- don't be silly.” you try to lighten the mood and downplay it, but it doesn't work much.
his fingers come close to your ear, and bring up a 100 bill that he surely won gambling, or betting, or solving tests for other people, as if saying 'i don't buy it, but good try' “are you using me, sweetheart?”
fighting against it it's not worth it; what is handsome about him is that he's also clever.
“maybe. can i borrow your attention from the girls for a sec?
an untamed emotion washes over his features, as you feel him fix underneath your weight, pelvis pressing fleetingly into you. the sudden perception of his crotch poking your dressed ass leaves you flustered and fuzzy; you must put all your willpower into thinking the distracted motion was just you imagining differently than it was.
but when your eyes fall on him, you see him blush.
he looks hauntingly beautiful under the influence of alcohol. the lights reflect off his tanned skin, and he glows. dark eyes that melt like chocolate when the light hits the metal chains around his neck, honeycomb hair messy revealing his forehead and his eyebrows, moving slightly.
“all yours.”
smiling back is unavoidable. he's magnetic. he makes time go slowly. he's effortlessly handsome and alluring, an untamed wild aura envelops his moves when he looks away and strips you of his attention, leaving you stranding in the dark because he has that effect on people.
he has that effect on you.
he clears his throat at one point catching your attention from the black-haired boy striking up a conversation with chaeyoung at the other end of the cargo box. your eyes go down to him as you feel him tense beneath you. “too heavy?” you want to know, stung by curiosity.
“you're perfect.” he lets out a light laugh when you tap him gently, rolling your eyes. “but if you want to get him jealous, you might have to do something more risky than just sit on a guy's lap.”
your eyes open slightly, apprehensive, “like, what?”
he grins, “lap dancing.”
you see him burst out laughing under the effects of the pot, enhancing his mirth when he senses your distress.
your cheeks and neck burn from the comment said so lightly, throwing you off. “you're a dick.” you hit him, huffing.
but after seconds go by, you think about it seriously, “maybe i should.”
haechan coughs the smoke out of his lungs, caught in surprise by your answer. you see him choking wildly before he returns back to normal. your attentive eyes look at him, prompted. has he been flushed by what you've said?
“come here.” you're drawn to him without a warning. breaths mingling in the narrow space when haechan pulls you close, really close and your hair cascades down, covering your faces as he pretends to kiss you.
he smells like a wild mixture of weed and booze. the scents fill your receptors and clutter up your thoughts, getting you drunk and lightheaded. his warm hand plays with your neck while he smiles and you are too dumbfounded to get out of the trance you’re in because only a few centimeters are missing from your mouths touching.
“so who's he?” he wants to know, completely forgetting that he's only inches away from your face.
“you don't know him,” you say, gulping. is it just you?
haechan scoffs, and his licorice rum breath hits your lips, “i'll decide that.”
you turn away from him under his contemplating eyes, resisting the urge to bite your lip; haechan's eyes drop when you evidently end up doing so, pondering. “uh... jeno?”
“jeno,” he repeats as if he's convincing himself that you've actually said that name. as if he's entranced by the way you wet your lips.
“d'you know him?”
he hums.
“is he...?” **words don't come to you. is he dangerous? should you be careful with him? suddenly you want to know his opinion on the subject. suddenly you wish he'd keep his hand on your back a little longer.
“single?” he pronounces, “i don't give a fuck about that information, sweetheart. i suggest you look elsewhere.” his words hit you like a bucket of cold water and you find yourself hindered by such a drastic change of attitude. “starting with all the girls he takes to bed in one night.” from so close, you wish he couldn't see your expression shifting under his words. his lips are heart-shaped but nothing sweet comes out of them. because even though he's being cruel, you don't want him to notice it. you don't want him to know that he's hurt you.
“i wonder if they're the same ones you take to bed.”
he scoffs, “do your do.”
you step back a little to get a better look at the attitude he's taken so suddenly. “what does that even mean, haechan?”
“i need more of this...” he completely ignores your rhetoric and gets up from the chair with you, still on his lap. the movement causes you to stumble before the grip on your back becomes harder, preventing you from falling.
haechan gently taps your chin, overlooking your features contracting into a hurt grimace. the mere notion of him not finding you attractive enough hit you like a truck. 'cause only until tonight you had taken his disinterestedness as something else.
“you think he won't hook up with me.” words gush out of you with venom, drawing his attention.
“i just don't think you'd dare.”
“i've got game,” you point out.
“all losers, by the way. c'mon, pretty. you're not meant to be a one-night stand.”
the comment comes out of him so easily that it doesn't seem to be loaded with the most corrosive toxin that destroys your insides. the feeling of betrayal takes your breath away, and the fact that he was the one who uttered those words hurts like hell. “it's not like you're the god of sex either.”
haechan's eyes turn to you. “you want proof of that?”
“sure!”
“want me to show you, sweetheart?”
“i'd love that!”
he shrugs. “then do. your. do. if you dare.”
“fine!”
“fine!”
“hi!” a hand grabs haechan by the shoulder and spins him around; a girl with long, honey-colored hair smiles openly with extreme excitement under both of your confused stares. she's visibly lightweight by the way she holds her beer and the words come out slow and elongated. “minyeon? from earlier?” she tries to make him remember her even though it doesn't work much.
“you must've mistaken me for someone else,” he says in a tactless manner.
she tilts her head, “haechan, right?” followed by a nervous silence.
sometimes you forget how easy it is for haechan to straight up lie in people's faces to get away with it just the same way he hooks up and forget it the next minute. “i'll leave you two to catch up,” you say, deciding not to see how he gets rid of that one.
ʚïɞ
haechan finds himself freezing his butt off while watching the brunette stoner of his friend smoke. he starts considering keeping him company or just leaving him while he finds a girl (or a couple of them) to hook up with, if not for the fact that he doesn't want to do either. it irks him not to be able to label that annoying emotion he feels at this moment.
“could you stop that fucking noise?” mark wonders, annoyed.
“what noise?”
“the whining.”
“i am not whining, i'm just breathing.”
“every time you breathe a noise follows,” mark retorts, taking a long hit before the race. “you're so punchable right now.”
haechan wants to strangle him. he could be stoned out of his mind too, except that he is so sober that it makes him angry. it makes him aware.
his eyes travel to the spot he's been staring at all night, to find you talking animatedly with jeno; the snort comes out of him without him noticing it when you laugh and lean closer to the boy, and mark whines.
“he seriously can't be funnier than me,” haechan remarks. “she's clearly flirting with him.”
“wanna know my take on this matter?” mark's tired voice catches haechan's attention for a few seconds. “i think you're mad because you can't tell jeno not to date yn the same way you did with us.”
“did i ask your opinion? no, i didn't... —and i did not do that. i couldn't fucking care less who she's dating.”
mark rolls his eyes, “then stop staring at her.”
“i. can't.”
does he really care much who you date? certainly not, given the dating history you've had; it hasn't affected him at all to see you hanging out with guys instead of him. to see you saving them the seat next to you at the café you frequent all the time, wearing their clothes.
above all, he doesn't imagine you kissing them, or laughing louder at their jokes, or their hands on your body, on the curve of your waist, your full legs, back, arms, face, stomach...
“oh, my god! dude. you're so jealous.”
haechan peels his eyes off you with his irises flaming to look at mark. his neck burns and he can't sit still feeling his whole insides blazing. “jealous?” he huffs, “i'm just bugged.”
“explain again why, i didn't catch the first one.”
“because she's...”
“forget it, i don't care.” haechan is cut by mark, and to his anger, he finds it soothing. luckily, the boy doesn't pay attention to the breath haechan lets out because he finds himself looking quite carefully at a single point in the crowd, where the same girl from before seems out of place.
mark doesn't even hesitate to go to her, leaving haechan alone with his mind, soon becoming a mess as he tries to articulate what he feels, struggling to make sense of why it infuriates him so much that you're talking to jeno, that you're smiling, that you let him hold you by the waist, that you allow him to lead you to a quieter, more intimate place. while he grapples with the conclusion of why you don't do all these things with him.
because you're his best friend.
you're his.
a girl surprises him by clinging to his neck without warning, and in another moment he would play along, but now he's quite upset and doesn't even find her attractive. “not now, ryu,” he mutters without sparing a glance at her, too busy with you.
mind too occupied to be distracted by her, too occupied thinking of you.
through the natural flow of events, a couple of beers, and your mind full of a hazy sensation, you may have made hasty decisions.
“you're so hot,” jeno whispers against your lips, breathing heavily.
his lips are deft. kisses tasting like beer and cigarettes. he moves his mouth over yours with the utmost delicacy and fierceness; his hands holding your face as his tongue fiddles before clashing with yours.
“i knew it!”
his hands gently encircle your waist.
“should we move this somewhere else?”
he doesn't stop for you to answer. between kisses, you say, “your place?”
jeno detaches himself from you with an amused look, “i race in a bit,” he points out, with an airy laugh. his eyes scan the place: leaning your body against a metal box on the outskirts of the party, with the smell of the dock coming towards you. the sky is starless, and apart from you, there is not a soul around. and yet, he seeks. “where's your car?”
“m-my car?” you repeat, pulling away to look him in the eye. he hums, staring at your lips, and because of that, you utter, “this way.”
your van is parked far away from the vibrant pulse of the party. the journey seems eternal. it's quiet. jeno lets you lead the way as you hear his footsteps on the gravel behind you. you've exchanged words with him for the first time tonight, given the fact all your friends know him; everyone knows him; he's won a couple of times in races. he's popular and as far as you're aware, he keeps everything casual. no hard feelings. no commitment.
his kisses have left your own judgment in disarray, clouding your clarity, and now you begin to see the severity of your rushed decisions. you find yourself yearning for something you believe he might fulfill tonight; you're so needy for someone.
“this is it. this is my car.”
jeno stares at the van with wide-open eyes, and the motion makes his eyebrow piercing sparkle when he nods slowly, “nice ride.”
the pit in your stomach narrow, and just like that, with a puff, the fact that he said that makes it less scary. “right?!” oh, you seriously don't have survival instincts.
he nods, approaching you and pinning you against the car. the kisses deepen, growing more fervent and desperate with each passing breath. he lets you lead him as his hands grope the door.
“sliding doors?”
you visibly melt.
“aw.” you pepper kisses across his face while he lets you step inside.
you've kissed a bunch of guys. but jeno doesn't compare at all to haechan, nor to the tenderness in which your best friend first kissed you in the backseat of the van after regretting ditching you for the hottest girl in school. and while jeno reclines you against the seat, his touch tracing patterns along your sides, sending shivers down your spine, and fingers dancing across your skin, your mind involuntarily drifts back to the past, replaying the memory of his lips upon yours in an endless loop.
and thinking about him makes you hesitate. and you hate him for it. you hate that you can't decipher the reason behind how he treats you when no one's watching, how you steal glances at each other while the other pretends not to notice, why he looks at you longer than the rest? why do you want his lips to be kissing you and not jeno's? why do you want to replace the hands that travel under your skirt with a pair of known hands full of rings?
why, among all things, did you expect him to be your first time with a guy, 'cause then you'd know he'd be romantic, and sweet, caring, and gentle, and the way you always dreamed?
you hate him because you can't even spend 30 min without him out of your mind. it is so much devastating that even when you don't think about him, you think about him.
and it's quite unfair to jeno that you're weighing on him while he's kissing you. maybe you should focus. his hands. they travel to your thighs and your breath freezes in your throat. he's actually good with them. if you look closely, if you squint hard, it's almost romantic that you're going to lose your virginity in the same place you had your first kiss with haechan, right?
it's just that… you had dreamed of doing it in places that felt more familiar to you. your bedroom, with a good mattress, for example.
the belt digs into your lower back as his kisses escalates, and you think, well… fuck it.
the mere thought draws into your chest when jeno's kisses descend to your neck, and you think it would be easier to reject him like every other guy you met if he wasn't so delicate, if he wasn't kinder than the others.
the shrill sound of the sliding door opening without warning takes you by surprise. a squeal leaves your lips as you stare at the cut-out silhouette that appears in the night, slowly becoming less blurred and more like someone.
“there you are. the race is in 10.” the voice you know so well comments, leaning on the door and sticking his head inside the van.
basically, it's like seeing haechan, but his hair is darker and longer, and his tone of voice colder and fiery. donghyuck's eyes glint like elusive fireflies, a mysterious allure dancing in his gaze. he's calm, while haechan is relaxed. when he smiles, he seems to hold a thousand secrets he can whisper to you at midnight. he exists at night, while haechan exists in daylight, reminiscent of captivating sunlight.
“i'm busy,” jeno says, slowly.
“i don't care.” silence spreads in the air as you're frozen by the audacity he has to interrupt such a private moment without caring to apologize, the nonchalant way he projects while waiting for jeno to react.
the black-haired man catches your gaze, apologetically. “sorry, doll. duty calls.”
you stay straight in awe as jeno removes from you and step outside the van. the only light bulb pulling highlights from his messy blonde streaked hair, while your existence is totally ignored as they exchange some words before he begins to walk away as if the last few minutes hadn't passed, leaving you alone with donghyuck.
“well, thanks for that.” you say venomously, stepping out of the car and looking him in the eye to notice that he finds the situation amusing.
“what can he do in 10 minutes, sweetpea?”
besides that stupid nickname, your cheeks warm up from his comment. “what can you do in 10 minutes?”
“you’d be surprised.”
“not really…”
the words crowd and fade on your tongue when donghyuck comes close to you, and you can smell the musk of his cologne when he closes the back door of the van. his eyebrows come together and he gives you a suspicious look very similar to your best friend's, scanning your face, “are you drunk, by any chance?”
he watches you roll your eyes. “why?”
donghyuck shrugs with nonchalant air, “you're not oversharing.”
“i don't overshare.” you fold your arms. “and that's not what i meant. you literally chased my 10 minutes rendezvous away.”
“he's not right for you.”
you feel flushed until the feeling is replaced by the indignation gripping your chest, “because i'm not his type?”
donghyuck sweeps over your figure unashamedly after your statement as he hums thoughtfully. without being able to help it, your neck burns from the intensity of his gaze sparkling when he locks eyes with you, and you find that the reason you stare at him back is because he doesn't have haechan's moles. “you're everybody's type.”
there's a solitary star just above the corner of his mouth, burning under his cheek, tinged pink.
you're too stunned to react immediately when he walks away from you, unceremoniously. his hazy presence beginning to fade as he drifts away into the darkness, until the last second when he stops and looks over his shoulder. “you coming?” an invitation. donghyuck reaches into the pockets of his leather jacket to pull out a box of cigarettes and a lighter, the silvery object glows faintly, glimpsing a star engraved in it. he doesn't even offer you a cigarette when he lights one for himself, the smoke clearing into the long night, as he takes you back to the party without exchanging words. profile already showing a smug smirk because he somehow finding this amusing.
just as he found your bicycle accident annoyingly entertaining before treating you himself.
it was a terrible wound, you couldn't even look at it. and you were so scared of telling your parents that you didn't cry even though it hurt like a thousand hells. you like to think that only he knows about that scar, because only he has seen it. he was so good at keeping secrets, because he probably didn’t remember them.
night clears your head as you exhale deeply into the night.
“where are we going?”
the growing murmur of music beginning to keep you company with your footsteps on the gravel, him taking you to a different place than you came from. you stare at his impenetrable profile, “backstage.”
a little further away from the party in the cargo containers is a heavy cargo truck, where boys begin to take out fancy sport cars amid shouts and cheers. you watch minyeon happily talk to the boy who has stirred up your senses and walked away as if nothing had happened a couple of minutes ago, and all of a sudden you find yourself irritated because he's kissing her now. the same way he kissed you.
donghyuck takes your gesture of crossing your arms for something else, as he strips off his jacket and throws it tactlessly over your shoulders. “thanks...” you say, but tinged with another meaning. and he deciphers it when he answers; you’re not talking about the cold, but a second secret thing when he breathes, “any time.”
ʚïɞ
some participants have moved the party to a sparsely populated café in the city downtown. you find yourself surrounded by papers strewn all over your table while your loaded coffee cup sits empty and not working in your system.
“what?!”
“liz! i still don't say anything!” you greet your friends.
“sorry! my ears' ringing! can't hear anything.” she sits at your table behind jisung. “moody,” she mumbles when jaemin comes like a busy bee with another round of coffee for everyone, gently bobbing his head.
“i'm sorry.” you take your head in your hands, “this test is killing me and i haven't had proper sleep.”
“yeah, tell me about it,” she huffs.
you two share knowing looks under jisung's confused stare.
for the past three nights, your roommate had gotten into the habit of sneak in guys in the night, and while that was fine within the community rules secretly agreed upon between you, chaeyoung and company were just too loud.
jisung takes interest in the impasse where liz and you look on together, “i haven't been able to sleep well since,” liz complains.
your mysterious friend's wanderings were none of your business until they messed with your study time.
you almost choke on coffee when you come up with an idea just as jaemin takes an unsupervised break at your table. “i can exchange rooms with you,” you propose to the boy, skipping the real details. “think about it, the air is breathable, it's tidy, it smells like roses, and- there is also a no drugs policy.”
liz sends you a look “there is? ah!” she exclaims rubbing her calve under the table and sending you a dangerous glare.
“please say yes. it'll only be for this week of exams.” the three of you watch jaemin ponder, 'til he moves to drink his coffee, and becomes aware of you. “beg your pardon?” the boy removes a pair of earphones with an attentive grimace.
“would you mind changing rooms with me?” you repeat, putting all your charisma into an attempt to sugarcoat the situation.
“sure, all yours!”
“now that you mention the room thing, i've always wondered why you don't just live with chenle and the rest of the bikers,” liz wonders, tapping her chin. “you get along well with them but you'd rather hang out with...” her eyes travel unexpectedly to the blond boy drinking his milkshake. “us,” she finishes.
liz's point interests you and jisung. “yeah... you're right...”
“rent's cheaper,” jaemin simply says, shrugging.
“but i pay the rent,” jisung quietly mentions, pointing at himself.
“exactly,” jaemin replies, making the boy laugh amused, and you can't help but stroke his hair because of a sudden overload of tenderness.
“do you want to hear my opinion on this matter?” liz says after a while. “i think she's fucking mark.”
the girl gives you a sassy look before leaning back from her chair and drinking her coffee, with the three of you staring at her in discredit.
ʚïɞ
“you're sure you'll be okay?” mark asks you as he puts on his jacket.
there is no trace of jaemin, much less jisung. it's the weekend again and the apartment is in an eerie calm because haechan is not around. “i mean, partying is so overrated.”
“it is,” he agrees with a laugh, “it's halloween, though. are you sure you'll be alright not stealing kids' candies this year?”
you’ll be okay because the whole week has been halloween for you.
it’s been a while since you and haechan talked, although it seems like an eternity.
you were taking it as a clue to leave the subject in the past, but you couldn't, despite the attempts to convince yourself that everything was fine even when you haven't talk to him or meet him during breaks on campus, or on the way to the bathroom, even though he sleeps in the room next to yours. not a sign of him except when he arrives late at night trying to make the least noise although you can still hear the giggles of his companions every night.
you live in the same house and it seems as if walls go up every time you see each other. and he probably hasn't even noticed that you've stripped him of the thing you care the most.
the ghost of his cologne as he passes by you every night haunts you, and it was killing you slowly, whatever this indifference was.
to say that it didn't matter to you at all would be another one of your lies, but seeing that he didn't care at all began to get to you.
“i'll stay to study this time.”
you notice that mark is unsure about it but the boy ends up agreeing with a slight nod. “jisung says that you're allowed to read his comic books if you get bored, and you can use haechan's notes if you want. jaemin left a espresso for you if you start to feel sleepy, but, if you feel extra bored, you can grab one of my muffins. you don't mind taking them out of the oven once they're done, right?”
your eyebrows come together at that new dosis of information, “do you bake?”
you were ignorant that any of them knew how to bake. although in reality jaemin prepares the best coffees in the world, and jisung washes the clothes impeccably. maybe it was your fault to pigeonhole them into pretty boys with airheads.
he lets out a light laugh and winks at you, “sure thing.” before leaving you alone with your failed attempts to focus on accounting.
it doesn't take long for you to get bored of actually studying, and then you come up with the best idea of the night: you can have your own party at home.
all in the name of not doing the accounting homework, you end up picking up the place, drinking some cheap red wine and of course, attacking their freshly made fridge. when the muffins are ready, you've given up.
just because haechan doesn't want to see you shouldn't ruin your chance to attend the party tonight. yeah. that's right. all you have to do is make sure not to bump into him tonight and everything will be alright. besides, accounting is kind of overrated.
it is probably past midnight when fate works against you, and as you open the door, the two of you find yourselves staring at each other from across the threshold.
he looks surprised for a fleeting moment, as if you had interrupted his plans or his musings; you've probably had, imagining the times he's escorted girls to the apartment when you were friends, and how you never noticed it until you started showing closer attention to him; you missed the nights you didn’t knew, you missed the nights you didn’t mind.
it is probably past midnight, and his cheeks are flushed as if he had spent his entire life under the sunlight, a blush that has decided to reside on his skin since childhood. his gaze is honeyed, and his eyelashes frame his doe eyes. his hair is slightly disheveled, stuck to his forehead with sweat. his expression is soft, lost in a dream he can't quite decipher, as if everything feels light. what surprises you the most isn't that he's alone tonight, but how you're suddenly noticing all that just now.
his eyes blink slowly, “going somewhere?” only when he stumbles over his own words you understand that it’s the dizziness of alcohol.
you are caught off guard when he pulls out a beer from the frigde, given how intoxicated he already is. “i didn't expect you to arrive so early.” or alone.
“i didn't expect you to be here.”
since this is his apartment, he has every right to be bothered that you're here given the fact you two aren't speaking. “if you prefer, i can leave.”
wet, drowsy eyes stares at you. “i’d rather you stay.”
he wanders around the apartment, his steps clumsy. graceful, his movements still seem delicate and slender. in the middle, you turn your back to the door that remains open and inviting when you close it and decide to stay. you trail after him when he drifts toward the bathroom, keeping close by in case he needs you. the door is left ajar, the light hum softly against the tiles. his profile is outlined by the soft, hazy glow from the living room, gleaming his smooth, tanned skin that flushes when he grins. “are you going to just stand there, watching?”
you hadn’t expected this. him wasted, cheeks glowing, his lashes heavy as if carrying sleep itself. you’d only thought he’d be a little stoned, fuzzy and soft, giggling like a fool and blurting out scientific facts; this image strikes you as just as strange as your behavior when he takes off his shirt. “yes.” seeing the situation as funny goes beyond your critical thinking, but of course, in his alcohol-soaked brain, it probably makes sense. “i mean, i’m making sure you won’t fall cause the floor’s a little slippery.”
“i won’t,” he says automatically after.
“why drink so much that you can't think straight?”
“i’m trying not to think.” he mutters, but the thought drifts unfinished, as if there’s more he’ll never say. to you. his lips part like he might go on, but all he does is stare, clinging to you as though the reason were carved somewhere in your face. “you’re leaving?” he wants to know.
“yes.” you wanted to. you were to. now you’re not so sure.
his face tilts and you see the shadow of his eyelashes before your gaze moves upward and meets his brown eyes. “don’t go with him.” you had never noticed how your bodies used to come together without noticing it, until his warm breath hits your forehead. it takes you a moment, longer than it should, to put the pieces together. the drawn-out insistence, the urging of it all. only then do you understand. he's talking about jeno.
he’s a little drowsy and lightheaded, and his essence only clouds your senses. it intoxicates you. he’s so pretty, chrushingly so. you figured, you’ll never get drunk again and kiss strangers, crash at a party and wander aimlessly. “forget him tonight.” you’ll always gasp when he looks at you with this intense gaze, and he’ll keep staring at your lips.
“be with me.” dainty skin is exposed, and you find yourself embarrassed and aware of his muscles flexing when he lifts his hand and brush your lower lip. “i’m your best friend,” he pronounces, as if he’s just aware of it now.
but why does his hand brush your chin, why does he align his mouth with yours? why does he come toward you, as if he wants to kiss you?
you’re afraid you’ll never know. his lips never touch yours. instead, his hair tickles your face as he moves away from you toward the toilet, and you see him, still wrapped in a dream, as he throws up.
ʚïɞ
there's a charm about a gemini boy. something captivating. so hard to pin down; but of course there are many things that make haechan unique, such as his evocative charisma or the fact that with him, the sun never sets. and even though you can't do anything to not feel a jumble in your stomach at the sight of him, that's not what makes an uneasy feeling settle in your chest, but the girl on his legs, kissing his neck.
he doesn't seem affected at all by your friendship, and reveals enough to realize that his confession have only been him being drunk and playing around. playing you.
his eyes meet yours amidst the sea of faces and suddenly you think of how unfair it is that he gets to do all of those things without getting attached because if it were you…, if you were on his legs, and you were inches away from his face. if you could be able to trace his moles with your finger before kissing him, there would be no return for you from that point.
and all this time you didn't have to worry about that because your safe place was being his best friend and for a long time, you had lived in denial about this side of him that had been hidden from you. sensations accompanies you when you make your way out. the floor shakes under your feet and something weird spread on your guts; you feel a little unwell.
the sedative effect on your body hesitates and helplessly your insides feel empty accompanied by nothing but the moon. and the heartstring, it's all mixed up inside of you; it turns you into an mess. up until this point, you hadn't realized how much it affected you to look at him that way. somehow, you had managed to ignore it, but now it takes space, and it grows and makes you sick of it.
the feelings are everywhere. and when the murmur of the night brings with it a beautiful boy unaware of your presence, you're doomed. he gently exhales smoke that travels moonward, velvety brown eyes lingering until they find you.
“hi,” you greet.
his eyes glow fleetingly amused, the corner of his lips pulled to the side in a half-smile identical to your best friend's. but chaotic. untamed. hasty. “mind if i join?” you shake your head watching him sit next to you on the step.
you contemplate him, smoking. in silence.
something feels wrong when you can't look at him without revoking haechan. sometimes it's unfair because everything reminds you of him. your mind always playing tricks, desperately searching for haechan in any face you meet. “i’m afraid your brother doesn’t want to be my friend anymore,” you confess, eerily.
“everybody knows that, sweetpea.” his laughter takes you by surprise, it is light and soft, like a sigh.
your countenance is moved, “why?”
“no one wants to be your friend, yn,” he quietly answers.
donghyuck abruptly turns to you when he hears you sobbing. dark orbs watching you warily until you catch the soothing, sober scent of his perfume when he reaches you to comfort you. “shhh...” his attentive eyes follow your movements, hands gently stroking your sides. “what's wrong? what is it?”
lee donghyuck is an enigma, of course. he sees any challenge as something to beat. he has secrets who has secrets. mysterious, yet alluring. even before and even now, he has never let you in, and that's probably why he's a distant star for you. a lonely, and untethered sun.
when you were younger, you overheard him say that you were a crybaby to haechan… you probably were… you probably are.
there's a word in korea: inyeon. providence. but also fate. the whole reason why you're bound to see him as an impossible love, is because you believe that your life is meant to intertwine with haechan's. but in a deeper level, maybe in another past life, the heartstring lead you to donghyuck.
he's stolen your sighs for as long as you can remember, but it's like reaching the moon with your bare hands, unattainable. because haechan was always there; in your heart, he takes all the space. and now all of that explodes in your chest and you can't keep it inside.
he’s looking at you, apprehensive and you’re out of game. “i think the wine was expired,” you cry out holding your head, and unexpectedly, he laughs in a sigh.
“are you gonna throw up?” you take a few seconds to do a checkup, “i don't think so.” because all you find is this vast void, a wandering thought that leaves you second guessing. “i…”
“yes, sweetpea?” he inquires, apprehensive.
he looks so much like him, but at the same time, if you look at him for a long time, you don't fear losing yourself in his eyes, you don't think about having his heart.
“i've never seen you and haechan in one place at the same time,” you think —for your discontent, out loud.
he hums, thoughtfully. “let's not buy that wine again, okay?”
you nod, “i should go.”
you get up from the road and watch the moment when his eyes travel fleetingly and stop at a hidden point on your leg, and your breath freezes, 'cause you think he can somehow see something you try so hard to cover but he knows exactly where it is. “d'you want me to drive you home?” he gets up and immediately hovers over you but you already made up your mind.
“i'll be fine.”
you make your way back between bodies dancing in tune to some raucous music that turns out it's your favorite song. finding yourself in a whirlwind of lights and sounds while everything feels enhanced. it makes you dizzy, especially a pair of hands landing on your bare waist, and the way they pin you against a buff chest and fingers grip your skin, controlling your body.
'cause it feels like they're holding a secret confession.
the front door is on the other side of the crowd, and every passes you light and dazzily, and all your nerves disorder when he brings his mouth close to your ear. “leaving so soon?” when was the last time you talked without the other being drunk? you wouldn't know.
haechan wears charms on his hair and some strands of his messy short hair now dyed a lighter brown. “are you still mad at me?” he asks and as something spontaneous, everything takes a back seat.
could you? could you? could you?
he blooms in light when you shake your head. “you're my best friend.” you're welcomed into his chest with his arm wrapped around you.
he feels like home. steady. he’s all honey and softness. seduction and temptation. “sorry i called you a douchebag.”
“no worr… you didn't call me douchebag.” he giggles shortly.
“yeah, i did. secretly.”
he draws you back to him. “okay, i forgive you.”
the gentle rocking of his body soothes the ache. suddenly you don't feel so bad anymore. you feel less disoriented. your mind is cluttered by the addictive scent of his cologne and the small gesture he has of combing your hair.
“yo!” haechan looks over his shoulder at a mark appearing among the people with a silly grin that can only means he's baked. if that is not sufficient judgment for a given conclusion, the side cap he sports is. “i thought you wouldn't come. oh, and thanks for taking care of the muffins the other day. jaemin would’ve kill us if we ever set the apartment on fire again.”
“yeah, about the muffins…” you'd completely forgotten about them, which is hard to do when your stomach has been rumbling all the way you're partying. “i was kinda of hungry so i may or may not have taken one,” you say, biting your thumb foolishly in a chuckle.
both of them make a lousy sound that doesn't lead to anything good. “what?” you ask looking at both boys sharing a glance.
“it may… or may not have cannabis in it.” haechan mimics your accent funnily as if that would counteract the stomach churning that overwhelms you.
a hole opens up in your stomach that makes the floor wobble under your feet. “what?”
“don't panic,” he says when your palm holds your head spinning.
“did i just use drugs?!”
“i said don't panic,” he repeats staticly with a whiny voice.
“haechan,” you shout.
“what? it wasn't mine! right, mark?” haechan defends himself by showing his palms while looking for his friend, but the dark-haired boy has vanished from his side. “mark?”
“oh, god.” you feel faint as your whole inside collapses and lengthens and narrows and spins and everything. “my parents are gonna kill me.”
“well, they aren't around, are they?” he soothes with a boyish smile that makes you feel less dizzy.
“no, they are not...” you weigh.
haechan catches you gazing at him, a soft smile playing on his lips as he traces the contours of your face with his eyes; he has blonde highlights and small charms. “how do you feel?” his voice comes soft; you'd never noticed how soft it is unlike when he talks to others.
apart from the effect of the wine, it's right that you feel lighter. more smiling. and it would also explain why you were crying a little while ago. and why you were so confused about haechan and you. shit, it was all because you were under the influence of cheap wine and drugs. and drugs!
haechan sees you weird and strangely pretty as you laugh and laugh. “so nice.” especially when you're overwhelmed by the desire to hold him close because you know it's because you're high.
you both snort with amusement, nervously chuckling as you start to blink slowly, unable to stop looking at him. “can i have more of that?”
“do i look like a dealer? no,” he states curtly, changing his mood fast. his face gets so close to yours that it's a little overwhelming, as he states, “don't even think about it. forget it, pretty. this is a one-time thing.” he folds his arms in front of his chest, reluctantly.
“what if i buy you some?”
“this is a two-time thing, and it's over,” he declares. “but swear you won't try anything else from anybody. only with me.” a dense sensation washes over you when he utters those words. akin to belonging.
haechan's drowsy eyes don't leave yours until you nod. he smiles with pleasure, thumb lightly brushing your cheek, “okay. let's get you home.”
ʚïɞ
at least a dozen pairs of static black shiny eyes stare back at you when you're done with your work.
“i missed you guys, so much.” you say, fixing a red tie around a fluffy neck. “especially you, mr. buttons.” the brown bear seems to have a smile on his face because of the loose seams around his mouth. the clothes are a little bit faded and his shirt is missing…, and he's probably a hundred years old and ugly and threadbare, but he's still special to you.
living for a week in the apartment across the hallway could be considered a way to lose one's mind. there was no denying the fact that they were still men and that they would probably laugh at you for life at the mere hint that you slept with stuffed animals. you wanted them to still think you were hot and unreachable.
“do you also tuck them to sleep?” haechan's voice takes you by surprise and red-handed. you're not fast enough to cover the row of stuffed animals with the sheets and climb on them as if nothing had happened, because the way he leans against the door frame looks like he's been there for a while. “at least tell me you cover their eyes when you bring guys here. mr. buttons has no reason to see that his mother does naughty things with…”
“shut up!” you cover your mouth with both hands and give him a murderous look. “didn't they teach you to knock in summer camp for fools? leave!”
haechan lets out a laugh and to your distaste it's contagious. “should i take this with me, then?” his long fingers go to reach something in his back pocket that you intuit is weed. the sun-kissed boy grin pleased when you go to him and drag him inside before closing the door.
you lie on the side of the bed closer to the window and your knee softly collides with haechan's thigh. his face is bathed from the moon slipping through the curtains, and his eyes shine like wild berries. “so, good news is that my plug’s being investigated by the police, so he's not selling a lot lately.”
you watch him nod regretfully under your static gaze. “hae, isn't it supposed to be bad news?” you ask him a little confused and worried.
“oh, i thought it'd be for you because you're always doing the right thing.”
you're too stunned to speak. “i don't…-” you stop when he gives you an honest glance, “okay, what's the bad news, then?”
“mark borrowed me some of his.” you bite your lips, excited, and he just brush them with his fingers,“but,” he adds suddenly, “it's only enough for one cigarette, so we'll have to share.”
you nod, thoughtfully. it wouldn't have been so weird if you hadn't had those weird feelings from cannabis a week ago. you could say that you had acclimatized and that everything was back to normal, but that would be lying. but you and haechan have kissed before, it shouldn't be that weird; it shouldn't affect you at all now. “fine by me.”
“since it's your first time we'll smoke a joint,” he says looking at you while his hands work on it already. his eyes cast a glance at you when he feels you a little lost, “blunts are made with tobacco paper. hits harder than a joint,” he explains.
and before you can stop it, you're talking.
“i've tried tobacco before actually... hmm, my father used to have a collection of them. i stole one but i think it was expired because...” haechan's eyebrows raise with every word you say that ends up throwing you off. “what?” you stare at him, thinking he definitely sees you as a good lame girl and not interesting or alluring or pretty like the girls he likes.
“have you noticed that you yap a lot?” he says as a smile wells up on his lips.
“i don't! i was trying to make a point… with my daring adventures...”
you shut up when you see him put the cigar to his lips and light it. the opposite tip lights up red when he pushes the tinderbox away. his head pulls back and exposes his neck to blow air upwards and not towards you.
it's so mesmerizing, so hypnotic that he catches you gazing at his plump lips and his cheeks tint with a rosy color. “you'll want to leave it in your lungs for a bit before expelling it. it's like holding your breath. don't make a pause because that way you'd choke. look at it as if you are taking a deep breath and expelling the air after a few seconds,” he instructs, passing you the small joint. “yeah?”
you feel yourself nod.
your fingers take the rolled-up paper, analyzing it. it's so perfectly done, you think your friend definitely has a gift. you bring it to your lips as if holding your breath under his enraptured gaze.
his brown eyes suddenly feel intense as he studies you. “try to... mhm... just like that. good job.” he smiles proudly when he sees that you don't cough on your first puff. “we can always do it with a hookah, or edibles.” he recites, watching you take another one. “tell me if you like it,” he says while absentmindedly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear when it gets in the way. “i thought you didn't like the whole smoking thing.” you shake your head.
you don't, but he looks breathtaking tonight and you can't let him go when he belongs here. with you.
the smoke travels into your lungs and you soon find the process like a piece of cake, smiling to your insides when you finally master the tactic. “in that case, i could pass you the smoke.”
haechan comes to your aid as you begin to spit your lungs into the blanket. “yes. maybe we should try that. this is very hard for me,” you complain, passing him the cigar.
he makes it dance on his skillful fingers from shuffling cards so much, and it might have been the shadows of your dimly lit room to see a smile hidden in his mouth. “c’mere,” he says, taking an inhale of the joint. haechan lets you get close to him. hands going to hold your face while his sealed lips keep the smoke inside until you're face to face and your lips go to each other's.
you've kissed before. you remember that you kissed him before, in the back seat of your parent's van. you've touched his lips, you felt them against yours, but why does it feel like it's the first time? his mouth part open presses against yours while he passes you the smoke, and your tongue soaks in the taste of his lips. a vast sensation explodes within you, so intoxicating you're spellbound and dazed, that you find yourself breathless when he pulls away from you.
haechan looks at you, differently. the narcotic mixes with your wistful blood and turns you into a mess while his drowsy smoky eyes drifts to your lips, and you find out they're part open. your eyes feel glassy. your head buzzes. all your insides tingle. is it because of the pot or maybe because you're looking directly at him and he hasn't stop looking at you?
“did i do it wrong?” you wonder, worriedly, because what if you did it wrong, what if you blurred the lines? “shouldn't i have done that?” you ask again, watching him getting close to hold your face, as if he could sense how bad you're feeling and wanted to comfort you.
your common sense has been spoiled. and until now you hadn't noticed that there's always been something in space a wavering thought that keeps the other second-guessing. “maybe we should…” you start saying, trying to cover your disappointment by thinking for a moment that it wasn't all in your head, or in your heart, just seconds before he breathes your name like he was holding it dearly for a long time.
herbal tones and lingering boozy sweet tint explode on your tongue when he kisses you again. haechan's hands slide down to trap you to him as your fingers bury in his soft hair, leaving you with a haunting desire to feel his mouth over and over again. a sensation so wild, so vast, that takes over, deepening the kiss and sensing the trace of marijuana on his breath, getting high on it.
it takes your breath away as you separate from him, both of you breathing heavily. haechan tilts his head towards you and you see his intentions to kiss you again, but you remind him of the cigarette still burning in his fingers. you see him take a deep hit, and this time it's you who draws him to you and kisses him intensely.
haechan takes you by the chin exerting slight pressure to open your mouth before his lips wrap around yours and slowly begins to pass you the smoke. the moment feels smooth, seductive. kissing you with neat experience, awakening all your nerve endings as he bites, and teases and sucks your lips, skillfully.
the volatile feeling numb your senses due to the euphoria rushing through his lips colliding with yours over and over. deep and warm, his hands leave your face as you feel loftier and draw him closer to you, sliding his fingers until they tighten around your waist, pulling you alluringly to him so both of you get up from the bed as he holds your neck.
you grind against him, tasting the herbal tones of the weed on his breath, mouth not taking long to open when you run out of air, soon invaded by his tongue. you find yourself enraptured, giving in to him slowing from the way his mouth moves over yours. mind floating from his expert touch, trained by having done it on previous occasions with other girls. and that he'll surely do once he's done here with you.
“what?” he asks when you break the kiss without warning because your mouth tingles for him.
“i feel dizzy...”
haechan comes to you and strokes your sides, “it happens the first time. everything is enhanced.”
“seems like too much,” you confess. sensations, thoughts, the world, your feelings. there are too many to bear.
“i got you.” it was killing you, and it was better to stop thinking about it if you wanted to stay naive and ignorant of this.
you're surprised he's already looking at you when you look at him. he's sweet, and gentle. you stay still while he studies your face for discomfort, and you can't do anything to stop yourself from kissing him again; and to your surprise, he leans closer.
“yn, have you seen my new lingerie?!”
your eyes widen in terror and without thinking twice, you push haechan away from you. a high-pitched sound escapes him before falling touchlessly to the floor where the bed hides his body, right on time when liz appears in her underwear on your door.
both of you look at each other, and your heart threatens to jump out of your chest with all your emotions running high from drugs and haechan. “the sky blue lingerie with a bow on the front and laced panties?” you ask in a rush. “haven't.” she squints and you gulp hard.
“why are you so nervous?” she questions. “that's the behavior of someone who lies.” her eyes flash dangerously, “or someone who hides something.”
you freeze and your muscles stiffen as she moves into the room and past you. before you can react, she open your underwear drawer and exclaim, “aha!” taking out the damn lingerie.
the girl looks at you with discredit and victory while holding her lingerie up but you're more aware of the boy rubbing his head behind her while he looks at the scenario amusingly. and you're there, alternating your gaze and caught, vilely, ‘cause you thought she wouldn't notice.
“you thought i wouldn't notice, did you?” she clicks her tongue and walks to the door, smiling witfully before she stops suddenly. “by the way, did you hear that thump just now?”
“no.”
she weighs, “do you think it's chae again? see? i thought it had been clear not to bring boys anymore. if she sneaks boys again then it's right for you to bring guys and for me to bring chenle, but we haven't, ‘cause that'd be disrespectful.” you nod and she rolls her eyes, “there'll be a serious conversation, me and her, i swear to you that if...” liz closes the door behind her and her voice begins to fade away as she walks away from your room and allows you to breathe again.
you feel haechan's intense presence behind you but you're not able to face him after still feeling his burning kiss on your lips. your mind feels light, and you can't think properly. all your thoughts for him seem right to you but you know that they're not. because it's haechan, who likes untethered relationships, even when you feel close to him.
it takes you a few seconds to gather the strength to turn around and watch him rummaging curiously through your drawer.
“remind me not to mess with liz ever.”
your mouth opens in disbelief before shortening the distance between you by two strides. “stay away from my panties, pervert!”
ʚïɞ
back when you were younger, it was so easy to see through the mist, through him, that you didn't have to ask. on thanksgiving, you think you’re dying.
your head spins and you're back in, missing nights like this.
a shared living room wrecked with laughter, a crowded kitchen smelling like something’s burning because mark forgot to take out the homemade pizza. the typical sneering of jaemin when someone mess up the ingredients. the dining room table with university papers forgotten because the night of study became something else.
you miss your friends. you miss them even when there's clearly something wrong with them. “oh! you've made it!” liz greets the third time you two encounter in the kitchen, cupping your face with marvel.
“liz, this is our apartment.”
“oh.”
“have you seen haechan?” after a few drinks and giving the matter a lot of thought, you decide to ask because you haven't seen him for a couple of days.
“not at all!” she says, nodding and drinking from her martini. “but i saw donghyuck a while ago. i’ll send him your regards.” thinking about haechan turning down the opportunity to do illegal things wasn't an everyday occurrence…, except during exam week, but since it’s christmas break and you hadn't seen him for three ring parties, you had started to worry.
seeing lucid dreams of him had been a recent occurrence, and having to see his brother everywhere even more so. even though you could pretend for just a second that it was him, it only made his absence feel more acute; because it didn't evoke the same feeling in you. you didn't feel a sense of belonging.
that is, until the hallucinations deceive your eyes so much that he appears there, on the roof of your apartment. on a cold night, his eyes are lost in the starless sky, and yours are lost in him. “you’ll catch a cold.”
it's freezing, and his cheeks and lips don’t take long to dye pink. his eyes are two wild berries, opaque under his disheveled hair of dark brown locs; in the cold night, he’s not wearing a jacket, as if it had been lost for a while.
“i’m actually playing hide and seek with jisung.” and there’s your heart, as thin as a promise. you were never going to fall in love with him, but life has a way of proving you wrong, and it's seeing his smile light up his face.
“how’s that going?”
“i think he forgot.”
“let’s go back inside.” he moves closer, and flickering lights bathes his features to realize that it’s not haechan. beholding him, donghyuck is handsome as hell and honey, but your heart sinks a little, because he doesn’t give you a taste of sun.
on closer inspection, his eyes have never seemed so soft to you as they do now. from the way he knows just as simple, that you’re drunk.
but it’s not alcohol, is it? it’s your heart. he takes you in his arms and it’s unfair. all you can think about is how unfair it is to look for traces of haechan in his features and find none.
the slight sway of his steps as he descends the stairs has your mind fuzzy. dowsily, your head rest on his shoulder. “thanks for finding me.”
“of course, sweetpea.” he smells of sunsets and bonfires. oud scent that disperses until you no longer sense it, because all you can perceive is a powdery fragrance hanging in the air, along with coffee and musk.
the smell of haechan, making you fuzzy.
you’re dragged back into the trenches of empty wine bottles and michael jackson vinyl records before you can object.
haechan's room displays for your eyes and every time you're trying to keep it all in. jackets and lighters on a nightstand, some candle you gave him for christmas. cozy blanket thrown over a chair and a pile of books and papers on a desk.
it’s quieter than your room, and cozier. your eyelids slowly close.
“did you mean it?” a yawn breaks in, “that no one wants to be my friend?”
you think that donghyuck gently rejecting you a while ago is no longer the reason why you don't fall in love with him.
but this time, he doesn’t.
“forget that i said it.”
“i can’t.”
is it true that his eyes contain stars, or you just want to feel warm? light, but different, it’s still just light.
you see him take a moment, perhaps you have begun to doze off; seconds that become infinite, your eyes struggle to keep looking at him.“perhaps i could’ve been your friend.”
“that would imply liking me…”
your eyes have closed completely, and lost in the mist, you can barely hear him laugh. “yes.” pieces of the puzzle reveal the truth to you when he is already gone: you would’ve love to be his friend. because you would know how sweet he would be mid morning, you would know, for example, his favorite color or whether he prefers tea or coffee or neither. what he does after class and where he goes when it's midnight.
you would know, by instance, everything you know about haechan when you don’t even try to remember. but you do anyway.
dreaming, you were only dreaming when you heard donghyuck come back, but in your dreams, he's the one at the door. he has put on a tie that lies loose around his neck. he has unkempt hair and may be over-drunk like the night you almost kissed.
it seems like he's had a lot of thanksgiving night, you wonder where he's been? where has he been all this time? “do you think he likes me?”
you don't know what's real and what's not. donghyuck stays at the door, but then haechan kneeled besides you.
you carry the weight of having been in love with your best friend your whole life, because everything sings. and you knew why. he’s alluring and everything he does carry a kind of beauty you didn’t know it was possible. and before that, because he made you laugh. he’s a know-it all, and you still like him. and before even that, because he feels like waves crashing at the shore; because he feels like home.
you figured that everyone would fall in love with him, because you did.
“who?” he smiles, and it gives you the kind of warmth you’d expect from haechan.
“your brother?”
“of course he does,” he says, and even though he's lying, you find him sweet. “…do you…?”
yes, it has take you a while to figure it out, but now it slips through the cracks of your mind, like honey… like sunbeams.
“yes.”
ʚïɞ
it might as well be that his brain is scrambled and smoking has enhanced his attention deficit, because while mark and jisung are arguing about something he can barely understand, his gaze always ends up on the other side of the room…
but that doesn’t make any sense, because he’s been stoned before but never felt like this.
“so, did you confess your feelings to her?” haechan comes to his senses to find mark wearing a cowboy hat and jisung’s shirt all wrinkled. if he weren't stoned out of his mind, he probably would have mocked about it, but he's too busy, feeling exposed.
besides, his appearance wasn’t great either. the tie around his neck is loose, but he finds himself out of air, and slightly embarrassed with whatever ache he’s experiencing. if anyone was to be mocked for their appearance, it would probably be him, if his emotions were proportional to his looks.
he hasn't had a moment's rest since that day, and he hasn't been able to think about anything else but your big eyes following his before falling on his lips, burning for kissing you before he gathered the courage to do it. and his mind hasn't been quiet since then, and no matter how intoxicated he can get, nothing could make him stop thinking about you.
has he ever been sober enough to do anything?
running away from you wasn’t the best way to cope, but you should give him that, other way he wouldn’t have find you in his room that night. because the truth was that he probably would have confessed a secret while you were sleeping.
mark wraps his arm around jisung when he finally come to terms with his feelings, just to find out mark’s wasn’t even talking to him in the first place. “so you haven’t?” he asks jisung.
he was close.
“what if she likes someone else?” jisung complains.
he thinks, he’ll be alright.
he has pretended to be his brother before, but never quite becoming him. and spent his whole life knowing that you were in love, he just hoped it was him.
“yeah, right.”
a chuckle escapes him at the thought of you choosing someone else over him. and yet, your confession had only made his feelings worse. if it was donghyuck you wanted, he was sure he would be fine.
he has already spent his whole life touching your lips and imagining kissing them.
ʚïɞ
you fear that you have self-sabotaged. three weeks have passed since that fateful day. two nights replaying the kiss over and over again on your mind. keeping your thoughts off it by studying hadn't worked, and through long days and sleepless nights you could no longer blame icarus anymore for flying right into the sun. not when your mind torments you with a pair of plump lips, soft mouth moving against yours, teasingly roaming. the intoxicating sensation of his tongue impregnated with marijuana.
“keep the change,” you say to the guy at the bar handing you a beer.
before you go looking for the sunny boy, you hear him shout behind your back, “hey! you're one dollar short!”
and you know it, because a: you are an accountant.
and b: inflation is a myth.
you stagger all over the party looking for haechan, a somewhat difficult task when you're a little drunk and you see the doppelganger making out with a girl on the dance floor. you can barely recognize donghyuck let alone the girl he kisses, but it seems that they are quite close because of the way the moon boy lets her run her hands all over him. and you can't help but watch.
he looks as if he wants to say something before being interrupted by needy lips, and between kisses, he finally gives in and you come to realize.
you need to be put away in a psych ward, because ever since, your only longing is to taste his lips again.
your eyes are anchored to both of them as you tell yourself that you should look for haechan, but something feels off. especially when you hear the hum of engines and your own heart, slowing down while bodies cut at high speed on a race in the distance. and it’s not the first or last time you’ll get it all wrong, when he looks apologetic, and you look like a fool, watching him being kissed.
you feel the stupid oppression in your chest when you recognize haechan, and now it's so obvious that it’s him that you feel ridiculous for thinking that he wouldn't be inside another girl's throat as soon as he could. “that motherfucker.”
while haechan's there dancing with her, you end up across the room doing the same thing with a stranger, failing so bad of keeping your eyes from going to him and his attempts of proving something you're aware of.
you fell first. and you fell harder.
the cigarette between his skinny and graceful fingers it's about to end when he smokes the last of it and finally glances at you, not being able to notice that you've been out of the game the moment he made you believed that your kiss meant something.
you're on edge, getting away from the hustle and heading to the dumpster after the race. it relieves you to find it empty, with everyone enjoying themselves at the party. because that way, there is no one to see you cry.
but he always finds you.
he arrives holding a match that he lights up as he proceeds to take the cigarette from his ear.“you owe me a blunt.”
“i'm not in the mood right now…” you start saying, wanting him to keep his distance because you know that if he gets any closer, and you can see his chocolate eyes acknowledging you, you'll probably forget what he’s been doing, starting all over again.
“you seemed pretty in the mood dancing with that douchebag,” he sneers, nonchalant.
and you know deep down it’s just a pretense. he was looking at you too, after all.
“what's your problem?” you shout at him, feeling like you don’t know him. you know him, deeply. he never mean to be cruel, but that was only because you weren’t on the other end ‘til now; you had never been the object of his rejection, because you’d never had your heart broken before. but it hurts anyway, that is your best friend, who ends up doing so.
“you’re my problem.” you fear you’ll love him forever. but you fear most that you won’t like him anymore. “ i didn't ask to be this hot, yn.”
“did you ask to be this idiotic?”
he thinks, “not that i remember, no.”
“then go back to her,” you wave at him, but he just come closer.
“god, yn, you can’t be fucking serious right now.” the notice comes as a stunner. you see him with wide eyes making a frustrated face; his eyebrows draw together and his gaze becomes ravenous, as if a hundred thoughts and emotions are coming at him faster than he can cope. “stop messing with me.”
the question seems so charged, that you’re not able to come with a quick answer, “i didn't ask you to follow me.”
“no, you didn't. you also didn't want me to leave you alone with jeno, and then you were eating his nose.”
“so it's okay if you do it but god forbid if i kiss someone.” you ask, cornered.
“because kissing doesn't mean anything to me,” he dares to excuse himself, thinking it will make you feel better, but in reality, after that night you two kissed, it doesn't.
you roll your eyes, “you're unbelievable.”
“really, me? for the past weeks i’ve been losing my mind, and it’s all your fault. ” the breathless anticipation makes your heartbeat wild. and the seconds —where everything becomes thicker, the confession still suspended in the air, causes something to shift in his gaze.
when he approaches, you're unable to move away. his eyes catch you, and you can't look anywhere else, because you want to gaze at him. “what do you wanna know huh? d'you want to know if i kissed her? i did. i kissed her to know if i could like her. and i couldn't.”
your mouth feels pasty, your limbs barely respond. haechan's eyes look at you and your stomach become a mess of bugs that don't let you think. all you want to say is why did you kiss me? why did you make it seem special? why does it seem like bugs turned into butterflies because they know first what you don't?
you look at him with pure disbelief, and he's so aggravated that you think you need to let him vent whatever it is that's troubling him “if i hit on you you reject me, and if i don’t you get mad at me.”
“how’s that my fault?!”
“because you make it impossible and i can’t do it anymore. i’m tired of the movie nights, the way you walk into my room without knocking or leave your things all over the place like you live there. waking me up to crawl into my bed at 4 am because you had a nightmare, or asking me to zip up your dress for a date with some other guy and knowing i don’t get to have a chance.”
he lets out a jagged breath, and his eyes darkened the moment you feel your lips dry. “well i didn’t know i was annoying, and i’m sorry my life has been an inconvenience to you. i guess i’m also tired of guessing WHY MY FRIEND SUDDENLY HATES BEING AROUND ME!”
“because you’ve ruined everything!”
“how did i ruin everything?! you’re the one who’s been acting weird.”
he’s perplexed, “because of you.”
“what is that supposed to mean?” you fire back.
“i don’t want to be your friend anymore.”
the words hit you like a physical force. you feel the air leave your lungs, a sharp sting behind your eyes as the friendship you’ve built your life around starts to crumble in real-time. it comes and goes in echoes. you blink. you blink again and he just stays the same; flushed, breathless…, and overwhelmingly troubled.
“is that so?” maybe you've lost yourself these last few days. but he’s right; him, looking troubled, has ruined this life of a showgirl for you. “anything else you want to pin on me?”
“actually, yes! you turned my plug in to the police, didn’t you?”
“why would i do that? you can't even go through withdrawal without crying.”
“to make me suffer more.”
“more?” distraught, he breathes heavily, and it is like watching a work of art in distress. “how am i making you suffer? you’re the one who doesn’t want to be my friend anymore…”
he is destructive, and keeps you from thinking straight. consuming, he steps closer and clouds your thoughts. “i want you.” he says, and kisses you.
his expert movements steal your breath and clutter your senses. his taste is so addictive that you find yourself opening your lips to catch his, soft and plump, welcoming you. ever since you and he kissed in your room, the only thing you had done was to be haunted by his mouth over yours. but when he looks like he’s under a spell while kissing you, and he urges you to caress him, you know you were not the only one yearning for this.
you feel his fingers around yours, guiding them to his neck where everything falls silent behind him, everything except your thoughts. everything but your emotions. you’re afraid you’ve loved him since the day you first kissed.
he grins against your lips, and you've never stopped to think about how much it affects you to see him like that. how much it turns you on. he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, until your mouth fits his perfectly as you catch his lower lip. he lets out a whimsical sound. his hands keep you closer to his body and you lose track of everything around you, wanting to melt in this moment, in his arms.
you feel your whole being crumble and buzz with intensity. haechan tastes your lips and your mouth opens to his commands. you melt into his embrace, warm and welcome, you can almost feel it crackle.
you’re burning.
“do you smell that?” you ask, and haechan keeps kissing you as he shakes his head.
he separates from you reluctantly and shines like a blazing sun. his warm and drunken eyes blink slowly, before you take into consideration that haechan usually doesn't dazzle you like this. he isn’t usually covered in a halo that highlights his locks and turns them into honey. only in your dreams.
the cargo burst into flames, turning his hair golden for a second before it detonates in an explosion.
you sense his astonishment even without seeing him.
the blazing cargo illuminates your faces covered in horror, taking him a few seconds to react, “there was nobody inside, right?”
“nobody.”
“what about the cars?”
you think through. “i think i don't like this game anymore. shall we play another one?”
“hit and run?” he suggests, still disoriented when you grab his hand.
“sounds good.” and run away with him before someone find out you were there.
ʚïɞ
you knew exactly what to do, but in a much more real sense you had no idea what to do.
you and haechan only had one day to think about it, and you? you had one night to stop being a virgin.
i mean…
his body press you against the wall when he guides you to his bedroom, dimly lights from the city coming through the drawn curtains. haechan fills you with soft touches, callous hands roaming your waist and back, prompting you towards him. and during all of this, he doesn’t stop kissing you. he feels cozy, adjusting the pace he moves, slow alnd calm over your lips. full, soft mouth colliding with yours when his tongue twirl just as he deepens the kiss.
“wanna smoke?”
his mesmerizing movements take you a kind of memory, and you can't wait when he lights the cigarette and inhales the smoke to bring him closer to you and smash your mouth with his.
you’re out of breath by nothing but his presence, looming over your body. he lifts your shirt and your stomach flutter violenty just as he leaves your lips to take another puff before pressing his mouth on yours again.
the smoke enters your system and rises to your already drunken head. your breaths intermingle in the middle while your whole inside burns and falls apart, and suddenly you're not able to be in your own skin, burning when he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you.
“haechan, i never had sex.” the words come out of you in a whisper, feeling your neck burn with the gravity of a thousand suns when haechan looks at you, eyes tinted with intense perplexity.
this is humiliating.
and humbling.
and so character development arch.
“say something.”
you bite your lips when it crosses your mind that you've entered a dangerous territory, but you're too intoxicated to find your way out. “you’ve never had sex.”
his voice is merely a low murmur against your lips, and while your eyes try to search for his, they stay lowered, fixed on your mouth when you pronounce. “technically, touching yourself doesn't count,” you try to mend your confession, making him see you're not completely unaware of desire and needs, yet you soon discover it wasn’t the best choice.
you dare to look at him to find his eyes like two cesspools staring at you, “you've touched yourself?”
“yes, genius. are you gonna repeat everything i say?” you roll your eyes, bugged. and perhaps timid.
your breath freezes in your throat when haechan holds your chin so you look at him straight in the eyes and get lost. he's so handsome, you're sure you could kiss him until it hurts.
“what about mingi? shotaro?” he mentions, and in each of them you shake your head. “jeno?”
“no,” you hush.
“why?”
“your brother kind of ruined the moment. anyway, it's not like i don't want to lose it, it just... things happen when i try. i'm seriously believing that i have a curse…, oh! oh, my god. remember my cousin? the one from the island? well, she's into esotericism, and once we fought because i stole her boyfriend or whatever, and she told me that i was going to pay for it, well, look, virgin at twenty-four. ”
you see his moles despite the dim light. his pupils consume his iris as he looks at you with an indescribable smirk burning his rosy lips.
your hands cover your face, escaping his gaze, “oversharing much?” you ask in a muffled sound, as you let him uncover your face.
“it’s alright, never keeping quiet has its upsides.”
“like what?”
“you always end up making a sound…”
when he leans over, your hands grab his face. your fingertips burn on his soft cheeks, keeping him close. his lips collide with yours over and over, until it turns into deep, honeyed kisses.
rising in intensity, your interior turns into melted delight.
his breath hits your face and your mouth tingles for more. “but i'm a little hurt you didn't asked me.”
you were certain that you'd end up marrying each other. he's your best friend after all…
oh, my god.
you can't believe it took you five years and a terrible first kiss with him to come to the conclusion that a couple of puffs in his apartment tonight had made him get to it.
“i… thought you were gay.” you blame the narcotics in your bloodstream, and most of all, you blame him for looking so charming and breathtaking, agitated by having kissed him so much and with swollen lips as proof of this.
“i'm not gay,” he states, frowning and grimacing funny. “hello?” his gaze falls downward, and your eyes follow them to admire the prominent bulge in his pants.
you flatter the view under haechan's prideful smug, and your cheeks… they just turn warmer.
“do you…?”
“oh, yes. about that,” he chuckles, guilty. “i hope it doesn't bother you that i've already lost it.”
“right…” you trail off at the provision of unsolicited information and he looks at you as if words are written on your face.
“oh! you meant if i had condoms on?” he goes back in track to your true intentions, reaching his back pocket, but you’re just a little curious on the side plot.
“was it our english teacher?”
“how did you know?” he asks, amazed.
“a hunch.”
that whore…
he gives you a cool look, “don’t be jealous. i’ve slept with plenty of women but i have reformed myself for you,” he declares, drawing you closer.
he can’t be fucking serious…
you consider killing him, just as someone opens the door.
“there you are.” jaemin appears in the doorway with his silhouette cut by the light of the room, forming somber shadows on his face.
“shit, you do have a curse.”
“something’s weird here.” he squints at both of you, still embraced, in the dark, and yet what catches his attention is the smell hanging in the air. “are there drugs here?”
“wha- no. never,” you assure.
“if they are… you better give them to me,” haechan mocks under jaemin's relentless gaze, so he soon drops the act. “it's a joke! now if you mind, i was teaching yn why she can't print more money to fight inflation, so…” he attempts to close the door but jaemin puts his foot on the way.
that’s when you notice. the presence of the other members, getting comfortable in the living room.
jaemin separates from you when the door rings, and when donghyuck and jeno join the impromptu meeting, you and haechan look at each other.
you're fucked.
they know.
ʚïɞ
truth was, they didn't know.
but all you could do for now was pretend long faces in surprise when the others told that the truck had exploded, and that all the vehicles but two weren't safeguarded in the cargo truck.
“who smokes near a leak?” liz asks, with her arms crossed while she tries to lift everyone's spirits.
“right?” haechan says, bluffing.
his brother next to him gives him a look just as you tag along, “and we cannot involve the police in this. it's illegal racing, after all. what a shame, really.”
chaeyoung weighs your words, just as jisung enters the room looking a little excited in contrast to the gloomy vibe. “i got the cctv!”
in his hands he holds a videotape that he soon pretends to put on the tv. “sorry, what?” you pronounce with difficulty, shooting your eyes to haechan.
“evidence,” he chants with the most obvious tone. that little engineer demon.
the only thing that gives you some peace and keeps you from going into extreme panic and vomiting and crying, is that at least haechan will be on your side when it happens.
“yn! you're there, look!” said guy points at the screen, and makes all eyes fall on you.
“that doesn't mean anything. she doesn't even smoke,” donghyuck says, looking closely as haechan appears in the image.
you feel lowkey rare to see yourself committing a crime when everyone is also witnessing you and haechan kissing.
“wait… is that you, donghyuck?” liz squints at the screen, followed by haechan.
“it kinda looks like him, yeah.”
“haechan.” you call his name, tired of seeing him try to save his own skin.
in response, the sunny boy smiles guiltily before going to your side. “i had to try. sorry you don't have a twin sister. in another life, perhaps,” he says, scrunching his nose at you.
silence settles when the guilty already have a face… two faces. faces of not knowing what to do now that they had been discovered.
“at least we're glad nothing happened to you,” chaeyoung says, going to you and stroking your sides. “accidents happen.”
“what about the cars, doll?” jeno asks to chaeyoung, looking calmly bored.
“i'm pretty sure you'll figure,” she says, using one of her fake smiles.
you wish you could take that and take it for granted. go home and leave it in the past, but as the sentimental that you are, you can't. and haechan sees it coming way before you open your mouth.
he mouthes a clear denial just as you say, “we'll pay for the cars!”
“what— we?” he says, intoning the latter.
“i'm really sorry… i-…” well, it was easier to pretend that it was your fault when no one knew. now their good graces was suffocating, and as you share looks with everyone in the room, and come to realize what a bad person you were going to do, you have no choice but to drag someone with you, because you will continue to be one. “he made me do it!”
ʚïɞ
“this is a bad idea.”
“you're kidding? this is the best idea ever!” he strokes your sides as if that’s gonna make you feel any better…
it does.
he leans on the van. from his rosy mouth comes steam that disperses through the street with a single bulb. his nose and cheeks have taken on a warm hue that reaches his brown eyes, gazing at the stars before prompting both of you to the threshold of the door.
“so this is the place you know?”
“yes. he's a friend of mine, i'm sure he'll accept.”
you weren’t so sure how he was gonna do that, but given haechan’s antics, he always get what he wants, so…
“no.”
the man who opens the door for you has tattoos covering the length of his arms, which he crosses over his broad chest. he’s wearing a tank top and has a cigarette behind his ear, along with another one between his lips. written on his collarbone is what is probably his name, unless... he likes the name johnny.
“what do you mean no?” haechan looks at the man and his mouth can't help but open a little in awe.
“dude, our plug's being investigated, we can't risk it.”
“that's literally why i brought her,” haechan says, obviously. “have you seen her ride? c'mon my jonh doe, the police won't bother to check an old nanny's van. no offense.”
he seems like he's going to say no, emphatically. “shit, i don't know man. i have to check with the boss.”
“please, don't bring the boss into this,” haechan pleas with a sigh.
the two men come and go on with their nonsense until you grow tired, “i'll talk to the boss myself!” your state makes both of them quiet.
while the tall boy nods, surprised, haechan looks at you with open eyes. “sweetheart, leave these matters to me.”
“i mean, what's the fuss? bring me the man!” you wave your hand to dispatch the man in search of the boss while your gaze reviews his possible appearance. if that stereotype of beauty and muscle was his lackey, you could only imagine the man behind the scenes.
haechan holds on to your arm as if you've just made the worst blunder of your life, and you probably had. you were raised by christians on an island that was too peaceful for your taste. like the kind of island where the only accidents involve bicycles, or where the worst act of vandalism is skipping school to go swimming. you were pretty surprised by the low number of teenage pregnancies while you were growing up, as if the education there was quite good once you moved to the sin city. you mean, it never occurred to you to do drugs, if you think about it. you've never considered it.
and now you’re thinking of selling it?
haechan's eagerness had begun to creep up on you when you finally heard a throat clearing. in front of you, a twink boy wore a gold chain that probably weighed down his neck. “you're… the man?”
“call me renjun. and let's talk about business.”
as events unfold, you and haechan keep an eye on johnny loading your van with a single big bag, although you're more interested in the flexing of his muscles to realize late that this is what it is about.
“it only bought us one bag? can’t imagine why people go broke for drugs,” you mutter, caughting renjun’s attention.
“that’s just a quarter of what you’ve bought. here comes the rest,” he replies without looking at you. instead, he stares at the line of guys bringing bag after bag to your van.
you see how your car is smuggled to the brim without a word on the matter, because in the end, it was your idea. “so, that will buy us two sport cars,” haechan inquires.
“define sport cars,” renjun replies, giving him a look, “herbie’s a sport car.”
you both look at each other blankly when neither seems to remember the model of the car. “the one you mentioned, is it good?”
“i don't know about cars, sweetheart. you said to give you the expensiest. all i know is that 10 grands by direct line and without commission can make 70 grands if you sell it all.” you and haechan look at each other at that statement.
“you're very good at finance.”
“i don't know about finance. i know about drugs.”
“yes, but think that you're selling sport cars by import and you must pay taxes and so on. it's the same calculation.”
renjun looks at you before turning to haechan, “good luck selling coke with heidi's grandma.” before walking back inside the house.
you're a little taken aback by his comment, and when you hit the road with 10 pounds of drugs, realization finally strikes you. “d'you think he was talking about gertrude?” haechan takes his eyes off the rearview mirror to give you an amused look.
“i sincerely doubt it, honey,” he ends up mumbling.
you had left the compound a while ago and taken the highway, but the sunny boy kept looking back every few seconds, clearly feeling persecuted. you, on the other hand, were more than thrilled. “oh, my god, relax! it's not like i'm going over the speed limit.” you roll your eyes, watching him lean back in his seat.
“5 years for consumption and possession, and 5 to 2 life sentences for sale. with a first-time offender reduction to 2 to 5 years, or 1 life sentence,” haechan recites, as if saying it out loud could somehow calm him down.
he looks a little unwell, so you stroke his knee. “we’re like bonnie and clyde,” you add, with endearment.
you hope you weren't forcing him to do this with you. you admit that most of the problems you had growing up together were caused by you, and he simply followed your lead.
“can i be clyde?” he quietly asks.
it's hard to believe that he's not the biggest bad influence among you.
maybe there were other ways to get money, like a 9 to 5 or something like that, but the truth was that extreme situations required extreme measures.
the thing about parties is that you never know where the next one will be. it could be on a duck, or in some old factory. it could also be, on the apartment next door.
after driving around in the van a couple of times, the message from the ring lights up the cell phone screen like a eureka moment. the boy’s apartment, where else can you sell drugs if not in a place where drugs are not allowed?
you squint when you enter the dark alley of your residency complex, “d’you forget your glasses?” haechan wonders before you hum a ‘no’.
“is that…?” looking closely, haechan leans on the board while you watch a blond man looking over his shoulder as he quickens his pace, “look! jisung.” you slow down the van a little until you are alongside him, but before you can roll down the window and announce yourself, the boy looks toward the vehicle.
the peculiar action makes him alert enough to open his eyes, startled.
“nah, not again,” you hear him mutter before sprinting off, seconds before he could see you or the look of surprise on your face.
you slowly turn toward haechan, both of you looking stunned. you were unaware that after lessons on personal safety, he’d heed your advice.
“they grow so fast…”
“you taught him well,” haechan assures after, looking fatherly.
ʚïɞ
it seemed that being guilty was something one could see and feel because why are you both standing in the doorway, like two outcasts, feeling the weight of your actions finally yielding to the gravity of your crimes?
mark stops in his tracks to give you a judgmental glance while taking a sip from a full bottle of johnny walker. “whatever you're up to, keep me out of it.”
haechan comes out of his shell. shrugs his shoulders and smugly teases, “did you hear that, pretty? no weed for mark.”
to a certain extent, you find the reaction it provokes in the poor boy amusing. and even more so when you part ways with them, leaving them in the midst of an argument which, seen from afar, looks almost comical.
as you get deeper and deeper into the party, your apprehensions begin to grow. if your past self could see you right now, she would be mortified. but a part of you, the boring girl who grew up on jeju, who had her first kiss at eighteen in the backseat of gertrude with his best friend, who has not lost her virginity yet, she was honestly starting to annoy you.
how could you do this? it's not like there's a manual to sell drugs. should you just… apapproach people? which people?
“hey.”
“hi!” okay, it's as if you're putting a lot of effort into getting caught. maybe you should act more laid back. “i mean, hey.”
liz and chenle approach you as if they were joined at the waist. “have you seen jisung? i want to make sure he arrived safely.”
“why you baby him so much?” chenle asks, raising an eyebrow and sporting a smirk.
your eyes open in surprise, “i don't!” then your cheeks light up and you giggle coquettishly, “okay, i do. i can't help but feel maternal since i kinda dated his older brother,” you mention with a funny face, tapping the boy in the shoulder to lighten up the mood.
oh, yes, mingi. great hookup, the little you know about law you learned from the lessons he gave you between kisses.
unfortunately, he really liked teaching.
“you dated my older brother?”
when jisung appears behind you with his features bathed in confusion you think you're having a mini heart attack while the others react with a drawn-out “oh”.
that is, until you remember your last resort of persuasion. “jisung, how many times do we have to tell you not to listen to private conversation?”
he looks so surprised that is quite charming. “you're right sorry,” he suddenly apologizes, his cheeks flushed.
maybe you are a bit of a chatterbox, but can you be blamed? when looking for a viable alternative to improve your mood, you end up having a couple of piña coladas in the company of chaeyoung. “the placebo effect of piña coladas is crazy, don't you think? ” you ask her as she leans against the wall next to you. “it really feels like it has alcohol in it.”
“because it does.”
“no, it doesn’t, fool…” you grimace in incredulity before your gaze travels toward the dark-haired man coming in your direction, and even though you have kissed him before, you kinda feel keen. you also feel that he’s haunting you because of the car you burned the other night by accident.
“d’you think he’s still mad at me?”
“i don’t think so, no. but… hard to say, though,” chaeyoung chants. “good luck.”she says before she runs away from you.
jeno and all his male energy push you against the wall, like a negative gravitational field. and you find yourself stuttering like the first time. “look, about your car…”
“about the car…” you both interrupt each other, and when he grins amusing, you find it fanciful, but not in a playful way; more of a chilling nervousy.
you notice a bruise that you decide to look past and fear for your life.
“i was thinking, maybe you can pay me in other ways.” his chiseled features contrast with his crescent eyes when he smiles sideways.
“please don’t burn my van.”
his laughter sounds sharp like a knife, but that is until it reaches his eyes, shinning. then it sounds appealingly comfortable to you.
“i mean a date.”
“oh.”
oh.
it feels like all your teenage dreams are slowly coming true somehow, and you don't know if you like it or not. as if you can't help saying yes, and you hate yourself for it because most of your rendezvous have started and ended like this. with you, figuring out you’ll never get drunk and kiss strangers again, crash at a party and wander aimlessly. you’ll end up always, looking for a taste of sun.
forever wondering if he feels the same, if you would dare to go out with him knowing how much he hates commitment. if you could be selfish, for the last time, and have him now.
you giggle, “excuse me for a second.” before you leave jeno as if going to a commercial break, running away, or maybe just running, to him.
amidst the hustle you think seeing him everywhere, going towards him only to watch him walking away.
square back and shoulder blades move under his shirt when he runs his fingers through his chocolate-colored hair. the lights outlines his profile every time he looks back, as if he knew you would follow him wherever he went. and you’re overwhelmed by the idea that you probably would, even when he’s so far away and yet so close from you to have his laughter reaching your ears.
but he's not who you're expecting.
it amazes you how they can be the alike and yet not resemble each other at all. he, who looks back over his shoulder. he, with his smokey eyes and dangerous smile. long, dark hair styled downward with strands falling over hisforehead. sounding identical but with a different undertone. silver-colored. lunar.
“sweetpea.” normally you're the one who does all the talking for both of you, but since that night, you've been avoiding him in the same way you will avoid jaemin tonight.
you know how much of a bad influence donghyuck is. more so, he races illegally and you bet he evades taxes just like his brother gets stoned —completely unforeseen if you ask, giving the fact that haechan is a nerdy cool who deceives appearances. anyway, he was the one doing all that kind of illicit things like battery when you were teenagers; you start to think that the summer camp he went to as a kid was actually a juvenile detention.
from as far back as you can remember, you have always wanted to win his attention. but mostly, you've always been afraid of the idea of been willing to wait for him forever rather than having him just now.
and that the unconscious reason is because you are out of his league. you’re sorry for staring for too long, for finding comfort in his features even if it is fleeting. you regret always reminisce haechan every time you look at him like this.
“hyuck, your face.” because of the colored lights cascading down his features, the bruises on his cheek and lip had barely gone unnoticed, but given how close he was and looking at him more intently, they seemed freshly made. moreover, they matched jeno’s.
“it’s not that bad,” he replies, “did you get into trouble again?” the tone of his voice sounds strangely playful, because nothing escapes him, not even you.
donghyuck —who surely had worse injuries, used to treat your wounds over his. his looked painful compared to your scrapes when you wanted to ride a bike; you were 7 years old and haechan used to mocked you for not knowing how to.
he always had a way of distracting you away from his problems. maybe it was also your fault for letting it happened.
“can you keep a secret?” there was no way he’d tell you how he got into a fight, because you’ve tried before, so you decide to let it slide… mostly because you were in fact, in trouble.
your hand reaches into your pocket under his gaze, slowly beginning to show signs of delight.
“d’you have a gun?”
you see him raise his hands in defense, and when he smirks, he doesn't look like haechan at all. he just looks like donghyuck.
“no— why would i have a gun?” **
if it's not for pointing at your own head for doing ilicit stuff.
“i just assumed it… drugs are less likely since you informed on haechan’s dealer.”
your face, surely an edvard munch’s work of art. “wha—no i didn’t!”
how on earth did he find out about that?
“so you do have drugs. what if jaemin finds out? better, what if the police show up and you have a pound of narcotics on you?” he smiles when he talks, but gradually stops doing so.
“shh!—”
shame and common sense are the things you lack the most and sometimes you forget that you shouldn't show them off too much.
“sweetpea, please tell me this isn’t your way to buy the cars…”
“because it’s clever?” you ask, shrugging.
he pokes your chin with his thumb. “it’s stupid. i wonder what haechan did to convince you to do this,” he says, before seeing the reality bathing his features in realization, because he didn’t.
“well, if you put it like that…”
if you put it like that, it was stupid.
and little by little, you recall how bonnie and clyde concluded their journey.
“oh, my god. what am i going to do?”
little by little, realization hits you like a truck and now you see the consequences of your actions.
“hey, sweetpea,” donghyuck sighs heavily, and you notice the hint of mockery, causing you to stare at him the moment a tender smile blooms on his lips. “leave it to me.” his gaze disappears into the crowd and you feel like you're losing him too, just for a few seconds, almost for eternity. “meet me later.”
“where?”
“pick a place. i’ll find out.”
when you see him leave, you are left with a strange feeling that something is missing.
what were you about to do?
oh yes, confess your feelings to haechan.
ʚïɞ
looking among the faces, among the sea of people, you find him dancing. and as so many times before and so many times since, the searching feels endless, so far away and yet so close at times. you never knew how to appreciate when you could count his eyelashes without getting nervous, because it never happened. there’s no version of you that is not in love with him. and because life is too short, and the police could arrive at any moment and arrest you, you don't want to waste any more of it. the wait, the wait seems endless.
mark is beside him, kissing his puffy cheek despite his complaints, even though he seems to like it because he blushes; his coy friend must be high as a kite because not in a million years would he ever say “i love you.” at the top of his lungs.
you must be high too, you guess, throwing yourself without a parachute, falling in his arms.
his lips, your lips, meet with magnetism. he tastes like cherry and vanilla soda. crushingly so, he makes havoc on you. and the sounds he makes only makes you a fool, full of him.
he finds himself laughing against your mouth and it taste like sunbeams. with your mouth over his, and him over you, his firm grip gives you butterflies. receptively, you end up cornered in the bathroom sink.
full, pouty lips collide against yours, so smooth yet charged. your fingers dig into his hair and haechan stifles a intimate sigh in your mouth. brushing slowly, he hums and send shivers down your spine.
“yn, why do you have drugs in your bra?”
how his hand ended up there without you noticing?
“oh, i figured that if jaemin ever catches us, he's not going to look there,” you whisper against his lips between kisses.
you hoped not, at least.
the small package falls to the floor when he removes his hands, and you both look at it before haechan breaks the kiss to pick it up. dazed by the sound of his lips separating from yours, you watch him furrow his eyebrows.
“… did they put cocaine in us?” haechan accuses, and it takes you a while to shake his dazzling effect on you, to grab the small plastic bag he hands you.
“shouldn't they?” you ask, fearful.
“well, that's a more serious issue than getting caught selling marijuana.”
“how serious?”
he makes a face that just makes you nervous, but when he looks at you all concerned, he doesn't say anything at all…, because someone comes into the bathroom.
someone like jaemin.
“why are you, suddenly, in the most unexpected places, alone, lately?”
he crosses his arms, accusingly, and that's probably what makes you squeeze the plastic bag a little too hard and end up with a burst of dust on your shirt. “shit.”
haechan's back is wide enough for you to hide behind and away from jaemin's attentive gaze, but that doesn't do much when it looks like a coke bomb has exploded on you. and even when you do your best to hide it, sensing his heavy presence behind your back makes you feel persecuted.
as far as you are concerned, the boy is a sweetheart, he even looks like a war machine of affection. that doesn't take away from the fact that he takes out half a head of the sunny boy, and that he's strong enough so that haechan can't stand up to him.
and while haechan desperately tries to stop the boy from looking at you and get him out of the bathroom, this irrational fear of jaemin only makes you do the first thing that comes to mind, the most conventional way to get rid of this kind of evidence: by inhaling it.
this is why your parents tell you ‘say no to drugs.’ by the way.
a cough assaults you non-stop as you feel your nose burning, and haechan turns around with wide, dazed eyes to see you losing your mind. “what did you do?” he murmurs, drawing you towards him to comfort you, but all you can feel is your senses moving away from your body, and your soul suspended in limbo.
a burning sensation rises from your nose to your brain, where arson explodes. you drift off for a few seconds, and everything goes dark. their voices and the conversation they’re having get distorted before everything comes back to you all at once, like an adrenaline rush.
“is she alright?” jaemin tries to look at you but haechan blocks his view.
“of course she is. she just exceeded the fun limit…”
the two of them stare at each other for what seems like an forever, seeing who will give in first in the staring contest that you want to join, because you're sure you would win; you can't even feel your eyes anymore.
“keep her out of the piñas coladas,” jaemin suggests letting the boy in front of you breathe a sigh of relief when he looks like he’ll leave you alone. but ultimately, he turns around in the doorway and haechan flinches. “nice lipstick, yn,” he says, glancing at the dark-haired man before finally leaving.
leaning against the door, haechan runs a hand through his hair before recalling one of the minor issues in his repertoire of problems. “how are you feeling? talk to me.” he seems on the verge of collapse despite the fact that it was you who inhaled a good amount of strong drug to save your skin from a reprieve, which, seeing it with new eyes, it was never that serious.
“i feel good.” a laughter assails you under his gaze, checking on you. “i could run a marathon right now, actually.”
“you've never run a marathon before.”
oh, but you could.
even though you've started sweating from the fright, you feel hyperactive as usual, your heart has probably skipped two or three beats, and you seem short of breath. you feel great. those are just the usual effects of having him so close. “i’m lowkey waiting for the drug to take effect,” you announce, hazy.
the electricity that runs through you is because he looks eternally handsome. so domestic and comforting. his soft and chiseled features looks so angelic under certain lights that you feel your heavy gaze starting to melt. it feels like staring directly at the sun. “i think they've already started…” because of the hot bathroom air, his cheeks and lips have been dyed wine, but it's your lipstick on his lips that brings you to kiss him again.
his bedroom eyes consumed by his pupils stare attentively at you. and if you think about it, he's alright.
haechan laughs, “thanks.”
when you kiss him, it seems that a thousand butterflies have hatched in your stomach and you only feel their violent fluttering. it had never felt so much as it does now. so unbearable. you're breathless when his tongue brushes your lower lip, and the flavors of cocaine dusting your mouth makes him sigh.
even though your lips are on his, moving in sync, soaking breaths and sighing, it's not enough. you can't stop the avalanche of longing that assails you. when you taste his mouth, your heart pumps love that drains through your veins, and covers your entire body. you want him with you. you want him now.
“sleep with me.”
he clings to your body and presses a kiss on your forehead, “yes.”
as your heart beats slowly and the air begins to feel thin, you find yourself waiting. from your first kiss to your first love, it has always been him. you hope he knows; every piece of your life is touched by him. he’s the meassure of all the things that has happened to you and it makes you afraid to think that you're alone in this because you weren't any of his first times.
you see his back and shoulders, his highlighted hair, his profile looking back to see if you're still there, to see if you're still following him, as if holding hands isn't enough and he needs to make sure.
you're on edge, feeling his fingers around yours as he guides you out of the party and everything falls silent behind him, everything except your thoughts. everything but your emotions.
intimate, he guides you to his room, and when the door closes, your fingers are still intertwined, even when you’re alone and there’s no people you could possibly get lost with. his hands wrap around your waist, pulling you toward him. in the dark, you are laid down on the comfortable surface of his bed.
his voice just makes you want to follow him, to the edge. “are you sure you’re not having a stroke?”
his scent lingers a little longer; it’s all over his room, along with your thoughts. you’re heavily intoxicated, and still, all you can think about is him. him. him. your mouth tingles, your mind hasn't been quiet since then. this is the greed they spoke of in the bible.
you shake your head, unable to talk, because if you do, you fear that all you can say is his name. and then he would know, and you would be lost forever.
wet and dreamy eyes, honey lips. you’re sunburned. because it looks like he already knows. you're afraid that you're just stuck being the friend who gets kissed from time to time. you're afraid of becoming the one he uses when there's no one else around.
above all, you're lowkey afraid it doesn't sound so bad.
“oh, they’re kicking now.” you grab your head with no critical thinking, and he chuckles, getting up. you see him roaming around the room, opening his closet and searching under the bed, but in the end, he doesn't seem to find the pot he's probably looking for.
“i’ll be right back.” he avoids your gaze ans you are thankful that the gloom prevents him from seeing you or your features.
“you’re leaving?” you ask —when it’s so obvious, stopping him at the door.
haechan hums, “i’ll go grab something.”
words hang on your tongue, yet your mind repeats them over and over, as if mocking you.
you think you’re losing your mind, which is fine, because you’ve sold your soul already to a gang.
time thickens and so your thoughts. and your feelings, all scattered in the room slowly come back to you.
when he gets back, you think you've given the matter a few good turns.
“now, before we start i want you to promise that you won’t print your way out of this cause—” his features are tinged with surprise when you grab him and pull him toward you. lips forming an ‘o’ before he comes toward you and presses his mouth against yours. he’s cold, fingers leaving a wake of chill when they touch your waist to pull you closer.
a low sound escapes him when you pull him close to you. it only takes a moment to pass for a star to explode and be consumed, only an instant when the same thing happens to you. your mind is cluttered by the way he reacts of you kissing him.
his hands cradle your face, and after long seconds that dissolve between breaths, the cold isn't so bad anymore. your head spins and you're back in your childhood home, chasing someone. when he kisses you more intently, he slips through your fingers. but his mouth leave a trace on your neck, and for a moment it feels as if you’ve finally achieved it.
you’re moonburned.
your fingers run through his hair, your lips collide with his mouth, and he breathes just as he guides your hands to touch him again. and you are caressing his cheeks, and pulling him closer to you, fighting the strange feeling he’ll escape away.
pressing you against the desk, he helps you lean over it. your legs wrap around his waist, your hands pull him closer to you, and he simply lets you guide him between your tighs, consuming your senses. exposed skin being caressed, his lips travel down to your neck when you freeze.
he’s touching your scar and staring at you with glassy eyes when you pulled apart, and see.
because he’s the one who’s been your first kiss all this time.
the room turns into a black hole, filled with heavy breathing, and the horrible reason why he has avoided the bed. looking at each other, with mouth bruised and swoony eyes, failing miserably at looking away once you've seen it.
“you’re not him.”
you search his face for answers and find none of the cunning you might accuse him of. no triumph, no calculation, and slowly, the truth settles in. he didn’t kiss you to deceive you. he kissed you because he believed you were kissing him.
you take in his face, all the beauty he only wears in fragments. same eyes, same mouth. he is alluring, but he’s not beautiful. without the way warmth blooms in you, the heart knows immediately who it is not.
avoiding thinking that for a split second, you wouldn’t notice if he hadn't touched your scar.
moving up and down with the rise and fall of his chest, you suddenly notice how close his body is to yours, and you feel him pressing against you. “does it matter if i’m not him?” he breathes, holding your eyes the most terrible way.
because it matters now.
it hadn’t been haechan who found you that night, he didn’t regretted it and came back to you. he didn’t find you in the car, donghyuck did, in the same way as now. and you hadn't noticed because you were crying your eyes out.
those same honey-colored eyes, only shinier, drunk, but not with wine. it only takes a moment to realize that it's because of you.
people tend to gaze at haechan as if he was the sun, because he’s all jokes and blushing cheeks, silly scientific facts and magic tricks, but with donghyuck, people tend to gaze away, maybe because they’re afraid of the feelings he elicits, perhaps for the same reason you gasp for air, because it's something that you simply can't put into words... because you don't know them.
donghyuck, whose secrets hold secrets, and for whom you spent an entire summer convincing yourself to stop crushing over, looks at you and it's as if it reveals everything.
everything you hadn't been able to see, because you were busy falling for someone else. you'd take some time to bask in the glory, but when his mouth frown and open, your senses turn off, and you find yourself kissing him again.
he lifts you up, and a second later you're pressed against him and your legs are weak. your senses block out whatever is happening up there in your head because you're a little high. kissing him back, you feel like you could enjoy his warmed hands on your waist more if it weren't for the uneasy gnawing hole opening up in your stomach.
he kisses your mouth and there you are, once again, waiting. a change in your heart, a hunch. and yet… “you’re not haechan,” you repeat.
your heart lingers, scanning empty spaces, waiting for a sound, a knock, a miracle that might split the moment open. but nothing shifts. the air stays still. the door stays closed.
unfinished, your inyeon with haechan is perhaps wanting something so badly that you end up ruining what you already have. stuck in a loop that goes back and forth, where he drags this forever.
the only thing that keeps coming back is his lips on yours, over and over again.
time is running out, you're about to lose him forever. and yet once again, all your eyes do is land on donghyuck, looking as if he wants to say something that will change your mind.
but would it have changed anything?
he grins sideways, and you start to fear what he might say without tact. that he might be mean and cruel, that he might mock you because you're pathetic and that anything haechan had done to make you feel bad in the past, he could be worse.
but the eyes always give him away. he’s never been good at being heartless. he’s never been cruel to you. not when he treated that nasty wound when you were little. nor when he's always around when the things haechan does somehow get to you. not now, when he pushes you back and his hands are still gentle. “don’t wait for him. he left a couple of minutes ago,” he confesses, caressing your cheek without sparing a glance as he walks towards the exit.
his hands reach for the doorknob, and the last second, he seems to think it better. giving you one last look, his eyes are heavy with moonlight, “you should probably go before he does something way more stupid than leaving you alone.” when he leaves, pulling the night with him, he doesn't need to explain it; he's talking about the rest of the girls.
“that was rude…” you think to yourself, but after a while, you do what he says.
getting lost at a party or the time where you had everything, you almost lost it because you were afraid to take a leap of faith…
a list of things you swore you’d never do, and yet you had done the most reckless thing of all:
falling for your best friend.
you should have known, when you wished every traffic light were red on your ride here.
so you figured, you’ll never get drunk again and kiss strangers just to get an excuse to sit on his lap and have him close, crash at a party and wander aimlessly and see there’s no trace of him.
you’ll go to your apartment, with your heart racing and wrapped in your hand, only to find him by chance there.
haechan frozes right when you open the door and you both end up looking at each other from across your small room before he dares to excuse himself. “i swear i’m not looking at your panties drawer in a pervert way again…”
there are times when calling him out gives you a boost of good health, and then, in moments like this, you really hope silence conjures up everything you feel.
quiet, his cheeks look vine-colored, and you bet he still smells powdery. he’s so beautiful, it's overbearing; it makes you want to laugh. warmed, you stare at him holding a handful of stuffed animals —your stuffed animals.
a smile blooms on your lips and everything inside you sings before it stops suddenly, “don’t lie, i saw you looking.”
you close the door gently behind you, as if throwing a stone into a lake and hoping it won't make too many ripples that disturb the water. dimly lit, your room feels different tonight. like softened, at the edges. it’s hard for you to take in what he's done. he may not have done anything at all, but you'd still feel it, that tingling sensation, the fluttering in your chest.
it’s been a while since you’ve been friends, and you fear there will be no turning back when everything he touches you turn it into love. it wasn't that his room looked cozier, it was him bringing warmth everywhere, making it feel that way.
piece by piece, you see that he’s made the bed, and by the look of things, you think he has completely misunderstood your intentions, to sleep with him. you believe, either way, that being friends, doesn't bother you at all, if it means he reserves his affection only for you. if his eyes only turn to honey when he's with you.
you figured you’ll always let him come close and play you, mix your feelings and go back to the start, if it means having him forever.
“c’mere, let’s get you ready for bed.”
he grabs your hand and his rings sends shivers down your body, “i don’t want to sleep.” big, brown eyes sparkle when they bath you and you feel yourself blushing.
his voice comes soft and restrained. it warms your whole being, it makes you fuzzy. “what do you want?” in a trance, your body moves on its own. your arms rise and you find yourself holding him close. haechan wraps his arms around your waist and you inhale his scent, overwhelming your senses. powder, vanilla, wood, him. “you.”
pouring, your body is soaked with warmth when you feel him struggling to compose. “sleep with me.”
you had spent a long time fighting against the idea of how much everything he did woke up something in you, not realizing the effect you could have on him when you whispered in his ear. when you pull away to look into his eyes, you discover the most beautiful bedroom eyes you have ever seen.
of all the times you've been left hanging, the way he looks before he kisses you is probably your favorite.
deep, slow, steamed. your mouth opens to receive him, completely carried away by the way his lips move over yours. tongue gently colliding, you’re out of breath. kissing you ardently, full with tangible emotions, like the beating of his heart against your palm. his kisses trail off to the base of your neck, and when you look up at the ceiling, you swear seeing stars coming upon you and blazing your body.
your mind burns and it only goes down further, where his hands rests. “haechan.” you swallow, feeling overwhelmed.
he hums against your neck and you get flustered, following with sighs the path he makes with his fingers to your intimacy. it fills you to the point of overflowing delight and he smiles against your skin. “mmm?” he asks in approval, and it takes you a while to gather the words, “yes.” when his fingers shove down and touch you.
the floor shakes under your feet and he holds you against him as he rocks into you, tracing circles in that delicious, aching spot.
his mouth opens and his warm breath hits your crawling skin before he runs his tongue up to your ear, picking up the sweat, “c’mon yn, let me hear you.” whispering in the most compelling way you’ve ever heard him, your mouth opens and spill enticing sounds. your ears are blessed when you pant at the switch in motion and he laughs airily. your lower belly feels heavy and barely being able to breathe or do anything but grab hold of his shirt, you try not to lose control too quickly.
“such a pretty sound, my baby.”your whole body becomes aroused and desire washes over you from head to toe, making you feel light, stirring your senses and spreading them throughout the room in moans, the moment the cold of one of his rings brushes against your bare skin on his way to push them inside before he suddenly stops.
you feel his presence slip away from you and suddenly feel empty, before you feel his soft lips kiss your cheek. “d’you want to lay down?” when he looks at you, he still remains as handsome as ever. his face is bathed in attention while he stares at you, and you feel sudden shyness at him seeing you like this.
when he brings his fingers to his mouth while keeping his eyes on you, you figured he likes you, “i do.” a complacent smirk spreads across his face as you let him guide you blindly, devouring his mouth. your thighs touch the bed and you end up sitting on the edge with him hovering over you, leaving your lips to draw a path of kisses to your cleavage.
the valley of your breasts receive the caresses he leaves on his way down, where you soon come to terms with what comes next when he stops right at your feet. “yes?” breathlessly, you lean back and you let him put your legs on each shoulder, his nimble fingers taking advantage that you’re raised a few seconds off the mattress to remove your underwear.
your skirt rises and exposes your femininity, and you swear that his eyes light up seconds before he sinks his head between your legs and you swallow a sound. receptively, you arch your back and your legs move upward, taking his hair in your hands. “fucking delicious.” he eats you hungrily, squeezing your sensitive thighs with his fingers and giving you the feeling that the entire universe is bursting in the space between your legs.
you often wonder how everyone puts up with him when he gets this smug and cocky. when he uses his tongue, you finally understand.
“haechan-agh…”
your glassy eyes lands down and take in the light bouncing off the small jewels of your own arousal, and him, nose deep in you, nibbling on that sweet spot, turning you into a whining mess. head tilted back, your eyes flutter at the sensations running through you upward, blazing your mind and numbing your body. it becomes impossible to keep you upright and stop twitching under his paced motions, so you collapse onto the bed and your sight fills with tears.
it explodes deep inside and sends a spasming ripple through your body, making you want to curl up. unable to react, you float in limbo feeling waves of pleasure wash over your intimacy, shaking of your daze when he gives you a last stroke of tongue. his hands runs down your legs from bellow. lifting them up to reach your heels, he leaves kisses on your ankles.
haechan leaves you undone, fuzzy and faded. barely giving you time to recover, you hold your breath as he comes toward you and begins to kiss you urgently.
he tastes of lust and candy, letting you catch your breath just enough to keep up with the pace at which he devours your mouth. he tastes of desperation.
the kisses escalate and you’re between pillows and stuffed animals. in the middle of the bed without knowing how you got there, you welcome him when he positions himself between your legs. “my pretty girl.” his lips feel velvety like the mattress he’s pressing you against, tongue leaving an addictive taste on yours when you open your mouth and give in.
you’re barely sober, intoxicated by the way that no part of your body is left untouched. caresses feeling almost like he’d been waiting to run his hands on you, eyes traveling before his mouth does; when he reaches the scar on your thigh, his fingers pause.
“y’know? you’re usually so open about everything, but you've never told me how you ended up with this scar. or if i've done a good job.” he kisses both of your ankles when removing them while keeping his eyes on your expressions when you nod.
unfortunately, the words get stuck in your throat because his hands start traveling up your thighs again. “nothing to say, honey?”
you shake your head, “i…—” words come out slurred and between sighs. you’re unable to hold his gaze without your eyes feeling heavy. “i would’ve liked to watch you…”
you know you look like a mess. your droopy blouse barely covers your bust and is lifted up to your waist, just like your skirt. your face must be flushed and still bearing the traces of what happened a few seconds ago, but when you see him run his finger over your lower lip before kissing you, you know he must like it.
your fingers get tangled in his shirt and he pulls away just enough for you to remove it. he falls with all his weight on top of you and a sound escapes you as you feel him settle between your legs, your naked core feeling the sturdiness on his jeans.
his mouth leaves wet kisses on your jaw and neck as his hands venture down to remove your skirt, towering over you to begin unbuckling his pants. he kneels, and you pull yourself up as he watches the straps of your blouse slipping from your shoulders.
heavy breathing, his fingers burn your exposed skin as he pulls you toward him to lick your shoulder, digging them into your bare back. you lose yourself in the kiss, brimming with passionate intensity, turned into a bundle of sounds muffled against his mouth. pulling you toward him, you both fall onto the bed, with you straddling him.
his arm wraps around your waist to lift you up to undress himself, and the blouse falls further to expose the soft skin of your breasts. you see him, open his mouth involuntarily and his tongue peeking out just a little.
his breath hits you and gives you butterflies when he cradles one in his hands and puts his warm, wet mouth against your cold skin. choked up, your legs feel weak from being touched, almost losing it when you feel him standing erect against your femininity. haechan wreaks havoc on you, and your emotions quickly spread throughout the dimly lit room. his messy brown hair falls over his closed eyes, and you thrill at him getting so much pleasure from sucking your breats. with his plump lips wrapped around your nipple, his fingers holding them squeeze you and make you moan.
you find yourself barely able to stay on top of him, wanting to lower yourself onto his erect penis and have him close to you when he suddenly changes position and leaves you underneath him. he barely moves away when he returns to licking your already sensitive breasts and your fingers dig into his hair as you gaze at the stars.
“haechan…” you’re so desperate it hurts. yours legs have turned into a liquid pain that rises to your belly, and he just won't thrust into you.
instead, he begins to leave wet kisses on your stomach, which glisten in the light like flashes of silver. his mouth makes sounds every time he leaves a trail of saliva as he moves down, and you find yourself on the verge of ecstasy when he stops at the valley of your intimate area.
haechan has placed you so that you are slightly reclined on the pillows, giving him a view of your pink, swollen pussy, covered in silky lubrication and saliva. dripping over your thighs, the mere cold air gives you chills as you watch him slowly open your legs.
“i plan you to watch.” having his mouth back sucking and working wonders was just a whim. now he uses his fingers too, and you don't think you can hold out much longer. this is nothing like anything you've experienced before on your own while imagining him; this is a thousand times better.
his tongue barely gives you a break and you can't stop sounding hoarse and tearful. furrowing your eyebrows, your misty gaze falls and you see him nodding over your pussy, up and down. he changes speed again and it driving you crazy, unable to do anything but moan and arch.
his hands crawl across your stomach to your nipples beneath your disheveled blouse, and you have no other instinct than to reach for them and feel them against you. soft and covered in rings, you stifle a cry as you writhe beneath his touch, feeling your mind begin to fade away with pleasure.
“let’s get you ready.” when he curves his finger inside, a spasm strikes you and takes your breath away.
he pulls away from you just enough to see his face; flushed and overcome with indescribable emotion, he uses his fingers to feel you. his pretty face fills your heart with affection, and even though he looks tender and delicate, you now know how vicious he can be when his shiny darkened eyes look at you.
then, his fingers finish undoing the knots that tie your blouse, and you are completely naked and exposed in front of him.
you find yourself playing with your index finger in your mouth, writhing and stretching. you are so out of it that you can only reach out with your hands until they touch the soft material of one of your stuffed animals and bring it to your chest.
haechan watches you, eyes fixed on you, following your every move to the rhythm of his heavy breathing. you consider covering yourself to escape his prying gaze, but instead you reach up to the seams of the teddy bear and pull out the small, almost empty paper wrap.
he comes down and kisses you, ardently, deeply, your senses stirr when he pulls back and wait for you to put the join between his moist lips, soaked with your arousal.
you hold your breath and blindly reach for your candle lighter resting in the nightstand. when he inhales, smoke rings blur your vision, and your mouth tingles the moment he lets you taste the marijuana from his mouth.
mesmerized and dazed, barely aware of the rush of pleasure and desire that seeing him provokes in you, you let him kiss you and pass the smoke to you until he finishes. you find yourself ecstatically intoxicated by his presence between your legs. wet to the point of climax. but you’re so high words don’t come to you, but rather reflect in your eyes and body, in your entire being, vibrating and moving to have a touch of his body, the hands that made you pant his name, his bare legs flexing when you look down and see pearls of white liquid gushing from his tip. your mouth waters instantly for a taste of him.
to the side, your tongue leaves a lick from bottom to top, and the taste explodes on your palate when you enclose your lips around the tip and move down, taking it inside. bent over you, haechan sighs and let you give him a few sucking motions. licking and stroking, you’re entranced by how it barely fits, giving it a last suction until you run out of breath and pull away, only to find him frowning hard and with his eyes closed.
flustered, he bites his lips and you become aware of the effect you have on him. a small smile flashes across his face before he starts to look for something. “does your teddy bear have…?” a small black rectangle is trapped between your fingers under his gaze. fleeting pride crosses his features before he takes it from your hands.
“tell me if it hurts.”
you feel it press on your entrance, and a current shakes your body. your eyes roll to the back of your head as he pushes into your hips slowly, his cock expanding you for him. without being able to help it, your eyes cascade down to the meeting of his pelvis against yours, and his solid length entering you. just a few more inches to go and you're already seeing stars.
your fingers grip the stuffed animal and a knot forms on your stomach. “agh… haechan~…” silky pleasure travels down your legs and up to your head, flooding everything with delicious sensations; a moan escapes your lips, then another and another until the base of his crotch hits you and you feel him slip out.
your arousal allows him to enter easily, he pumps you four times before he stops suddenly, “fuck, yn.” his closest hand holding your lower belly goes down and starts making circles on your clitoris, and a tingle runs through your body.
your body contorts when he increases speed, your pussy clenches and twitches, dazed by the full way it feels. you become drunk from the way he penetrates you with short, deep thrusts.
he stops again with a grunt and you whine loudly. “what?…”
warmth fills you when he comes to you and sink deep into your neck. your legs wrap around his waist and keep him close as he resumes the motion. “you feel amazing…” blushing, you bite your lips and melt away.
a shot of bliss washes you over, tilting your head back as you hold onto his shoulders, feeling his lips seek for yours. heavy breathing hitting your skin. eyes gazing into each other. arms wrapping around his neck, he thrust you harder and faster, before he takes the teddy bear out of the way to your breast, “let me see you,” he demands, yet his voice remains soft like honey. tits bouncing and belly tremble when he begins to rock his length with hard thrusts, girth making you close your eye shut due to the overwhelming sensation of fullness.
he lifts your pelvis and makes you arch, sensing him in new ways now that he hits your sweet spot from a different angle, decreasing the pace, the slow and sharp motion drives you to the edge the moment you were sure you were about to cum. “hae…” your voice sounds pasty and irritated; when your eyes gaze at him, he’s looking at the hot pink object falling out of mr. buttons.
oh. that. see, the vibrator was a bad joke from liz… that you ended up using it… just to give it a try. you would have liked to take it from his hands and hide it again, but from the way he’s looking at it and your stomach churns and warms, you crave for him to use it on you. almost overwhelmed and lost, you can barely hear him. “naughty girl.”
his voice has become deep and dark. you soon discover that it is due to desire. that it is because of you. he sounds crushingly beautiful.
the purring when he turns it on barely warns you how much you're going to like it, when he starts thrusting into you again with it pressed against your clitoris, you claw at the mattress and squeeze the pillow over your head. noise fills your mind and a delayed scream leaves your lips. you writhe even though he holds you tight. your legs give way and can barely stay still under the incessant trembling in your intimate area. liquid pleasure numb your muscles and sends you to a drowsy state. a sweet and silky feeling spread over your mind and you can’t hold the moans any longer. “aw, yes~ just like that, pretty girl.”
haechan fucks you hard and you find yourself physically choking back tears, suppressing as much as you can what is beginning to wreak havoc in your belly. you don't want to make any sound because you want to hear him and the way his moans are sweet music to your ears. cute and delicate. high-pitched and tearful. he whispers sweet nothings in your ears that left you dazed.
“breathe…” he chuckles in your ear and it sends goosebumps down your intimacy. “…haechan…” he closes his eyes and whimpers and suddenly you’re so awake to see him struggling and found out the reason why he stops so much it’s because he’s so close to fall over the edge and take you with him.
your eyes water and flutter when you feel pressure descend on your intimacy and numb you all over you, running out of breath. your stomach feels on fire and he just grabs your legs and lift them so they’re pressed against your chest. your whole body buzzes arches involuntarily. he’s all you can think about. his face, his grimace, the way he holds your thighs and the way his mouth keep pouring sweet sounds because you make him feel this good.
“oh, god~” he moans, seconds before he suffers one spasm and then another. an elongated cry leaves his lips when he tilts his head back and struggle to keep going, moments before you reach your high and cry his name. you grow increasingly tired as he ditch the toy and replace it for his fingers, soothing the ache that makes you squirm.
he keeps making noises when you kiss him. fingers dig into his hair and you stroke his back from top to bottom. “let me hear those pretty moans again.” you hold on tight as his fingers rub the rigid bulge of your intimacy.
he awakes every fiber of your body and receptively, a moan breaks the quiet room along with his cooing, until you grow more desperate. his big brown eyes look at you when you cup his face, visibly shaking and aroused. “am i your best friend?”
a kiss is left in his lips, long, impregnated with desire, slipping from your eyes darkened. “show me your favorite position.”
you're raised from the bed, caught in a bewitching spell of kisses and fingers tattooed on your skin. your breasts are wet from his mouth, sensitive due to constant biting and tingling for his touch. enraptured and in a pleasure-filled state of climax, you’re shuddering when you find yourself on top of him by his own doing. “haechan…” his name on your lips sound almost like a prayer for a celestial figure; an angel.
looking like an angel, he has round brown eyes filled with perverse things. tongue pressed in the valley of your breasts, you feel a sense of elation as he sinks into you again. frowning at each other for the overflowing and pleasure ecstasy, he closes his eyes and pants, “fuck, baby.” as you ride him, moving your hips back and forth, feeling with each thrust his length pushing against your walls and slipping on wet desire.
you feel the tangible, pleasurable pain in your chest, pounding and threatening to explode as your warm palms press against his chest and he falls between white pillows and bright gleams from your tears. fingers traveling to your waist and yours bury themselves in his forearms. the sounds increase as you intensify the pace, your stomach unleashes waves of warmth toward your crotch when he groans, “oh, yes, yn…” entering a state of such bliss he closes his eyes and helps you fuck him up and down.
cradled in his arms, his breath awakens every nerve in your body, stirring you and making you moan louder. you physically move with him when he changes positions and a sigh with pain leave your lips when you lose the delicious friction of his cock.
“…shhh, honey…” carried in his arms, he places you in front of pillows and stuffed animals, passing one arm across your chest. his breath hits your ear, “i’m showing you my favorites.” you arch involuntarily when he penetrates you, your body become needy and limp as he rhythmically hammers his cock in and out.
he takes you by the arms when you threaten to collapse on the bed, keeping you upright, he thrusts you and your head tilt backwards, receiving every inch of his girthy cock. “—oh~” you’re done, out of your mind. you hold onto the headboard and receive each of his thrusts and moans with ease until you melt around him again.
he reaches your clit and you whine his name stirring the words due to the overwhelming sensations he manages to bring out of you once more only with his cooing voice and fingers. he rocks you slow and hard, with guttural sounds coming out of his lips pressed against your ear.
drinking in, you end up reaching your high with your skin breaking in goosebumps as he hiss and starts laughing.
hearing his soft chuckle, he whispers, “how are you feeling? are you hurting, mmm?” he insists as he traces lines on your belly.
he places you on the bed, legs getting tangled under the sheets. you’re sore and tired, a smile blooms on your lips at the feeling of knowing the reason why. with all the weigh of your world on top of you, you take in his features, pretty, pretty. moles and delicate features, chiseled jaw and heart-shape lips. tanned and blushy. he feels heavenly, he’s made you touch the stars, yet he refers to you saying. “angel.” with his soft voice.
“i’m good…” you say, cheeks taking color. he’s dreamy, his eyes forms crescent moons due to the rush of energy spent. you would stay up all night if you could, if it weren't for his sleepy facial features. and he laughs. “what?” you ask.
“d'you want more?” he asks, boyishly. he sounds so drowsy it makes you yawn. you want him to teach you everything he knows. you want him to experiment with you and the positions he likes the most. yet your eyelids close unwillingly, and somnolent, you cup his face in your hands.
“wanna sleep with me?” you ask, noticing how his face lights up in an burst of color.
blue and red. “mmm…” he accepts, drawing you closer.
blue and red.
BLUE AND RED!
the two of you sit up in bed and shout in perfect coordination, “fuck, THE POLICE!”
ㅤ[ㅤ편지ㅤ] ── you and riku were just hanging out . . until the couch turned into a full-blown makeout battleground. oops <3
ㅤㅤㅤcw.ㅤㅤ꒰ㅤmdni · lots ( like . . lots ) of heated kissing, lap-sitting, tongues & hands, and riku being an absolute menace to societyㅤ੭.
you didn’t mean for it to get like this. not that you’re surprised it did. not when it’s maeda riku — who always looks at you a little too long and sits a little too close and touches your waist even when there’s enough room to walk past without needing to. but this time . . yeah. this time is definitely different.
it starts with something simple. you’re just on the couch together, he’s flipping through something on his phone, aimlessly, like his mind’s somewhere else.
your legs are tucked beneath you, facing him, and he’s sprawled out with one arm behind your head, thumb occasionally brushing your shoulder. he smells like his shampoo and that spicy cologne he only wears when he’s trying to act like it’s nothing — like he doesn’t want to drive you crazy.
you don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about anymore. something stupid. probably some show or someone’s post. but your words slow down when he looks at you, and you swear he knows it.
his eyes flicker down to your lips once, quick, but not quick enough to miss. your breath catches just slightly, and you see the way his mouth twitches like he’s amused. like he’s so sure you’re not going to do anything about it.
he leans in first, not all the way. just close enough that you can feel his breath when he murmurs, “you’re staring.”
you say, “you started it,” but your voice is already lower, weaker, like your body gave you away before you could lie. his eyes are heavy-lidded and slow when they trail from your mouth to your eyes and back again. then he tilts his head and says, “then I’ll finish it.”
and then he kisses you. it’s hot immediately. no teasing, no sweet warm-up, no gentle press of lips to test the waters.
it’s all tongue and teeth and low breaths catching between the mess of it. his hands are on your face instantly, both palms framing your jaw as his thumbs drag slow along your cheekbones.
he kisses like he’s hungry. like he’s been dying to do this and now that he has you, he’s not going to stop.
you part your lips, letting him slide his tongue into your mouth, and the sound you make is embarrassing but completely involuntary.
his mouth moves against yours like he knows what you need — messy, deep, slow in a way that makes your thighs clench together without meaning to.
his fingers tilt your chin up, holding you exactly where he wants you, and the second you whimper, he groans low in his throat and kisses you harder. riku tastes like mint gum and something sweet, and you’re honestly dizzy from how good he feels.
you grab at his hoodie, bunching it up in your fists like you need something to anchor you, and he laughs into the kiss, lips still moving with yours, like he likes that you’re clinging to him.
like he expected it. one of his hands drops from your cheek to your waist, dragging you closer, pulling you into his lap like you’re weightless.
when you straddle him, your knees digging into the couch cushions, his hands grip your hips immediately and he mutters a breathless, “fuck, finally.”
then he tilts his head the other way and keeps kissing you, deeper this time, slower but with more pressure, more tongue, more everything.
you can’t even breathe right. you don’t want to. your fingers slip into his hair before you realize you’re doing it, and the second you tug just a little, he moans softly into your mouth and you swear it sends a bolt of heat through your entire body.
he shifts beneath you, like he can’t help it, like he’s trying to get even closer somehow, and the way his hips jerk up just slightly — yep. there’s no pretending this is just a kiss anymore. you’re both fully gone.
he pulls away for half a second, just to look at you. his lips are red, a little wet, and he’s breathing hard. his hands stay on your waist, thumbs pressing into your skin through the fabric like he needs to feel you everywhere.
“you’re so pretty like this,” he says, voice low and wrecked, and then he’s kissing you again before you can even react.
this kiss is slower. deeper. he takes his time licking into your mouth, sucking gently on your bottom lip, then pressing his tongue to yours like he means it. like he wants to memorize how you taste.
it’s obscene. your hands are sliding under the back of his hoodie now, feeling the warmth of his skin, his spine, the soft give of his waist. he groans when you do it, and his grip tightens like he’s warning himself not to go too far.
but it’s already too far. you know it, he knows it. and neither of you care.
his hands are wandering now — up your sides, down your back, gripping your thighs, like he doesn’t know where to settle. like he wants all of you under his palms at once.
the kisses grow messier again, sloppier, spitier, and when you grind down without thinking, he curses against your lips and pulls you tighter.
“you’re driving me insane,” he whispers, dragging his mouth along your jaw, then back to your lips again like he needs them.
you didn’t answer, you just kiss him harder. you lose track of time. it’s all tongues and teeth and moans that get caught in the back of your throat.
it’s him pulling you closer and closer until your chest is pressed flush against his, every kiss making your skin hotter, every sound making your stomach flip.
your whole body feels like it’s buzzing, your lips are sore, your breath is shaky, your thoughts are gone, and still, he doesn’t stop kissing you.
you’re not even sure how your hands got under his hoodie, how your palms ended up pressing flat against the heat of his bare back, but now you can’t stop touching him either.
his skin is warm and smooth and flexes under your fingers every time he shifts, every time he grips your thighs tighter or adjusts the way you’re straddling him like he’s trying to grind against you but still barely holding himself back.
his tongue pushes deeper into your mouth, slow and deliberate, and he groans again when you meet it with your own. the way he kisses is unrelenting — wet and heated and thick with need, like he’s trying to get drunk off your mouth alone.
like nothing else matters except this. except you and him and the filthy, slick sounds echoing between your lips every time you kiss harder.
he pulls back just an inch, panting, eyes glazed as he runs his tongue across his bottom lip, and his gaze drops to your mouth.
“look at your lips,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “all swollen. you’re gonna ruin me.” you barely get a second to process it before he’s dragging you back in.
his hand slides up your back, under your shirt now, fingers splayed wide as he holds you to him while he kisses you again — slower now, but deeper, like he wants to savor every second of it.
his mouth lingers longer, his tongue strokes yours lazily, and he hums against you when your nails press lightly into his skin. it’s so intimate, so heavy, so hot that you feel your whole body trembling from how badly you want him.
your thighs are shaking slightly with the effort of holding yourself up on his lap, but you don’t dare move. you just keep kissing him back, chasing every brush of his lips like you’ve never wanted anything more.
the couch creaks faintly beneath you with every shift of your bodies, but all you can hear is the wet slide of your mouths, the occasional hitch in his breath, the soft growls of satisfaction when you tug at his hair again and he melts right into you.
“you’re so addictive,” he mumbles, barely pulling away, his lips brushing against yours with each word. “don’t stop. please don’t stop.”
you didn’t. you tilt your head and kiss him deeper, and he groans like it physically hurts to feel this good.
his hands won’t stay still — gripping your hips, trailing up your sides, flattening against your back, tugging you closer every chance he gets like the feel of your body against his still isn’t enough.
he shifts his thighs beneath you, his hips pushing up again, grinding this time, slow and unmistakably intentional, and you gasp right into his mouth.
that’s when he breaks the kiss again, forehead pressing against yours, breath coming out in heavy, hot puffs.
“you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he admits, voice rough and ragged. “just wanted to grab you and kiss you like this — mm, for so long.”
you whimper softly, gripping his shoulders, rocking against him now without thinking. he curses again, pulling you back into another kiss like he’s punishing you for making him feel that honest.
this one’s filthier — his lips part wider, his tongue messier, and he groans into your mouth like he’s completely undone.
you don’t know how much longer you keep going. it feels endless, like time doesn’t exist outside the heat of his mouth and the way his hands won’t stop touching you. and honestly ? you really really don’t care. you never want it to stop.
whereas—! riku, a student-athlete, is partnered with y/n for a research project. at first, it was frustrating for the both of them, practically no time to meet up for their project. riku choosing his volleyball practices over their scheduled meet ups, standing y/n up over and over again. then, SPIKE! an accident hit finally gets him to work on the research, and he probably doesn’t regret it. what is love!!!! srsly!!!
genre: college au, smau, written au, slowburn, acquaintances to lovers
contains&warnings: cursing, romance, fluff, angst, alcohol intake, sex jokes, innuendos, more weird jokes, hella cracked (ig), sfw, pining and pining and pining....
fts!! : jisung of nct dream, yusion of nct wish, sungchan of riize, ningning of aespa (and more!)
date ¡! 07.15.25 - 08.20.25
status :: completed
mememememe: idk if this is a smau or just au HELP ME. i just made this bc i have so much time to kill, n for self indulgence, i love riku. i go i go i shoot the shot and roll i go i go i shoot the shot and roll. the title is inspired by dunk shot (my goated song)
PAIRING: bestfriend!Haechan!, friend!fem!reader (slightly) enemies to lovers!
GENRE: fluff, comedy (I always try), smut
WORD COUNT: 14.9 k
SUMMARY:
One is a brilliant tactician with a velvet voice and a fuckboy reputation; the other is a fierce survivor with a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit. Best friends since a disastrous high school locker incident, Haechan and Y/N have perfected the art of mutual irritation. Between "bunny panty" blackmail and constant banter, they claim to be nothing more than each other’s favorite headache—but the magnetic pull of their chaotic orbit is becoming dangerously hard to ignore.
SONG RECO: INSOMNIA - Haechan
NOTE: lemme be honessst… this has been sitting on my notes for 5 years and and and I only modified some things because basically, I didn’t know that the members would all grow up like this (help). I added things here and there to make it better. But here!!! I’m half asleep rn I’m so sleepy.. I’m so tired. I worked my ass to finish this huhu
I hope you all like it!
I haven’t proof read anything. Because I’’ so sleddpy
The party at Jaemin’s house was exactly what you’d expect from a frat-adjacent bash hosted by a guy whose parents clearly had old money and zero oversight on their resumes. The bass was vibrating the expensive crown molding, and the air smelled like a mix of high-end cologne and cheap citrus-flavored regret.
Haechan was already three nursing majors deep into a conversation about the structural integrity of the human ribcage—or something equally ridiculous that he was using to make them laugh. He looked effortless, leaning against the back of the big sofa, his tan skin glowing under the dim LED strips. He was in his element: the social chameleon, the guy who could talk his way into a vault and make the guards thank him for the intrusion.
Then, Y/N walked in.
She wasn’t trying. That was the most annoying part for everyone involved. She was wearing something that should have been casual, but on her, it looked like a provocation. She moved with that fierce, don't-mess-with-me intensity that had been forged in the fires of her past, yet she was laughing at something Jisung had said, her whole body shaking with the force of it.
"Holy—" Chenle stopped mid-sip of a drink that probably cost more than a textbook. "Is it just me, or did Y/N actually decide to become a lethal weapon tonight? She looks incredible."
"She looks like she’s going to break someone’s heart and then send them the medical bill," Renjun remarked, though even he looked slightly impressed. He nudged Haechan hard in the ribs with his elbow. "Hey genius. Your best friend is currently turning the entire living room into a group of neck-sprain victims. You seeing this?"
Haechan didn’t even look up from the girl he was currently "charming" with a story about a fake cat he supposedly owned. "I see a girl who probably spent forty minutes trying to find her keys before leaving the house," he said, his voice flat and bored. "She’s just Y/N. If she’s a lethal weapon, she’s a butter knife. Blunt and mostly used for toast."
"You’re a terrible liar," Mark muttered, adjusting his Student President persona to a concerned friend. "The guy by the speakers has been staring at her for ten minutes straight. You don't care?"
"Why would I care?" Haechan asked, finally turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Y/N across the room. He caught her eye for a split second—a spark of mutual, long-standing irritation passed between them—and he immediately looked away, yawning. "I have my own demographic to attend to."
Enter Na Jaemin.
If the room was a solar system, Jaemin was the sun that everyone—planets, moons, and space debris alike—wanted to crash into. He was undeniably the prettiest man on campus, a jock with the face of a Renaissance painting and the personality of a very friendly, very confused golden retriever. He had that classic dual-personality energy—on one hand, he was the most dedicated worker you’d ever meet, a guy who had literally rebuilt his own physical strength through sheer, stubborn willpower after a back injury that would have sidelined anyone else. On the other hand, sometimes he’s total weirdo… which is probably why Y/N dated him.
Jaemin navigated the crowd, moving with a grace that was only slightly undercut by the fact that he stopped to stop for a second and smack Jeno’s shoulder as he passed. He was a creature of comfort and skinship, a philanthropic soul who would give you the shirt off his back but might also try to wear your hat while he did it.
"Y/N!" Jaemin’s voice boomed over the music. He navigated to her like a heat-seeking missile and immediately draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her into his side. "You look like you need a drink that doesn't taste like battery acid. I made a special batch of peach tea in the kitchen. No booze, just vibes."
He leaned down, his nose grazing her temple for a second—the infamous Jaemin scent-check—and smiled. It was the kind of smile that made people forget he had cheated on her two years ago. They were "friends" now, a dynamic that Y/N handled with her typical I-survived-worse resilience.
Moving to the "VIP” table (which was just a couch Chenle had claimed), the commentary began.
"Oh, look at that," Renjun said, his voice loud enough to carry over the bass. "Jaemin’s doing the arm drape. Classic. I bet they’re back together by midnight."
"They look good together," Chenle added, glancing sideways at Haechan, who was currently staring intensely at his phone. "Very aesthetic. Very power couple. I might bet five hundred that they leave together."
"I’d take that bet," Mark piped up, playing along. "The chemistry is undeniable. It’s like they never broke up."
Haechan finally snapped. He stood up, abandoning the nursing majors without a second thought, and marched over to where Y/N and Jaemin were "flirting"—which mostly consisted of Jaemin showing her a high-res photo of a stray cat he’d photographed that morning.
"You’re standing in the way of the airflow, Jaemin," Haechan said, sliding between them with the tactical precision of a riot cop. "And Y/N doesn't like peach tea. It gives her... thoughts."
Y/N arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "It does not give me 'thoughts,' Haechan. And since when are you the beverage police? Go back to your fan club."
"I'm protecting the public," Haechan retorted, his low voice vibrating with a sarcasm that didn't quite hide his annoyance. "If you drink that, you'll start laughing at his jokes, and once you start laughing, he’ll try to cook for you. We all remember the Great Risotto Incident of Sophomore Year. I’m saving your life."
"He’s being sweet, Haechan," Y/N said, deliberately stepping closer to Jaemin. "Unlike some people who act like they’re being paid to be a nuisance."
Jaemin, completely oblivious to the tension, just beamed at both of them. He reached out and patted Haechan’s cheek, then did the same to Y/N. "You guys are so loud. It’s cute. Like two squirrels fighting over a nut." He then leaned in and whispered something into Y/N’s ear that made her let out a genuine, unapologetic laugh.
"Come on," Jaemin said, grabbing Y/N’s hand. "I want to show you that new lens I got. It’s upstairs away from the noise. I’ve been practicing my lighting."
"Oh, for the love of—" Haechan started, but Y/N was already being led away.
As they ascended the stairs toward the bedrooms, Y/N looked back over her shoulder. She didn't blow a kiss; she didn't wink. She just gave Haechan a look that said, 'Try and stop me.'
Haechan stood at the base of the stairs, his jaw tight. He looked like he wanted to follow them, then like he wanted to set the house on fire, then finally settling on a look of profound indifference that fooled absolutely no one at the table behind him.
"So," Chenle called out, his voice dripping with malice. "About that five hundred dollars..."
"Shut up, Chenle," Haechan snapped, his eyes still glued to the spot on the landing where Y/N had vanished. "I'm just worried she'll break his camera. She's clumsy. It's a liability issue."
Downstairs, Haechan was putting on a clinic in Performative Indifference. He had successfully convinced a group of nursing majors that his name was "Donghyuck, the world’s only professional professional," but his eyes were darting toward the staircase every time a floorboard creaked.
"So," one of the girls said, leaning in, "do you usually spend the whole party checking the structural integrity of the second floor, or am I just that boring?"
Haechan didn’t miss a beat. He gave her that crooked, heart-thief smile that usually worked like a charm. "I'm just waiting for the exact moment the bass drops so I can manifest a pizza. It’s a specialized skill."
"He’s actually just waiting for his ego to come back down the stairs," Renjun shouted from the sofa, where he was currently holding Chenle’s hair back while the younger boy tried to invest in a houseplant by pouring expensive cider into its pot.
"Renjun, shut up and go back to being the group’s resident gargoyle," Haechan retorted, though his knuckles were white where he gripped his soda. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol. He was a creature of logic and calculation—the kind of person who needed to be two steps ahead of everyone else, and you couldn't do that if your brain was swimming in Jaemin’s Special Peach Tea. He was a strategist by nature, someone whose mind was a labyrinth of wit and observation, yet here he was, being outmaneuvered by a guy who had literally just spent five minutes sniffing a sofa cushion because it smelled like memories.
An hour passed. Two. The nursing majors eventually realized they were competing with a ghost and migrated toward the dance floor.
"Text from the boss," Renjun announced, holding up his phone. "Y/N says she’s staying late. Tells us to head to her apartment and let ourselves in. The code is still the same."
"Still late?" Mark asked, looking genuinely concerned. "It’s 2 AM. Jaemin’s parents are literally in Switzerland. Do we think—"
"We think they’re catching up on 'cinematography,'" Chenle cackled, finally letting go of the plant. "Five hundred dollars, Haechan. Just admit she’s finally fallen for the pretty-boy jock again. He has a back injury to protect, he needs someone to carry his tripod!"
Haechan stood up so fast his chair screeched. "I’m going. Not because I care, but because Y/N’s apartment has better snacks and I refuse to pay for an Uber alone."
The scene at Y/N’s apartment three hours later was a masterpiece of college-life tragedy. Chenle was sprawled across the rug, clutching a throw pillow like it was a long-lost lover. Jisung, being the tallest, was draped over the armchair like a discarded coat, snoring in a way that sounded like a broken radiator. Mark and Renjun had managed to make it to the guest bed, leaving the living room a graveyard of exhausted bodies.
Haechan was the only one awake. He sat on the kitchen counter, illuminated by the hum of the refrigerator, staring at the front door. He felt like he was losing his mind. His brain—that sharp, tactical instrument—was currently running 4,000 simulations of what was happening at Jaemin’s, and 3,999 of them ended with him throwing a toaster into a lake.
Then, the jiggle of keys.
The door swung open, and Y/N stumbled in. She wasn't just party tired. She was "I-can-smell-the-tequila-from-here" drunk. She was swaying, her hair a wild halo of messiness, her heels dangling from one hand.
Haechan stood up, his face set in a scold that had been simmering for hours. "Oh, look who decided to grace us with—"
"Haechan-ie!" she chirped, her voice three octaves higher than usual. She lunged forward, not so much walking as falling in his direction.
He caught her, the scent of expensive perfume and cheap agave hitting him like a physical blow. He felt her heat—that fierce, radiant energy she always carried, now turned up to a fever pitch by the alcohol.
"You’re a mess," he hissed, trying to keep his voice down so he didn't wake the sleeping giants in the living room. "Where’s Jaemin? Did he drop you off like a sack of potatoes or did you walk?"
"He’s... he’s sleeping," she mumbled, her head lolling onto Haechan’s chest. "I took a taxi. I’m a responsible... adult. A sexy, responsible adult."
"You’re a liability," Haechan grumbled, but his hands were surprisingly gentle as he steered her toward her bedroom. He was annoyed, yes, but beneath that was the fierce protectiveness that had defined their friendship since the locker incident. He hated seeing her like this—vulnerable, blurred at the edges.
He pushed her bedroom door open with his foot and maneuvered her onto the bed. She groaned, rolling onto her back.
"I'm gonna puke," she announced to the ceiling.
"Don't you dare. This rug cost more than my car," Haechan said, quickly grabbing a basin from the bathroom. He returned to find her trying to peel off her top, her movements clumsy and frustrated.
"It’s stuck," she whined, looking at him with big, watery eyes. "Haechan, help. It’s tight. I can’t breathe."
Haechan froze. The tactical part of his brain—the part that knew exactly how to talk to girls—suddenly short-circuited. He was tan, he was hot, he was the guy girls whispered about, but right now, his heart was drumming against his ribs like a frantic bird.
"Fine," he muttered, closing his eyes for a second to center himself. "I'm helping. Just... stay still."
He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked the zipper of her dress. He tried to look at the wall, at the posters, at the ceiling—anywhere but the smooth, golden skin of her back. He managed to slide the fabric down her arms, his breath hitching as his knuckles grazed her shoulder blades. He was trying to be the "best friend," the "protector," the "sober one," but the proximity was lethal.
"Turn around," he commanded, his voice lower and raspier than usual.
She turned, her face inches from his. Her eyes were glazed but intense. "You’re so pretty, Haechan," she whispered, reaching up to poke his nose. "Why are you so pretty and so..mean?"
"It’s a brand," he said, trying to pull a clean t-shirt over her head.
Suddenly, she reached back, unhooking her bra through the loose fabric of her dress before he could stop her. She tossed it toward the chair with a wild girl flourish and then, before Haechan could even process the movement, she grabbed both of his hands.
With a strength fueled by intoxication, she pulled his palms directly onto her bare chest.
Haechan’s brain didn't just short-circuit; it exploded.
The contact was electric. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath his palms, the soft, warm curve of her, and the sudden, overwhelming realization that she wasn't just "the girl who called out his bullshit." She was everything.
"See?" she murmured, her eyelids drooping. "Loyal. My heart... is loyal."
Haechan sat there for a full minute, his hands still hovering in the air where she had pulled them. He let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since high school.
Haechan was paralyzed. A very real, very undeniable physical reaction was making itself known in his jeans—a betrayal of his own body. He was flustered, his face heating up to a shade of red that would have put Renjun’s temper to shame. He wanted to pull away; he wanted to never move again.
But then, her hands relaxed. Her head fell back against the pillow, her breathing evening out into the heavy, rhythmic cadence of sleep. She was out.
"You’re going to be the death of me," he whispered to the quiet room.
He didn't take advantage. He didn't linger. With a shaking hand, he finished pulling the oversized t-shirt over her, tucked her under the duvet, and placed the basin on the floor next to her. He stood up, adjusted his clothes with a wince of discomfort, and walked out of the room, closing the door softly.
He didn't go back to the kitchen. He didn't wake the guys. He collapsed onto the tiny, uncomfortable loveseat in the corner of the living room, staring at the ceiling. His body was wired, his mind was a chaotic mess of "What if" and "How dare she," but he stayed there.
Because as much as he was a notorious fuckboy, a tactical genius, and a witty Gemini, he was, above all, hers. Even if he wasn't ready to say it out loud yet.
———-
The sun was Y/N’s personal enemy. It filtered through the blinds like a laser beam specifically calibrated to melt her brain.
She groaned, her hand wandering over the duvet to find her phone, but she stopped mid-reach. Something was off. Specifically, her clothes. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that definitely wasn’t the dress she’d worn to Jaemin’s. And—she poked her chest—she was definitely missing a structural layer of support.. She doesn’t have her bra.
Then, it hit her. Not the whole memory, but a jagged, high-definition shard of it.
Haechan’s hands. Warm. Large. Her own voice mumbling something about a “loyal heart” while she practically forced him into a physical examination of her anatomy.
Y/N sat up so fast her vision blacked out for a second. “Oh my god,” she whispered into the empty room. “I didn’t. I couldn't have.”
But she did. She remembered the look on his face—that rare, wide-eyed flicker of genuine shock that stripped away the fuckboy armor he wore so well. She remembered his tan skin looking almost flushed under her bedroom light.
She crawled out of bed, moving with the grace of a newborn giraffe, and cracked the door open.
The living room was a scene of devastation. Chenle was currently using a pizza box as a pillow. Mark was asleep sitting up, his head tilted back at an angle that looked medically impossible for a student president. Renjun was awake, staring at a wall with a cup of coffee, looking like he was contemplating the heat death of the universe.
And there was Haechan.
He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looked infuriatingly good for someone who had slept on a two-person loveseat. His tan skin was glowing in the morning light, and he was already dressed in a fresh hoodie, looking sharp, while everyone else looked like they’d been through a blender.
Y/N took a deep breath, channeled her inner fierce protector,and stepped out.
“If anyone speaks louder than a whisper, I’m suing for emotional damages,” she announced, her voice scratchy but still carrying that signature bite.
The sound of her voice made Haechan’s thumb freeze on his screen. He didn't look up immediately. He took a slow, deliberate sip of whatever was in his mug before finally meeting her eyes.
“Look who’s alive,” he said. His voice was lower than usual—that gravelly, morning register that usually made people lean in. “I was about to check if we needed to call a priest or a hazardous waste team.”
Y/N marched into the kitchen, ignoring the way her heart was currently trying to tap-dance its way out of her ribs. She grabbed a glass and filled it with water, standing just a little too close to him. Her intuition was screaming. He was acting normal—too normal. For a guy who usually didn't let her live down the "bunny panties" incident, he was being suspiciously quiet about her midnight antics.
“Where’s Jaemin?” she asked, mostly to see if he’d twitch.
Haechan’s jaw tightened, a micro-movement only she would notice. “Probably still in his darkroom, developing photos of his own ego. He sent a text. Said thanks for the ‘help’ last night.”
He finally looked her up and down, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on the oversized shirt—which, she now realized, was his shirt that she’d swiped from his gym bag months ago.
“Nice outfit,” he remarked, his voice dropping to a velvety smirk. “It looks better on you than it does on me. Though, to be fair, you were a little... aggressive about the wardrobe change last night.”
Y/N’s face went from pale to nuclear red. “I was drunk. I don’t remember anything.”
“Really?” Haechan leaned in, the scent of his cologne—something woody and expensive—filling her senses. He was using that dual-natured charm, the one where he looked like he was about to tell a joke but his eyes were saying something much more intense. “Nothing at all? Not even the part where you insisted on a… physical demonstration of your loyalty?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied, her voice an octave too high.
From the floor, Chenle suddenly bolted upright. “Did someone say loyalty? Is that a new crypto-currency?”
“Go back to sleep, Chenle,” Renjun snapped without moving his head. “Haechan’s just being a menace. Like every other day that ends in 'y'.”
Haechan didn't pull away. He stayed in Y/N’s personal space, his eyes searching hers with a terrifyingly sharp intelligence. He was calculating her reaction, watching the way her pulse jumped in her neck. He knew she remembered. And she knew he knew.
“You’re a terrible liar, Y/N,” he whispered, so low the others couldn't hear. “But don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. Mostly because I’m still trying to figure out if I should charge you for the therapy I’m going to need.”
“You loved it,” she hissed, her unapologetic wit finally kicking back in. “Admit it. It was the highlight of your year.”
Haechan let out a short, dry laugh, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he reached out and flicked a stray hair away from her forehead. His fingers lingered for just a second too long on her skin—a touch that was far too deliberate for just best friends.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he said, sliding past her to wake up the rest of the group. “Now, move. I’m hungry, and since you tried to assault me with your ‘loyalty’ last night, you’re paying for the hangover breakfast.”
As he walked away, swatting Jisung’s dangling leg to wake him up, Y/N watched him. She saw the way he walked—confident, attractive, and entirely too aware of the power he had. She knew he was hiding something behind that witty banter, something that had kept him awake on that sofa while she slept.
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, but as always, they masked it with chaos.
“Haechan!” Mark groaned from the chair. “Why are you so loud?”
“Because the world needs to know I’m a survivor!” Haechan shouted, throwing a cushion at Mark’s face. “Y/N tried to kill me with her bare hands last night! It was traumatic!”
Y/N rolled her eyes, grabbing a pillow to join the fray. “I should have finished the job!”
They were back to the love-hate, the banter, and the "just friends" routine. But as Y/N caught Haechan’s eye across the messy living room, she saw a flicker of that flustered boy from the bedroom—and she knew, for the first time in years, the tactical genius had finally lost his edge.
———
The group migrated to The Grease Pit, a diner whose primary purpose was serving high-sodium solutions to people who had made questionable life choices the night before.
Renjun sat at the head of the table like a judge presiding over a particularly messy divorce. Mark was nursing a black coffee as if it were holy water, while Chenle was busy trying to convince a unimpressed waitress that they needed a private booth for "confidential business negotiations." Jisung was just trying to keep his head upright, his long limbs tucked awkwardly under the small table.
“So,” Renjun began, tapping his spoon against the ceramic mug with a rhythmic, threatening clack. “Let’s review the timeline. Y/N leaves with Jaemin to ‘look at lenses.’ Haechan spends the next two hours looking like he’s about to fight the concept of photography itself. Then, Y/N shows up at the apartment at 3 AM wearing Haechan’s shirt, and Haechan looks like he’s seen a ghost—or a very tan angel.”
Haechan, who was currently dissecting a pancake with the surgical precision of a man who didn't want his hands to shake, didn't look up. He was leaning into that classic "AB" temperament—cool, rational, and completely unpredictable. To anyone else, he looked bored. To Y/N, who could smell his tactical deflection from across the table, he looked like he was vibrating on a frequency of pure stress.
“It’s a vintage shirt, Renjun. I was being a good friend and providing a textile-based service to someone who smelled like a tequila distillery,” Haechan said, his voice dropping into that smooth, effortless register that usually shut people up.
“You hate sharing clothes,” Jisung mumbled, squinting through the sunlight. “Last week you almost bit Chenle’s hand off because he touched your hoodie.”
“Chenle’s hands are covered in expensive lotions and ego; they leave stains,” Haechan shot back.
“And what about the ‘lenses’?” Chenle leaned in, his eyes bright with mischief. “Y/N, did you actually see any cameras, or was Jaemin just practicing his ‘caring nature’ on you? I hear he’s very... affectionate when he’s reflecting on his photography.”
Y/N slammed her water glass onto the table, her intuition flaring. She saw the trap. If she defended Jaemin too much, Haechan would get that weird, sharp edge to his wit. If she didn't, the guys would never let it go.
“Jaemin showed me his portfolio from his volunteer trip,” Y/N said, her voice loud and unapologetically steady. “He’s dedicated to his craft. He spent forty minutes explaining the lighting on a stray cat in a back alley. It was actually very sweet. And yes, he did the nose-smell thing. It’s part of his charm.”
“He smelled you?” Haechan’s fork scraped loudly against his plate. He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “For forty minutes?”
“I’m very fragrant, Haechan. Deal with it,” she retorted.
“And then?” Mark asked, trying to be the diplomatic student president but failing to hide his grin. “How did we get from Jaemin’s cat photos to you stumbling into the apartment and... well, whatever happened in your room?”
The table went silent. Even the sound of the diner’s griddle seemed to quiet down.
Y/N felt the ghost of Haechan’s hands on her skin from the night before. The memory was a hazy, terrifying blur of heat and vulnerability. She looked at Haechan, expecting him to throw her under the bus with a witty comment about her "loyalty demonstration."
Instead, Haechan did something unexpected. He leaned back, draped an arm over the back of his chair, and gave the group a slow, devastatingly attractive smirk. It was his "fuckboy" shield—the mask of the guy who didn't care about anything.
“What happened,” Haechan said, his voice dropping an octave, “is that Y/N realized she can’t handle her liquor, and I realized I’m a saint. I had to peel her off the ceiling. She tried to tell me I was pretty—which, obviously, I am—and then she fell asleep mid-sentence. It was tragic. I basically did community service.”
He was lying. He was lying through his teeth to protect her from the embarrassment of the bra incident. He was being tactical, using his reputation as a flirt to make the whole thing sound like just another "Haechan handles a girl" story.
“You’re a saint?” Renjun scoffed. “You’re a menace who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”
“Believe what you want,” Haechan shrugged, though Y/N noticed his foot was tapping a frantic rhythm against the leg of the table. He looked at her then—a brief, intense look that bypassed the banter and hit her right in the gut. It was a look that said, 'You owe me,' but also, 'Are you okay?'
“Anyway,” Y/N cut in, her fierce protectiveness rising to the surface to shield them both. “The only thing you guys should be worried about is the fact that Chenle is currently trying to pay for this breakfast with a rewards card for a jewelry store he doesn't own.”
“It’s a platinum card!” Chenle protested, successfully diverting the attention of the group as they began to bicker over the bill.
The tension broke, replaced by the usual chaotic noise of their friendship. But as the breakfast continued, Y/N felt a strange weight in the air. She watched Haechan—the guy who knew exactly how to woo girls, the guy who was notorious for his fleeting connections—and realized he hadn't made a single joke about her underwear all morning.
He was being quiet. Reflective.
When they finally left the diner, Haechan lingered by the door, waiting for Y/N to catch up. The rest of the guys were already heading toward Mark’s car, arguing about whose turn it was to pick the playlist.
“Hey,” Haechan said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Hey,” she replied, bracing herself for a witty insult.
“The shirt,” he said, not looking at her. “You can keep it. It’s a good look for a ‘loyal’ person.”
He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned and walked toward the car, his hands shoved in his pockets, his tan skin catching the light. He looked like the same old Haechan—the witty, intelligent, slightly annoying best friend.
But Y/N stood on the sidewalk, the morning air cool against her skin, and realized that for the first time in years, her bullshit detector was silent. Because there was no bullshit in what just happened. There was just a very loud, very terrifying silence that felt a lot like something they weren't supposed to be obvious about.
——-
Three days had passed, and the air between Haechan and Y/N was vibrating like a high-tension wire in a thunderstorm.
They were in Y/N’s kitchen. Technically, Haechan was "helping" her fix a leaky faucet, mostly because he’d claimed he was a mechanical prodigy and she’d called him a useless pretty face. Now, he was sprawled on his back under the sink, his tan legs sticking out, while Y/N sat on the counter above him, eating chips and narrating his failures.
"You know, for a tactical mastermind, you've spent ten minutes swearing at a washer the size of a Cheerio," Y/N said, crunching loudly.
"The washer is a sociological metaphor for your personality, Y/N," Haechan’s voice echoed from the cabinet, muffled but still carrying that bourbon-smooth resonance. "Small, stubborn, and currently making my life a living hell."
"I'm not the one who told the nursing majors I was a 'professional professional,'" she shot back, grinning. "How’s that going, by the way? Did the one with the blonde highlights ever text you back?"
There was a loud clank of metal on metal. Haechan slid out from under the sink, his hair a mess, a smudge of grease across his cheekbone. He looked infuriatingly attractive. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at her with that dual-natured gaze—one part playful, one part terrifyingly sharp.
"She did," he said, his voice dropping into that low, flirtatious register he usually reserved for targets. "But I told her I was busy performing emergency surgery on a kitchen sink. She found it heroic. I found it a tragedy that I’m spending my Friday night with a girl who smells like sour cream and onion."
Y/N rolled her eyes and hopped off the counter, landing inches away from him. Her intuition—that sharp, bullshit-detecting radar—tripped. He was using the banter as a shield. He was leaning into the "fuckboy" persona because the alternative was acknowledging the fact that he was currently wearing the same shirt she’d slept in three nights ago.
"You're a liar, Lee Haechan," she said, leaning over him to grab a paper towel. "You're not busy. You’re just bored because your usual tricks aren't working."
She reached out and wiped the grease off his cheek.
The movement was too domestic. Too quiet. Haechan froze. His breath hitched—a tiny, microscopic sound that made Y/N’s heart do a violent somersault. He looked at her, and for a second, the witty, tactical genius was gone. In his place was the guy with the rare blood type—the one who was a rational alien one minute and a deeply eccentric, sensitive soul the next.
"You're still wearing my shirt under that," he noted, his voice barely a whisper.
"It's comfortable," she countered, her fierce protective wall crumbling just a little. "And it’s technically mine now. Squatter's rights."
"Is that right?" Haechan stood up slowly. He was taller than her, and in the small space of the kitchen, he felt massive. He stepped into her personal space, his chest almost brushing hers. "You take my clothes, you take my Friday night, and you assault me with 'loyalty' speeches while you're drunk. You're a very expensive friend, Y/N."
"Then stop hanging out with me," she challenged, her voice trembling just enough to be dangerous. "Go find a nice nursing major who won't make you fix her sink."
Haechan’s eyes darkened. He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist, before he took a detour and grabbed the bag of chips next to her.
"I would," he said, the witty mask sliding back into place like a visor. "But who would protect the world from your fashion choices if I wasn't around? Those bunny panties aren't going to mock themselves."
"I will actually kill you," she breathed, but she didn't move away.
"You'll try," he smirked, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. The heat radiating off him was making her head spin. "But we both know you'd miss me too much. I'm the only one who knows exactly how you like your coffee and which of your fierce looks is actually just you being hangry."
He pulled back, giving her a wink that was so obnoxious it almost hurt. He was acting cute—that specific, calculated aegyo that usually annoyed their friends to death. But standing this close, watching the way his eyes crinkled, Y/N realized that when he didn't try to be cute, he was actually devastating.
"Get out of my kitchen," she said, pushing his chest.
"I'm going, I'm going," he laughed, grabbing his tools. He walked toward the door, but stopped, looking back at her. "By the way, Y/N?"
"What?"
"The sink is still leaking. I didn't actually fix it. I just wanted to see if you'd keep feeding me chips if I stayed under there long enough."
"HAECHAN!"
She threw the crumpled paper towel at him, and he ducked out of the door, his laughter echoing down the hallway.
Y/N stood in the silent kitchen, the sound of the dripping faucet the only thing breaking the quiet. The unspoken things were no longer just loud; they were screaming.
And from the hallway, she heard him shout back, "I'll be back at eight for the 'loyalty' sequel! Don't wear the shirt—I want it back!"
———-
The bar was called The Velvet Underground..
A dim, wood-paneled hole-in-the-wall that smelled of expensive scotch and secrets. It was a far cry from Jaemin’s neon-soaked frat house. Here, the lighting was amber and low, casting long, flickering shadows over the leather booths.
"I'm bored," Chenle announced, swirling a drink that probably cost more than the table it sat on. "And when I'm bored, I become a menace to society. Let's play Truth or Dare. But college rules. No what's your favorite color bullshit."
Renjun leaned back, crossing his arms. "The last time we played this, Mark ended up trying to lead a protest in a chicken suit. I'm in."
Haechan sat opposite Y/N, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. He looked devastating in the low light—the shadows accentuated the sharp line of his jaw and the honey-tan of his skin. He had that dual-natured air about him tonight; one second he was laughing at Jisung’s height, the next he was staring into the middle distance with a cold focus that made him look completely untouchable.
"Hyung.. Truth or Dare?" Chenle smirked, eyeing Haechan,his eyes gleaming with the predatory instinct of a bored billionaire.
Haechan didn't blink. "Dare. Obviously. I have no truths worth telling you people."
"Fine," Chenle’s grin widened. "I dare you and Y/N to go into that supply closet behind the bar for seven minutes. No phones. No lights. Just... mutual irritation."
The table went quiet. Mark shifted uncomfortably, his instincts screaming bad idea, while Renjun just raised an eyebrow, clearly checking his watch.
Y/N felt the air leave her lungs. Her intuition—that sharp, internal radar—was screaming that this was a trap. But she was Y/N. She didn't back down. She didn't show fear. She survived childhood trauma and habitual heartbreak; she could survive seven minutes in a closet with a guy who knew exactly how to ruin her.
"Fine," Y/N said, standing up and sliding her chair back with a loud thud. "But if he tries to do that cute voice, I’m coming out early and I’m bringing a lawsuit."
Haechan stood up, his movements fluid and predatory. "Don't flatter yourself, little miss bunny. I need the break from your shouting anyway."
——-
The closet was tiny. It smelled of floor wax, cedar, and Haechan’s woody, citrusy cologne. When the door clicked shut, the darkness was absolute.
Y/N backed up until her spine hit a shelf of industrial-sized detergent bottles. She could hear Haechan’s breathing—steady, rhythmic, and entirely too close.
"Five square feet," Haechan’s voice cut through the dark. It was lower than usual, vibrating in the small space like a cello string. "Technically speaking, this is a nightmare. I can't even move my arms without hitting you."
"Then don't move," Y/N snapped, though her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she was sure he could hear it. "Just stand there and be a 'professional professional' for six more minutes."
"You're shaking," he noted.
"I'm cold."
"Liar."
She felt him move. The air shifted, and then he was there—a solid, warm presence looming over her. He didn't touch her, but the proximity was electric. He was using that unpredictable, eccentric energy of his; one second he was the annoying best friend, and the next, he was the guy who had held her heart in his hands three nights ago.
"You remember the bedroom, don't you?" he whispered. His voice was a weapon—sexy, low, and terrifyingly intimate. "You remember what you did with my hands."
"I was drunk, Haechan. It didn't mean anything."
"Your heart was beating exactly like it is right now," he countered. He reached out, his fingers finding her jaw in the dark. His skin was warm, his touch surprisingly steady. "Is that a lie, too? Is your heart a deflection?"
"Shut up," she breathed, her fierce exterior finally cracking.
"Make me."
It wasn't a slow build-up. It was a collision.
Haechan crashed his lips against hers with a hunger that had been simmering for years under the guise of "best friends." It wasn't cheesy; it was desperate. It was the sound of two people finally stopping the bullshit.
He tasted like whiskey and heat. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him until there wasn't a single millimeter of air left between them. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if she could merge with him.
He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity down her spine. His tongue swept against hers, dominant and sure, claiming her in a way that made her knees go weak. He was a notorious fuckboy, a master of fleeting connections, but this felt like an anchor. It was fierce, intense, and unapologetically wild.
Haechan’s hands slid down to her hips, lifting her slightly until she was pinned between the shelves and his body. He was hard—undeniably, painfully hard—and he didn't try to hide it. He pressed into her, his kisses moving to the sensitive skin of her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point.
"Seven minutes isn't enough," he hissed against her skin, his breath hot. "I’m going to lose my mind."
Y/N pulled his face back to hers, her eyes searching his in the sliver of light coming from under the door. "Then lose it," she whispered. "I've been waiting for you to stop being a goddamn bitch."
The next five minutes were a blur of friction and muffled gasps. They made out with a ferocity that felt like a long-overdue storm. It was messy, it was hot, and it was the most honest they had ever been with each other.
Click.
The door swung open.
Renjun stood there, looking at his watch. "Time’s up. If you're dead, I’m not carrying the bodies."
Haechan and Y/N stepped out.
To the casual observer, they looked normal. But to their friends, who were currently staring at them like they were under a microscope, something had shifted.
Y/N’s lipstick was slightly smudged, her hair a little too voluminous. Haechan was adjusting his hoodie, his face a mask of bored indifference, but his ears were a bright, tell-tale crimson.
"So?" Chenle leaned forward, grinning. "Did you kill each other?"
"Almost," Y/N said, sliding back into her seat and immediately grabbing a handful of nuts like her life depended on it. "He tried to explain the plot of a documentary about ants. I nearly choked him."
"It’s an award-winning documentary!" Haechan shouted, his voice regaining its usual annoying pitch. He sat down, not looking at her, but his foot immediately found hers under the table, hooking around her ankle. "She has no appreciation for the natural world. It’s a tragedy."
"You two are exhausting," Mark sighed, looking relieved.
The game continued. The banter returned. To the world, they were still the love-hate best friends who would never, ever work out. But as Y/N felt the heat of Haechan’s leg against hers, she knew the silent things were no longer silent. They were a roar.
And Haechan? He just took a sip of his drink, his eyes gleaming with a new, dangerous secret.
————
The goodbyes were a chorus of lingering jokes and the sound of car doors slamming. Chenle had been poured into a car, still insisting he could buy the bar if they didn't stop playing peasant music,and Renjun had given Haechan a look that suggested he knew exactly how much of a saint Haechan wasn't.
Finally, the street was quiet, save for the hum of the city and the idling of Haechan’s car.
"Get in," Haechan said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency that always felt like it was vibrating directly against Y/N’s skin. "Before you decide to walk home and get into a fight with a trash can."
"I'm a survivor, Lee. The trash can wouldn't stand a chance," Y/N shot back, but she slid into the leather passenger seat.
The interior of the car felt like a different world. The dashboard lights cast a soft, clinical glow over Haechan’s tan skin, highlighting the concentrated, tactical focus in his eyes. He didn't pull away immediately. He sat there, hands on the wheel, his knuckles white. The rational, calculating side of his temperament was clearly warring with the chaotic, eccentric energy that usually dictated his more notorious impulses.
He drove in silence for three blocks before he swerved into a dark, secluded side street near her apartment complex, killing the engine with a suddenness that made the air in the car feel twice as thick.
"The sink is still leaking," he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet loud enough to fill the space.
"I know," she replied, her heart hammering.
"And you're still wearing my shirt."
"I told you. Squatter's rights."
Haechan turned in his seat, his eyes searching hers with that uncanny, dual-natured intensity. One second he looked like the boy who used to tease her about her bunny panties; the next, he looked like a man who was done pretending. He reached out, his index finger caressing her lower lip, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a possessive, heavy heat.
"I’m tired of being tactical, Y/N," he murmured.
He didn't wait for her to call his bullshit. He pulled her toward him, and this time, the kiss wasn't just desperate—it was a declaration. It was deep, raw, and tasted of the whiskey they’d shared and the years they’d spent acting like they didn't want to tear each other’s clothes off.
Y/N climbed over the center console, her movements fierce and unapologetic, landing in his lap. The car was cramped, the leather groaning under them, but neither of them cared. She was magnetic, a force of nature fueled by the darkness she’d survived, and Haechan was the only one who knew how to handle that kind of intensity without breaking.
His hands were everywhere—mapping the curves of her body through the oversized hoodie, his touch large and warm against her skin. He was a master of the game, a man who knew his way around every girl on campus, but with Y/N, his usual fuckboy polish was gone, replaced by a frantic, genuine need.
"H—Haechan," she gasped, her head falling back as his lips found the sensitive hollow of her throat.
"I’ve got you," he rasped, his sexy voice vibrating against her skin.
He slid his hand beneath the hem of the hoodie, his fingers grazing the skin of her thigh, moving upward with a practiced, predatory grace. He wasn't being the cute best friend now; he was being the rational alien who knew exactly which buttons to press to make her lose her mind.
Until his hand went south.
When he found her clit, she was already slick, her body betraying the cool exterior she tried so hard to maintain. Haechan let out a low, triumphant sound—a mix of a growl and a laugh—as he slipped his fingers inside her.
Y/N arched against him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her breath hitching in a series of sharp, vocal gasps. He was slow at first, rhythmic and deliberate, his thumb working in a way that made her vision blur at the edges. He was watching her, his eyes dark and focused, observing every shiver and every muffled moan like a scientist studying a beautiful, chaotic reaction.
"Tell me," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear as he increased the pace. "Tell me who's being tactical now."
"Shut... up," she managed, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just... don't stop."
He didn't. He used his fingers with a lethal precision, his touch firm and knowing, driving her toward a ledge she’d been hovering over for years. Every thrust of his hand was a reminder of their love-hate history—the fights, the loyalty, the shared secrets, and the undeniable magnetism that had finally snapped.
“Fuck baby.. you’re so tight”, Haechan sighs, watching her as he continues to fuck her with his fingers.
Y/N’s world narrowed down to the sensation of him—his heat, his scent, and the overwhelming friction of his fingers inside her. She felt the climax building like a tidal wave, fierce and unstoppable, until she finally broke. She cried out his name, her body shuddering in his arms as the waves of pleasure crashed through her, leaving her breathless and clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the universe.
Haechan held her, his heart racing against her chest, his own breathing ragged. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her, his hand slowly coming to a rest as she softened against him.
The car was silent again, save for the distant sound of a siren and their synchronized, heavy breathing. The "unspoken" things weren't just loud now; they were the only thing left.
Haechan pulled back just enough to look at her. He reached up and wiped a stray tear from her cheek—not a sad one, but the kind that comes from a release of years of tension. He looked flustered, his usual mask completely shattered, but he still managed a small, crooked smirk.
"So," he whispered, his voice still thick with desire. "Does this mean I don't have to fix the sink tomorrow?"
Y/N let out a wet, genuine laugh, her whole body shaking. She hit his chest weakly. "You're still a dick, Lee Haechan."
"Yeah," he said, pulling her back into a soft, surprisingly tender kiss. "But I'm your dick. And don't you forget it."
He didn't make it obvious. He didn't say the word "love." But as he started the car to finally drive her the last few yards to her door, his hand remained firmly on her knee, and for once, neither of them was looking for a way out.
———
The morning sun hit Y/N’s apartment with a level of disrespect that only 9:00 AM on a Saturday could manage.
Y/N was in the kitchen, aggressively attacking a bag of coffee beans, when the front door code chirped. In walked the four horsemen of her impending migraine: Mark (carrying a box of donuts like a peace offering), Renjun (looking like he was ready to fight the sun), Chenle (complaining about the thread count of the spare pillows), and Jisung (tripping over his own feet).
“Why are you all here?” Y/N asked, her voice a scratchy, loud boom. “Do you not have homes? Do you not have families who miss you?”
“We’re here to witness the aftermath,” Chenle said, hopping onto her kitchen island like it was his personal stage. “Renjun and I have a bet going on whether you and Haechan finally killed each other in that car ride home, or if you just sat in a heavy, pathetic silence.”
“It was silence,” a voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous rang out from the hallway.
Haechan appeared, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. He looked incredibly, unfairly put together. His tan skin was glowing, his hair was perfectly messy, and he was wearing a fresh shirt—though Y/N noticed it was the same brand he’d been wearing the night before. His "AB" nature was on full display: cool, detached, and playing the role of the rational observer while his eyes flickered with a hidden, electric intensity.
“She spent the whole ride complaining about the humidity,” Haechan lied, sliding into the seat next to Chenle. He reached out and snagged a donut, his fingers nimble and steady. “I almost dropped her off at a 24-hour car wash just to see if the cold water would reset her personality.”
Y/N didn't even look at him. She couldn't. If she looked at him, she’d see the guy who had been breathing her name into her neck eight hours ago. Instead, she channeled her survivorenergy.
“I was complaining about your driving, Haechan. You take corners like you’re trying to escape a crime scene,” she snapped, finally turning around with a pot of coffee.
“I’m not so sure about that.. You guys didn’t fuck or anything right? Haha”, Chenle joked, giving both of them knowing looks.
“I wouldn’t touch her even with a ten foot pole. And by the way, I take corners with precision,” Haechan denied, then suddenly shifted gears. He put on a high-pitched, pouty voice, blinking his long lashes at her. “But Y/N-nie is so mean to meeee! Why does my best friend hate me so much? I just want a tiny sip of coff-eeeee!”
“Oh my god, stop,” Renjun groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Haechan, you are literally twenty-one years old. You are not cute. You look like a golden retriever with a head injury.”
“He’s doing it again,” Jisung whispered, terrified. “The aegyo. It’s a biohazard.”
Haechan didn’t stop. He leaned toward Y/N, his lower lip jutting out in that calculated, "cute" way that usually made her want to throw a shoe at him. He’s literally making a diversion so that he could steer away his friends from grilling them about fucking.
“Pleeaaaase? Just one sip? For your favorite person in the whole wide woooorrrllld?”
Y/N felt a spike of heat that had nothing to do with the coffee. She knew what he was doing. This was his cover. He was acting like the annoying, "acting-cute-to-piss-you-off" best friend so the guys wouldn't notice the way he was actually eyeing her collarbone.
“If you don't shut your mouth, I will fill it with literal grounds,” Y/N said, pushing a mug toward him with enough force to make the liquid splash. “And stop doing that face. You look like a dehydrated raisin.”
“Ouch,” Haechan said, dropping the act instantly. He took a sip of the coffee, his sexy, low voice returning. “Your kindness is a deliberate act of defiance, isn't it? Just like we discussed.”
Mark looked between them, his intuition tingling. “You guys are being… weirder than usual. Did something happen in that closet? Besides the ant documentary?”
Haechan didn’t even flinch. He was a master of distraction. He reached out and casually ruffled Y/N’s hair—a move that was classic 'best friend' but felt like a brand on her skin.
“Nothing happened, Mark. We just realized we both hate the same things. For example, your sweater vest,” Haechan said, pointing at Mark’s chest.
“Hey! This is a classic!” Mark protested.
“It’s a cry for help,” Chenle added, and just like that, the conversation veered into a chaotic debate about Mark’s fashion choices.
Under the table, out of sight of the boys, Haechan’s foot found Y/N’s. He didn't just hook her ankle this time. He slid his foot up her calf, a slow, deliberate caress that made her breath hitch.
Y/N glared at him, but he was busy laughing at something Renjun said, looking for all the world like he didn't have a care in the universe. But as he laughed, his thumb—resting on the handle of his mug—was trembling just a fraction.
And as she kicked him under the table, hard enough to make him hiss "Ouch!" while maintaining his smirk, she realized the bullshit was finally gone. They weren't just best friends anymore; they were two people standing on the edge of a cliff, pretending they weren't about to fall.
“So,” Chenle said, looking at the two of them. “Who’s coming to the beach house next weekend? Jaemin said he’s bringing his new underwater camera.”
Haechan’s eyes snapped to Y/N’s. The "love-hate" look was back, but there was a new, dangerous layer underneath it.
“I’m in,” Haechan said, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ve been meaning to see if Y/N can actually swim, or if she just floats like a piece of drift-wood.”
“I’ll drown you,” she promised, her heart racing.
“I’d like to see you try,” he winked.
——-
The beach house was a sprawling, glass-fronted masterpiece perched on a cliffside that looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Naturally, it was Jaemin’s.
The group was currently scattered across the private cove. Jaemin, true to his eccentric nature, was waist-deep in the surf wearing a full wetsuit and a pair of high-end goggles, trying to take emotive underwater photos of a very confused crab. Renjun was sitting under a massive umbrella, looking like a Victorian widow mourning the concept of fun, while Chenle was trying to teach Jisung how to "properly" sabre a bottle of champagne with a credit card.
“He’s going to drown that crab,” Y/N muttered, squinting at Jaemin’s neon snorkel. She was lounging in a black bikini, looking radiant and fiercely attractive—a fact she remained blissfully unaware of as she focused on her annoyance.
“He’s documenting the crustacean experience, Y/N. Show some respect for the arts,” Haechan’s voice rumbled beside her.
He was stretched out on the lounge chair next to hers, his tan skin glistening with salt and sun. He looked effortless, the notorious fuckboy persona dialed down into a relaxed, predator-at-rest vibe. But Y/N could see the way his eyes tracked the movement of the waves—and the way they occasionally snagged on the curve of her hip.
“You’re just glad he’s busy so you don't have to explain why you’re still wearing my sunglasses,” she shot back, reaching over to snatch them off his face.
Haechan caught her wrist mid-air. His grip was firm, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin of her pulse point. The playful banter died in her throat. The "unspoken" things from the closet and the car weren't just loud anymore; they were a physical weight between them.
“I’m going up to the house to get a real drink,” she said, her voice a bit too sharp. “This sun is making me hallucinate that you’re actually tolerable.”
“I’ll come,” Haechan said, standing up with a fluid grace that made Mark, who was passing by with a tray of fruit, pause.
“You guys okay?” Mark asked, looking between them. “You look like you’re about to fight. Again.”
“Always, Mark,” Haechan smirked, but his eyes never left Y/N. “It’s the only way she knows how to communicate. It’s charming, really.”
——
The house was empty. The rest of the guys were staying by the water, and the silence of the high-ceilinged living room felt like a vacuum.
Y/N didn't even make it to the kitchen. She was halfway across the hallway when a hand clamped around her waist and hauled her backward. She was spun around and slammed against the cool, white wall, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp.
Haechan didn't look like the "cute" best friend anymore. He looked like the mastermind who had finally cornered his target. His eyes were dark, a storm of dual-natured intensity that made her knees turn to water.
“No more jokes,” he rasped, his sexy voice vibrating against her skin. “No more 'bunny panty' bullshit. No more pretending I’m not losing my goddamn mind over you.”
He didn't wait for her to answer. He claimed her mouth with a ferocity that was almost violent, his hands gripping her thighs and hiking her up until she had to wrap her legs around his waist to stay upright. He moved her like she weighed nothing, manhandling her through the nearest door—a guest bedroom—and kicking it shut behind them.
He didn't put her on the bed gently. He threw her onto the mattress and followed her down, his body a heavy, tan-skinned weight that pinned her effortlessly.
“Haechan,” she breathed, her fierce soul meeting his intensity head-on. She wasn't scared; she was electrified. She wanted the roughness. She wanted the truth of him.
He was relentless. He stripped her with a frantic, rough energy, his hands possessing every inch of her as if he were finally claiming territory he’d been eyeing for years. When he entered her, it wasn't a slow, romantic glide; it was a hard, deep thrust that made her back arch and a jagged cry escape her lips.
“You’re mine,” he hissed into her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe. “Tell me you know it.”
“I... know,” she gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back, drawing blood as he increased the pace.
He was rough, his movements powerful and unapologetic. He used his strength to move her, flipping her over, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other mapped the curve of her spine. He was a notorious fuckboy for a reason—he knew exactly how to drive a woman to the edge—but with Y/N, it felt like he was trying to drive himself there, too.
The heat in the room was suffocating. Every time she tried to speak, he silenced her with a kiss that tasted like desperation and salt. He was teasing her, pausing just when she was about to break, his eyes searching hers with a cruel, beautiful intelligence.
As they reached the peak, Haechan’s grip on her wrists tightened. He leaned down, his sweat dripping onto her skin, his breathing a series of ragged, guttural hitches.
“I could,” he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous growl against her temple. “I could stay right here. I could finish inside you and make sure you never think about Jaemin or anyone else ever again. Should I, Y/N? Should I leave my mark?”
Y/N’s head thrashed against the pillow, her body a live wire of pleasure. “Haechan... please...”
He leaned in, the tension in his body screaming as he hovered on the absolute edge. He let out a low, frustrated sound, his self-control winning by a fraction of a millimeter. At the last possible second, he pulled out, his release hitting her skin in a hot, frantic rush as he collapsed against her, his heart hammering like a drum.
They lay there for a long time, the only sound the distant crash of the waves and their synchronized, desperate breathing.
Haechan finally pulled back, looking down at her. His hair was a mess, his tan skin flushed, and for the first time in their entire history, he looked completely vulnerable. He reached out and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re a nightmare, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice returning to that soft, bourbon-smooth register.
“And you’re a disaster,” she whispered back, a small, genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion.
He laughed—a real, unapologetic laugh—and kissed her forehead. He didn't say he loved her. She didn't say it back. But as he pulled the duvet over both of them, his arm draped possessively over her waist, the silence between them was finally, blissfully, honent.
——
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and gold, by the time Haechan and Y/N descended the wooden stairs back to the cove.
The air was cooling, but Y/N felt like she was still radiating heat. She had done her best to scrub the just manhandled glow off her skin, but her lips were a tell-tale swollen pink, and her legs felt like they were made of overcooked noodles. Beside her, Haechan was the picture of AB-blood-type serenity. He’d swapped his shirt for a fresh linen one, and his brain was back online, his face a mask of cool, bored indifference.
The boys were gathered around a bonfire that Chenle had probably paid a local professional to start, given how perfectly it was burning.
"Oh, look who decided to rejoin the mortal realm," Renjun said, not even looking up from the stick he was using to poke at a marshmallow. "We were about to send a search party, but then we figured you'd just gotten stuck in a loop of insulting each other's ancestors."
"The ice machine was acting up," Haechan said, his voice as smooth as the scotch in Jaemin's hand. He sat down on a driftwood log, leaning back with a casual confidence that didn't betray the fact that he’d spent the last two hours being anything but cool. "It took a while to convince it to cooperate. I had to use my charm on the kitchen appliances since Y/N's personality was scaring them."
"Two hours?" Jaemin asked, tilting his head. He was still in his wetsuit, his hair damp and messy, looking like a literal sea god. He leaned over and did his trademark move—a quick, quirky sniff of Haechan’s shoulder. He paused, his nose wrinkling. "You smell like... expensive hotel soap and a very specific brand of sea-salt spray. Which is weird, because we're at a beach, but you smell like fresh sea-salt spray."
Haechan didn't flinch, but Y/N saw the muscle in his jaw jump. "It's called hygiene, Jaemin. You should try it sometime instead of smelling like a wet otter."
"And you," Chenle pointed a glowing marshmallow at Y/N. "You look like you just ran a marathon. Your hair is doing a thing. A very... bird's nest thing."
"I took a nap," Y/N snapped, her fierce intuition kicking in to cover her tracks. She sat down as far from Haechan as possible, which was her first mistake. "The sun gave me a headache. Unlike some people, I don't have an ego to keep me upright 24/7."
"A nap?" Mark asked, looking between the two of them. His brain was clearly running the numbers. "In the same house? While Haechan was 'fixing the ice machine'?"
"He's a loud worker, Mark. It's hard to sleep when someone is narrating their own 'mechanical genius' to a refrigerator," she shot back, grabbing a drink from the cooler.
The silence that followed was heavy with suspicion. The boys weren't stupid. They had watched this love-hate tennis match for years, and the atmospheric pressure around the two of them right now was high enough to cause a weather event.
"Anyway," Jaemin said, breaking the tension by pulling out his camera. "I got the shot. The crab looked very pensive. I think it’s a Gemini. Very dual-natured. Very 'I'm going to pinch you but I also want a snack.'"
Haechan let out a dry laugh. "Sounds like someone I know."
"If you're talking about me, I'll pinch your throat," Y/N muttered, but she couldn't hide the small, private spark in her eyes when she finally caught Haechan’s gaze across the fire.
He didn't wink. He didn't make it obvious. He just held her stare for a second—a look that was dark, possessive, and entirely too knowing—before turning back to tease Jisung about his fear of seagulls.
The night went on, filled with the usual chaos—Chenle trying to buy a boat on his phone (that was questionable.. but oh well), Renjun threatening to throw the marshmallows into the ocean, and Mark trying to organize a "bonding" campfire song.
As the fire died down to embers, the group started heading back up to the house. Haechan lingered, waiting for Y/N to finish packing up her towel.
"Hey," he whispered, his sexy voice barely audible over the waves.
"What?" she asked, not looking up.
"Your 'nap' was very loud," he teased, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "I think the ice machine was impressed."
"Shut up, Haechan," she hissed, her heart doing that familiar, frantic dance.
"Make me," he challenged, the witty, rough man from the bedroom flickering in hiseyes for a split second before the "best friend mask settled back into place.
They walked back up the beach, three paces apart, insulting each other the whole way. To the boys watching from the balcony, they looked exactly the same as they did in high school. But as Haechan reached out to "accidentally" brush his hand against hers in the dark, they both knew the game had changed forever.
The final night at the beach house was supposed to be a "civilized" goodbye dinner, but given that Chenle had discovered a vintage wine cellar and Jisung had managed to accidentally set a decorative driftwood centerpiece on fire, "civilized" was a distant dream.
By 1 AM, the house was a graveyard of empty bottles and exhausted bodies. Mark and Jaemin were passed out on the deck chairs, and Chenle was somewhere in the kitchen trying to explain the stock market to a very sleepy Jisung.
Haechan and Y/N had vanished ten minutes ago.
They were in the laundry room—a choice by Haechan, who argued that "no one ever looks for anything productive like clean towels at 1 AM." He had Y/N hoisted up on the humming dryer, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, the vibration of the machine adding a low-frequency hum to the friction of their bodies.
It was rough, urgent, and fueled by the frustration of having to play "just friends" all evening. Haechan’s hands were clamped onto her hips, his fingers digging into her skin with a possessive strength that left no room for doubt. He was manhandling her with a focused, dark intensity, his kisses biting and deep.
"You... were... flirting with the bartender... earlier," Haechan rasped between heavy, jagged thrusts, his voice a low growl of possessive irritation.
"He was... nice," Y/N gasped, her head hitting the wall behind her with every rhythmic movement. "Unlike... you."
"I'll show you nice," he hissed, his grip tightening as he drove into her, the rough edge of his temperament taking over. He was teasing her, his thumb pressing into her hip bone, his eyes locked onto hers with a look that said he was seconds away from breaking his own rules.
Suddenly, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.
"Haechan? Y/N?"
It was Renjun. And he sounded dangerously close.
Both of them froze. Haechan stayed buried deep inside her, his muscles locked, his forehead resting against hers as they both strained to hear through the thin door. The dryer chose that exact moment to let out a loud, high-pitched beep signaling the end of a cycle.
"I know you're in there," Renjun’s voice came from right outside the door. He sounded annoyed and suspiciously sober. "I can hear the dryer. And I know neither of you has ever done a load of laundry in your entire lives. It’s statistically impossible."
Haechan’s eyes widened, a rare flash of genuine panic crossing his face. He looked at the door, then back at Y/N, who was trying—and failing—to stifle a hysterical laugh.
"We're... looking for my favorite socks!" Haechan shouted, his voice jumping an octave into his "cute but annoying" register. "Y/N lost them! She’s a thief, Renjun! A sock thief!"
"Open the door, Haechan," Renjun said, his hand rattling the knob. "I need a towel. My drink spilled because Chenle thinks he’s a bartender."
"No!" Y/N yelled, her voice vibrating against Haechan's chest. "I’m... I’m naked! I’m changing! Haechan is just... being a pervert and won't leave!"
"I'm helping!" Haechan added, desperately trying to pull his shorts back up while Y/N scrambled to adjust her top, her face flushed a deep, tell-tale crimson.
"I’m counting to three," Renjun said, his voice dropping into that "I-will-actually-murder-you" tone he used when he was truly done with their antics. "One... two..."
Haechan scrambled to the door, leaning his back against it just as Renjun pushed. He put on his most bored, fuckboy expression, though he was breathing like he’d just run a marathon.
"Relax, gargoyle," Haechan said, cracking the door just a few inches and sticking his head out. He looked disheveled, his tan skin damp with sweat. "Y/N is having a fashion crisis. If you go in there, she’ll probably claw your eyes out. She’s very protective of her... laundry."
Renjun squinted at him, his sharp intuition scanning Haechan’s face. He looked past him at Y/N, who was now standing by the dryer, frantically folding a single damp towel with the intensity of a woman possessed.
"Why are you both sweating?" Renjun asked, his eyes narrowing. "The laundry room isn't that hot."
"It's the dryer, Renjun! Thermodynamics!" Haechan chirped, ruffling Renjun’s hair to distract him—a move that usually resulted in a fistfight.
"Don't touch me," Renjun snapped, swatting his hand away. He grabbed a towel from a basket near the door, giving them both one last, long, deeply suspicious look. "You two are the weirdest people I have ever met. If I find out you were doing something stupid like trying to see if you could fit in the washing machine, I'm leaving you both at a gas station on the way home."
Renjun turned and walked away, grumbling about Gemini energy and idiot best friends.
As soon as his footsteps faded, Haechan leaned his head against the door and let out a long, shaky breath. He turned to Y/N, who was still holding the damp towel, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
"That," Haechan whispered, his sexy voice returning as he stepped back toward her, "was way too close."
"You said you were a tactical genius," she teased, dropping the towel and reaching for the hem of his shirt.
"I am," he smirked, pulling her back into him, his hands finding her waist with that familiar, rough possessiveness. "Tactically speaking... he’s gone. And we still have five minutes before the dryer starts cooling down."
He didn't wait for her to reply. He lifted her back onto the machine, the unspoken things finally silenced by the only language they both truly understood.
The drive back from the beach house was a masterclass in atmospheric pressure. Mark, Renjun, Chenle, and Jisung were in the lead car, likely debating whether the beach house needed a professional exorcism after their stay. This left Haechan and Y/N alone in his car, the interior smelling like expensive leather, salt air, and the lingering, heavy scent of each other.
The silence wasn't the usual comfortable quiet of best friends. It was thick, humming with the frequency of everything that had happened in closets, bedrooms, and laundry rooms.
Haechan drove with one hand on the wheel, his tan fingers tapping a restless rhythm. He looked cool—the strategist back in his element—but his eyes were constantly flicking to the passenger seat. Y/N was staring out the window, her fierce profile silhouetted against the passing streetlights. She was wearing his oversized hoodie again, the sleeves swallowed her hands, making her look softer than her bullshit-detector personality usually allowed.
"You're being quiet," Haechan said, his voice dropping into that low, bourbon-smooth register that bypassed her brain and went straight to her pulse. "It’s unsettling. I feel like I should be checking for a pulse or a hidden weapon."
"I’m just thinking about how much I’m going to enjnoy not seeing your face for at least twelve hours," she shot back, but the bite wasn't there. It sounded like a reflex, a tired script they both knew by heart.
Haechan let out a dry, short laugh. He slowed the car as they entered the city, the neon signs of downtown reflecting off the windshield. "Twelve hours? You’ll be texting me by 2 AM because you can’t find your remote or you saw a spider that looked personally offended by your presence."
"In your dreams, Lee."
"My dreams are currently occupied by other things, Y/N. Things that involve laundry rooms and tactical errors in judgment."
Y/N finally turned to look at him. Her intuition—that uncanny ability to see through his masks—saw it then. The fuckboysmirk was gone. The acting cute sefense mechanism was offline. For a guy who was notorious for his fleeting connections, he looked... grounded. Heavy. Like he’d finally found something he couldn't just charm his way out of.
He pulled the car to a stop in front of her apartment building. Usually, this was where he’d make a joke about her bunny collection and speed off. But the engine stayed off. The silence in the car became deafening.
"We can't keep doing the bit, can we?" Y/N asked, her voice small but unapologetic.
Haechan leaned his head back against the headrest, staring at the ceiling of the car. He looked like the rational, AB-natured alien trying to calculate an equation that didn't have a solution. Then, he turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dark, intense, and for the first time, completely transparent.
"The bit is exhausted," he murmured. He reached out, his hand sliding across the center console to cup the back of her neck. His thumb traced the line of her jaw with a possessive, rough tenderness. "I'm a notorious disaster, Y/N. I’m an ass, I’m arrogant, and I’m probably going to annoy you for the rest of your life."
"Probably?" she whispered, leaning into his touch.
"Definitely." He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. "But if you think I’m letting you go back to just best friends after this weekend... then you’re not as smart as I thought you were."
He didn't say the word "love." Heechan wasn’t like that. He is not going to give away the whole game just yet. But as he kissed her—a slow, deep, lingering kiss that tasted like a promise—the mask didn't just slip. It shattered.
"Go inside," he whispered against her lips, his voice raspy and full of an intensity that made her knees weak even while sitting down. "Before I decide the car is the next place we should check the thermodynamics of."
Y/N let out a genuine, radiant laugh. She climbed out of the car, pulling the hoodie tighter around her. She didn't look back until she reached the glass doors of the lobby.
Haechan was still there, watching her, his hand resting on the window ledge. He gave her a sharp, two-finger salute—the same one he’d used since high school—but the look in his eyes was entirely new.
She disappeared inside, her heart a fierce, loyal roar in her chest. And as Haechan drove away, he didn't turn on the radio. He just sat in the quiet, a witty, tan-skinned mastermind who had finally realized that the best move he ever made was losing the game entirely.
————
The big reveal didn't happen at a fancy dinner or a dramatic meeting. It happened because Haechan, despite being a genius(as he thought he was), forgot that Chenle had installed a smart-lock system on the Neo-Brew private backroom where the group gathered.
The boys were already there, surrounded by bubble tea and calculus homework. When Haechan and Y/N walked in, they weren't just walking close; they were tangled. Haechan had his arm draped heavily over Y/N’s shoulders, his fingers playing with a strand of her hair, while Y/N was absentmindedly leaning her head against his bicep.
The silence that hit them was louder than a gunshot.
Renjun stopped mid-sip, his eyes bugging out. Mark dropped his highlighter. Chenle slowly pulled out his phone, likely to check the exchange rate of "I Told You So" coins.
"So," Renjun said, his voice dangerously level. "The laundry was that productive, huh?"
Haechan didn't even flinch. He just pulled Y/N closer, his fuckboy mask officially retired and replaced by a smug, possessive grin. "Actually, the laundry was a disaster. But the partnership agreement has been finalized."
"Are you... together?" Jisung asked, looking like he was watching a glitch in the Matrix. "Like, holding hands, gross stuff, together?"
"Grosser than that, probably," Y/N added, her unapologetic wit cutting through the tension. She felt the heat in her cheeks but stood her ground. "And if any of you say 'I told you so,' I will personally ensure your social lives end today."
"I told you so!" Chenle shrieked, slamming a fist on the table. "Mark, pay up! Five hundred! I knew the laundry room was a den of sin!"
"We’re happy for you," Mark said, ever the diplomat, though he was handing Chenle a crumpled bill. "But please, for the love of the student body, keep the 'partnership agreement' out of the library."
And just like that, the air in the room changed. The static of years of "maybe" and "should we" finally cleared, leaving behind something vibrant and new. The tension that had once been a source of friction shifted into a steady, glowing warmth. It was a reset—a complete overhaul of their history that didn't just fix the cracks but filled them with gold. Their friendship hadn't ended; it had simply bloomed into something prettier, fiercer, and far more dangerous for everyone else's peace of mind.________________________________________
-End-
BONUS!
Haechan decided their first "official" date needed to be a masterpiece. He planned a night at a high-end, experiential rooftop restaurant that required a six-month waiting list. He wanted to show her he could be more than just the guy who teased her—he could be the guy who treated her.
It started failing the moment they arrived.
"I’m sorry, sir," the maitre d’ said, looking at Haechan’s perfectly tailored, tan-skin-accentuating suit. "We have a strict 'no-denim' policy."
Haechan looked down at his designer jeans that cost more than a fridge. "These are literal works of art. They’re a fashion statement."
"They’re pants with pockets, sir. Please leave."
Result: They ended up at a local carnival that looked like it hadn't passed a safety inspection since 1994.
"It’s... nostalgic?" Haechan tried, looking at a carousel horse that was missing an ear.
"It looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen," Y/N laughed, grabbing his hand. "Come on, pretty boy. Let’s go on the Ferris wheel."
The Ferris wheel was fine until they reached the very top. Then, with a mechanical groan that sounded like a dying whale, it stopped. The lights flickered and died, leaving them suspended in the dark, swaying in the wind.
"Tactically speaking," Haechan muttered, clutching the safety bar, "this is not how I envisioned the evening ending."
"Are you... scared of heights?" Y/N asked, leaning in, her intuition picking up on the slight tremor in his hand.
"I am not scared. I am critically aware of the distance between us and the pavement," he snapped, his sexy voice jumping an octave.
"You're cute when you're terrified," she teased, sliding closer to him.
"I'm not cute! I'm—"
He was cut off by a sudden thump as the car swayed violently. Haechan didn't think; he lunged for Y/N, wrapping his arms around her like a shield. He was manhandling her again, but this time it was out of pure, frantic protectiveness.
"If we die here," Haechan whispered into her hair, his heart racing against her chest, "I just want you to know that the laundry room was my favorite part of the decade."
"We're not going to die, you idiot," she said, though she held him back just as tight.
Ten minutes later, the ride lurched back to life. When they finally touched the ground, they were both windblown, covered in sticky residue from a nearby cotton candy machine that had "exploded" during their wait, and Haechan had a giant grease stain on his suit.
They walked back to the car, sharing a single, lukewarm hot dog.
"Worst date ever?" Haechan asked, leaning against the driver's side door, looking disheveled and entirely too handsome.
"Absolute disaster," Y/N agreed, reaching up to wipe a smudge of pink sugar off his nose.
He caught her hand, kissing her palm. The best friend mask was gone, the "fuckboy" was retired, and all that was left was the witty, tan-skinned boy who had finally found the only person in the world who could handle his bullshit.
"Same time next week?" he smirked.
"Only if we go somewhere with a functioning exit," she laughed, pulling him in for a kiss that tasted like cheap sugar and a future that was finally, perfectly obvious.
pairing: slytherin! na jaemin x gryffindor! fem. reader
genre: hogwarts au, fake dating (hell yeah!), fluff, smut, angst
wc: 34k
summary: It's a simple deal: fake date the Slytherin golden boy to dodge his arranged marriage. Easy. Except patrols turn into makeouts, a Quidditch win ends in a very steamy contract violation, and suddenly your N.E.W.T.s feel like the least of your problems. After one badly timed confession, it’s clear he’s not acting anymore—and neither are you.
content warnings: slow burn, explicit sexual content, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving), miscommunication!!!, emotional hurt/comfort, cursing, alcohol consumption, reader is self conscious/bit anxious, heavy hogwarts canon themes obvs, slytherin/gryffindor dynamics, jaemin is lowkgenuinely manipulative at the beginning, mean slytherin stereotypes, avoidance as a coping mechanism. lmk if i missed anything! btw the ones in italic apply to the second part.
a/n: ok this is gonna be a long a/n so bear with me. this fic genuinely almost killed me. i don’t think i’ve ever struggled so much to finish something in my life and it’s 100% my fault for being too ambitious. you’ll notice i tried to weave in more hogwarts details and brit lingo to make it feel more authentic, but as you may have guessed… i am not british 😭 so that meant a lot of googling, rewatching, and rereading some of my fav hp fics just to make sure i wasn’t embarrassing myself. i did my best okay (shoutout to every hp fic writer before me, yall are the blueprint). also: yes, you may catch a hint of draco malfoy in jaemin’s character and that’s very much intentional. i am, at my core, a draco apologist and i don’t see myself changing. anyways. i really hope you enjoy reading this as much as i suffered writing it. please let me know what you think w ur comments, anons, reblogs. everything is appreciated more than you know 🖤
“I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Hogwarts had always held a certain allure, with its ancient stone walls and magic that seemed to permeate every nook and cranny. For six and a half years, you'd wandered those hallowed halls, immersing yourself in a world so far removed from the mundane that at times it hardly seemed real.
Yet, for all its wonder and mystique, Hogwarts was not without its dangers.
There were cursed objects that lurked in shadowy corridors, waiting for an unsuspecting student to stumble upon them. Staircases that shifted without warning, leaving the unwary stranded or, worse, deposited in some unknown part of the castle. The Whomping Willow that stood sentinel on the grounds, its gnarled branches poised to strike at any who ventured too close. Even Peeves the Poltergeist roamed the halls, cackling with malicious glee as he wreaked havoc and sowed chaos in his wake.
In the face of such peril, you had thus far emerged unscathed, a feat that was nothing short of remarkable given the castle's rather alarming mortality rate. You attributed your survival to a simple yet effective strategy: be invisible, be boring, and for the love of Merlin, stay away from anyone interesting.
Interesting people, you had learned, were magnets for trouble. They ended up in the hospital wing with alarming regularity, usually victims of rogue hexes or potions experiments gone awry. They attracted drama the way honey attracted flies, their lives a constant whirlwind of rumor and intrigue. Interesting people had complicated social lives, with networks of friends and enemies and romantic entanglements that required constant upkeep.
You, on the other hand, were perfectly content with your quiet, unassuming existence. You had one close friend, one beloved cat, and a comfortable routine that rarely demanded more of you than attending classes and avoiding human interaction as much as possible. It wasn't a particularly exciting life, but it was safe and predictable and suited you just fine.
At least, it had until this particular moment, when your sole friend had apparently taken complete leave of her senses.
"Are you having some sort of episode?" You peered at Jo over the top of your book, brow furrowed in concern. "Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey? Is this what happens when you inhale too many potion fumes?"
Jo rolled her eyes with an exaggerated huff. "Please!" she wheedled, her voice climbing to that particular pitch that never boded well. "Please please please, I swear on Merlin's saggy ba—"
You held up a finger, cutting her off before she could complete that thought. "I'm going to stop you right there..."
"I'll never ask you for anything ever again!" She pleaded, clasping her hands together. "I'll do your Potions essays for a month! I'll clean Whiskers' litter box! I'll—"
"I don't think you heard me the first time," you interrupted, fixing her with a pointed stare. "Are. You. Mental?"
The Gryffindor common room was mercifully empty save for the portrait of a tongue-less lady, who watched your exchange with rapt attention. Having gotten her tongue cut out in 1642 for "seditious gossip", the painted woman had developed a keen appreciation for drama in all its forms. Judging by the way she clutched at her pearls, this was the most excitement she'd witnessed in decades.
"Come ooon," Jo cajoled, undeterred by your apparent lack of enthusiasm. "When do I ever do things like this? You're always telling me to try new things!"
"I meant take up knitting! Join the Gobstones Club! I did not mean sneak out of the castle in the middle of the night to meet some potentially lycanthropic stranger you've been corresponding with!"
"He's not a stranger, I've been writing to him for months—"
"Which is exactly what every person who's ever been murdered by a pen pal has said—"
"And he's not a werewolf, he's perfectly lovely! I saw him in Hogsmeade last month, I just couldn't say hello because McGonagall was watching me like a hawk."
"Seeing someone from a distance hardly counts as a proper introduction," you argued, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as if to punctuate your point.
This was the problem with having just one close friend. You knew Jo too well, could read her every expression and intonation better than anyone else. That gleam in her eye, the set of her chin, the way she twisted her fingers in her lap - you recognized the signs of a course already plotted, a decision already made. She would go through with this mad scheme with or without your help, and if you refused, she'd likely end up dead in a ditch somewhere and you'd be left to drown in guilt for the rest of your days.
Guilt, you thought grimly, was a most effective motivator.
With a weary sigh, you closed your book and met Jo's hopeful gaze. "Fine. Fine. What exactly do you need me to do?"
Jo's answering grin could have lit up the entirety of the Great Hall. "Just swap patrol shifts with Sophie Crockett tomorrow night? She's an absolute nightmare, and if she catches me out after curfew she'll go straight to McGonagall."
You could feel a headache blooming behind your eyes. "And when Sophie asks why I'm suddenly so eager to take on the worst patrol slot in existence?"
"Just make something up! She's not going to turn down a chance to skive off for an evening, is she?"
Rubbing your temples, you silently cursed the fickle twists of fate that had led you to this moment. "And the other prefects? I'll still have to deal with them, you know."
Jo waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you're all right. The only other one scheduled is Na Jaemin, and everyone knows he never actually patrols. Just goes and snogs girls in the library all night, doesn't he?"
You raised an incredulous eyebrow. "How would you know that?"
"Everyone knows," Jo said with a shrug. "It's common knowledge."
"Well, I didn't know."
"That's because you never pay attention to gossip," Jo pointed out, flopping down beside you on the couch. "Honestly, you're missing out on prime entertainment. Anyway, I'm sure Jaemin's got better things to do than patrol corridors. You'll probably have the place to yourself.”
You made a noncommittal sound, trying not to think too hard about Na Jaemin and his extracurricular activities.
It was funny, really. Well, not funny funny. More like cosmically ironic. First and second year, Jaemin had been an absolute pest. Always lurking around corners, waiting to charm your bag so your books would spill everywhere, or jinx your quill during tests so it would only write rude limericks. He’d found you endlessly amusing, apparently, a never-ending source of entertainment. You’d gone to bed countless nights fuming, plotting revenge you’d never actually carry out, wishing he’d just leave you alone.
And then, somewhere around third year, he just stopped. He stopped seeking you out, or looking at you entirely. As if you’d ceased to exist the moment you stopped being fun to torment.
By fourth year, he’d transformed into a whole different person entirely. Suddenly he was all smoldering glances and that insufferable “playboy” swagger, a different girl on his arm every week. Too cool for pranks and too sophisticated for something as juvenile as tormenting students. He’d become exactly the sort of person you’d made it your mission to avoid: interesting, magnetic, drowning in attention and drama.
You supposed you should have been relieved. You’d wanted him to leave you alone, after all. But there was something particularly galling about being so thoroughly dismissed, about going from his favorite target to utterly beneath his notice. At least when he’d been pulling pranks, you’d existed to him.
Now you were just… nobody. Which was exactly what you’d wanted, you reminded yourself firmly. Exactly what you’d worked so hard to achieve.
“You’re probably right,” you said to Jo, pushing thoughts of Jaemin firmly out of your mind. “I’ll probably have the whole patrol to myself.”
Privately, you rather doubted that. In your experience, the universe had a way of placing you in the path of people and situations you'd much rather avoid. Still, Jo was clearly determined to see her plan through, and short of physically restraining her (a tempting prospect, but ultimately impractical), you saw no way to dissuade her.
"Fine," you said again. "I'll take Sophie's patrol. But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' in the loudest, most obnoxious voice I can muster."
"You're the best." Jo pulled you into a rib-cracking hug, her hair tickling your nose. "Seriously, I owe you one."
"You owe me several," you grumbled, but you returned the hug all the same.
Later that night, as you lay in bed listening to the soft snores of your dormmates, you tried to ignore the sense of foreboding curling in your gut. Rationally, you knew the odds of anything truly catastrophic happening were slim. It was just one night, one patrol, one tiny favor for your best friend. Surely the universe wouldn't be so cruel as to upend your careful, boring routine over something so trivial.
But then, you thought wryly, life did seem to have a twisted sense of humor where you were concerned.
With a sigh, you rolled over and buried your face in your pillow, willing sleep to come. Tomorrow would bring what it would. For now, all you could do was hope that, just this once, the cosmic forces that governed your life would decide to give you a break.
Poorly planned rule-breaking never worked out the way you expected it to.
There was the first year incident, for instance, involving a misplaced curiosity about the Restricted Section and a borrowed invisibility cloak that was, crucially, not yours. You’d lasted exactly twelve minutes before knocking over a stack of cursed folios and alerting Madam Pince.
Second year had been defined by an ill-advised attempt to brew Pepper-Up Potion in a bathroom sink, resulting in steam, screaming, and a week-long ban from practical spellwork. Jo still insisted it would have worked if you’d stirred clockwise instead of counterclockwise. You maintained that the problem was attempting potion-making in plumbing never designed for magic.
After those things, you'd like to say you saw the impending disaster coming from a mile away, but honestly? You were too preoccupied with figuring out how to convince Sophie Crockett to swap shifts without making her suspicious.
As it turned out, Sophie was pathetically easy to persuade. You caught her after Charms, mentioned something vague about "wanting to study for the Divination exam in the morning" (there was no Divination exam, but Sophie didn't take Divination, so she was none the wiser), and she agreed immediately, no questions asked. Just a breezy "Oh, thank Merlin, I've got an Astronomy essay I haven't even started" and that was that.
In hindsight, that should have been your first warning sign. When things fell into place too smoothly, it usually meant the universe was just winding up for a truly spectacular cosmic sucker punch.
At nine sharp on Saturday you pinned your prefect badge to your robes and made your way down to the Entrance Hall, silently cursing your inability to say no to Jo's puppy dog eyes.
The castle took on a different character at night. Not peaceful, exactly. More... haunting. The portraits whispered conspiratorially as you passed, and the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and deepen weirdly. You'd walked these corridors countless times before, but they never quite lost their eerie quality after dark.
You were supposed to meet Jaemin at the main staircase to divvy up patrol routes. But in theory, if the rumors about his extracurricular activities were true, you'd never actually know have to interact with him at all.
That was the theory, anyway.
The reality was that when you arrived at the designated meeting spot, Na Jaemin was already there, leaning against the banister and looking distinctly un-snog-ready.
Jaemin was the sort of boy who looked like he was born in moonlight and named by a poet. Even in the sallow torchlight, his hair glowed, silver-gold and a little too long for regulation. There was always something quietly triumphant in the angle of his jaw, the tilt of his smile, as if every corridor was a stage and every passing student a captive audience.
You stopped short, your feet suddenly rooted to the spot. Some ancient, reflexive part of your brain was screaming at you to turn around, to flee, to avoid him the way you’d been so carefully avoiding him for the past four years. The last time you’d been alone with Na Jaemin you’d been twelve years old and he’d been too entertained by your mortification to let you escape.
Now you were seventeen, and he was looking at you with an expression that was completely different and all too intense. He was supposed to be off in some secluded corner of the library, doing unspeakable things with whatever girl was lucky enough to be on his arm that week. He was absolutely not supposed to be here, looking alert and purposeful and like he was actually planning to do his job.
Even more concerning, he looked annoyed.
"You're the Gryffindor prefect," he said, and it sounded more like an accusation than a question.
"...Yes?" Really, what else could you say?
"Where's Crockett?"
"We swapped shifts."
His eyes, a rather striking shade of dark brown that you'd never had occasion to notice before, narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"
"Does it matter?"
He closed his eyes briefly, and you got the distinct impression he was counting to ten in his head. When he opened them again, he fixed you with a look that could have flash-frozen a cup of tea. "I needed Crockett on duty tonight."
Well. That was... odd. Extremely odd. Highly, suspiciously odd. Why would Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general too-cool-for-this-nonsense type, care which prefect was patrolling with him?
"Well," you said, channeling every ounce of polite defiance you possessed, "we've already swapped, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Unless you've got a Time-Turner hidden somewhere, which would be highly illegal, so I'm going to assume you don't."
Jaemin's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "This is—" He stopped himself, visibly recalibrating. "Fine. Right. You take floors three through five then. I'll handle the lower levels and the grounds."
And that's when your brain, which had been operating at half capacity due to stress and sleep deprivation, finally caught up with the situation.
The grounds.
Jaemin wanted to patrol the grounds.
The same grounds where, at this very moment, your best friend was likely rendezvousing with her mystery man.
Oh no.
"Actually," you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out in a slightly manic rush, "I was rather hoping to get some fresh air tonight. Bit stuffy in the castle, you know. Mind if we swap? You take the upper floors, I'll do the grounds."
His expression shuttered faster than a shop window in Knockturn Alley. "No."
"No?"
"No."
"Well, that's not very cooperative of you," you said, mentally calculating how quickly you could sprint to the grounds to warn Jo. "Aren't prefects supposed to work as a team?"
Jaemin raised one perfectly arched brow. "Why so keen on the grounds all of a sudden?"
"No reason." Your voice came out at least an octave higher than usual. "Just thought it would be nice to get some air. Lovely night for a stroll, don't you think?"
"You're an atrocious liar," he informed you, taking a step closer. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he was quite a bit taller than you, and that the height difference was doing absolutely nothing to bolster your confidence in this situation. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Of course not. And I suppose you just happened to swap shifts with Crockett tonight for no particular reason, and now you're coincidentally desperate to patrol the grounds."
Okay. This was getting out of control. You needed him. away from the grounds, away from Jo, away from this entire situation. And there was only one thing you could think of that might actually work.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”
“You know.” You waved a hand vaguely, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s Saturday night. I just thought you might have… plans.”
“Plans,” he repeated flatly.
“Yeah, well… You don’t actually patrol on Saturdays.” The words came out in a rush, ungraceful and desperate. “So if you want to go do whatever it is you usually do, I can handle this. Really. You don’t have to—”
“Whatever it is I usually do,” Jaemin said, his lips twitching. “And what exactly do you think that is?”
Oh god. Why had you started this?
“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of your schedule.”
“Clearly not, or you wouldn’t be standing here trying to… what? Give me permission to skive off?” He was definitely smiling now, the bastard. “How thoughtful of you.”
“I’m just saying, if you have other commitments—”
He laughed, short and sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it? Commitments?”
Your face was absolutely burning now. “Look, what you do with your time is none of my business.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Because I’m trying to be helpful!” You gestured wildly at the empty entrance hall. “The library’s right there. I’m sure whoever you’re supposed to meet would appreciate you actually showing up—”
“Ah.” Jaemin’s grin widened, showing teeth. “You think I’m supposed to meet someone in the library.”
“That’s what people say,” you muttered, unable to meet his eyes.
“People say a lot of things.” He leaned back against the banister, looking thoroughly entertained now. “And you believe all of them?”
“That’s not the point—”
“Tell me, what else does everyone say about me? I’m curious.”
This was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. “Forget I said anything.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so.” He pushed off the banister, taking a step closer. “You started it. Come on, don’t be shy now. What exactly are these Saturday night activities I’m supposedly abandoning patrol for?”
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “You already know what people say.”
“I do. But I want to hear you say it.” His eyes were dancing with so much glee. “Go on. Don’t spare my delicate sensibilities.”
“This is ridiculous—”
“Go on.”
You took a breath, lifted your chin, and forced the words out with as much dignity as you could muster. “Fine. People say you spend your patrol shifts in the library doing…things.”
“I really don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”
He was enjoying this far too much, the absolute prat. “They say you… meet girls there.”
“Meet girls,” he said thoughtfully. “Like a book club?”
“Not like a book club,” you gritted out.
“Then what?”
You threw your hands up. “They say you snog girls in the library instead of doing your prefect duties! There! Are you happy?”
Jaemin laughed. “Merlin’s beard, is that it?”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“And you believed it?” He shook his head, still grinning. “That’s adorable, really.”
“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.
“Well, you are when you’re trying to delicately inform me about my own scandalous reputation.” His eyes glittered with delight. “How very considerate, giving me an out like that. ‘Oh Jaemin, don’t let me keep you from your library assignations.’”
He said it in a high pitched tone, clearly trying for a very inaccurate impression of you.
“I was only trying to be nice.” You huffed.
“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he corrected, but he didn’t sound annoyed about it. If anything, he seemed more intrigued. “Which brings us back to the question of why you’re so desperate for me to not patrol the grounds tonight.”
Damn it. You’d played right into his hands. “I’m not—”
“You just tried to use my supposed promiscuity as an excuse to get me to leave.” He tilted his head, studying you. “So either you’re deeply concerned about my social life, or there’s something on the grounds you don’t want me to find.”
Your heart was hammering again. He’d out-maneuvered you completely, turning your own attempt at manipulation back on you.
“Well?” he prompted. “Which is it?”
“The first one,” you lied weakly. “I’m very concerned about your social life.”
“Right.” His smile was sharper now, more predatory. “In that case, you’ll be delighted to know I’m completely free tonight. I have no library dates or clandestine meetings. Just a nice, thorough patrol of the grounds.” He paused. “With you, apparently, since you seem so determined to tag along.”
You rolled your eyes. “You are so irritating.”
“There’s the Gryffindor honesty I remember,” he said cheerfully. “Come on then. Let’s go catch whoever it is you’re trying to protect.”
Wait. What?
“I’m not—there’s no one—”
But he was already turning toward the entrance hall, and panic clawed at your throat. You needed to try something else, anything to keep him from the grounds.
“Look,” you said, a note of genuine desperation creeping into your voice, “patrolling the grounds is easily twice the work of the upper floors. I’m offering to take on the extra effort here. What’s the problem?”
He paused, glancing back at you with an expression of exaggerated surprise. “You? Volunteering for extra work?” He pressed a hand to his chest in shock. “I’m sorry, have we met? I’m Na Jaemin, and you’re the girl who once hid in a broom cupboard for twenty minutes to avoid helping set up for the Yule Ball.”
“I did not—” You stopped, because you absolutely had done that, and he somehow knew about it. “That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it though?” He was grinning again, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, admit it. You’ve spent six years perfecting the art of doing the absolute bare minimum. I’ve seen you let third years wander the corridors after curfew as long as they promised to go straight to bed.”
Your face burned. “I was tired that night—”
“You’re always tired.” He tilted his head. “So forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about this sudden burst of civic responsibility. It’s very out of character for you.”
The sheer audacity. The unmitigated gall. To accuse you of apathy and then dismiss you without so much as a backward glance? An ember of indignation flared to life and burned away the last vestiges of your tattered patience. He had no right. No right to stand there and act like he understood anything about you when he was the reason you’d learned to make yourself invisible in the first place.
And now here he was, cataloging your flaws with that same amused smile, like you were still just entertainment to him.
“Fine,” you bit out. “Don’t take my offer. See if I care.”
“Oh, I won’t.” He turned back toward the entrance hall, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I’m patrolling the grounds. You can join me or check the upper floors. Your choice.”
“Why do you just get to decide that on your own? The grounds aren’t even part of the standard patrol route!”
"They are tonight," he tossed over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
And with that spectacularly unhelpful explanation, he walked out the front doors, leaving you standing slack-jawed and sputtering in his wake.
This was it. The moment of truth. You had approximately five seconds to make a decision that would either save your best friend from expulsion or doom her to a fate worse than death.
Option one: let Jaemin go off on his own. He'd catch Jo, she'd be expelled, and you'd spend the rest of your life weighed down by the guilt of your inaction.
Option two: follow him, try to run interference, and most likely fail spectacularly but hey, at least you could say you tried.
In the end, your choice was clear. The reckless, devil-may-care loyalty that had landed you in Gryffindor in the first place reared its noble head, and before you quite knew what you were doing, you were hurrying out the doors after Jaemin, resignation and foreboding dogging your every step.
"I'm coming!" you called after him.
Jaemin spun around, one eyebrow quirked in a way that suggested he'd interpreted your words in a decidedly less innocent manner.
"To the grounds," you clarified hastily, feeling your face heat up. "To patrol. With you."
“I gathered that much,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Though I appreciate the clarification. Wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”
You glared at him, but he’d already turned back around, that damned smirk still visible in profile.
Beyond the castle corridors, the night grounds felt twice as ominous. Shadows stretched from the Forbidden Forest, where twisted branches reached toward the sky like gnarled fingers against the dark. Nearby, the Black Lake remained a silent mirror, its surface only occasionally broken by ripples that hinted at the heavy, mysterious life lurking in the depths.
Jaemin had conjured a floating orb of soft white light to guide your path, which was considerate yet irritating, as it seemed to delight in hovering mere inches from your face and nearly blinding you. He walked with an easy grace, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like this was just a casual evening stroll and not a patently absurd situation that could land you both in a world of trouble.
You, on the other hand, were so tense you could practically feel your muscles vibrating. Your mind raced as you tried to remember what Jo had told you about her planned rendezvous.
They’d be in the grounds, obviously, but beyond that? Hogwarts' grounds spanned nearly a thousand acres and included everything from dense forest to rolling hills to a literal giant-squid-infested lake. If you were going to have any hope of intercepting Jo before Jaemin did, you needed a clearer idea of where exactly to look.
And you needed to keep him distracted.
“So,” Jaemin said, his voice cutting through your rising panic, “care to tell me what’s really going on here?”
“We’re patrolling,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed firmly ahead. “That’s what’s going on.”
“And I suppose you always volunteer for extra patrols on Saturday nights, do you? Just for the exercise?”
“Maybe I do. Fresh air is good for you.”
“Right.” He didn’t sound like he believed you for a second. “And here I thought you preferred to spend your evenings in the Restricted Section, avoiding human interaction as much as possible.”
You shot him a sideways glance. “Have you been spying on me?”
“It’s called being observant,” he said lightly. “You should try it sometime. Although I suppose that would require you to take an interest in something beyond your very busy schedule of going through the motions and avoiding anything that might resemble effort.”
There it was again, that annoying assessment of your character, delivered with a smile that made it impossible to tell if he was genuinely criticizing you or just winding you up for his own amusement.
Bristling, you planted your hands on your hips and glared up at him. "I put in effort when it matters."
"And I'm sure swapping shifts with Crockett was a matter of utmost importance, then?" His lips curved into a smirk that made you want to hex it right off his unfairly symmetrical face. "Go on. What’s so crucial about tonight? Did you lose a bet? Secret passion for night-time groundskeeping?”
“Why do you care so much?”
“Because you’re terrible at being subtle, and watching you try is genuinely entertaining.” He grinned at your affronted expression. “Plus, I’m curious. You’ve spent the better part of six years being aggressively unremarkable, and now here you are, practically begging to patrol the grounds with me. It’s very out of character.”
“Stop acting like you know everything about me.”
“I might not know everything about you,” he said, his voice taking on a knowing tone, “But I know you’re trying to protect someone.”
Your heart skipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. The floating light cast strange shadows across his features, making his expression harder to read. “Here’s what I think is happening. There’s someone out here meeting someone they shouldn’t be meeting. You agreed to swap with Crockett to cover for that person, expecting me to skip patrol like I apparently always do. But I didn’t, so now you’re stuck trying to run interference while pretending this is all perfectly normal.”
You stared at him, your mouth going dry. He’d worked it out. Of course he had. Because Na Jaemin might be annoying and smug and entirely too pleased with himself, but he’d never been stupid.
“That’s…” you started, but your voice came out weak. “That’s a very creative theory.”
“You’ve gone red again.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Dead giveaway.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but closed it again, floundering. There was absolutely no way to explain your actions without either incriminating Jo or making yourself look even more suspicious. You were well and truly cornered, and the triumphant gleam in Jaemin's eyes told you he knew it.
But before you could cobble together a halfway coherent response, a sound drifted through the night air that made you stop cold.
Laughter.
More specifically, Jo's laughter, bright and carefree and coming from somewhere worryingly close by.
Jaemin froze too, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" you asked, feigning ignorance even as your heart threatened to beat its way out of your ribcage. "I didn't hear anything. Probably just the wind. It howls around the turrets sometimes..."
"That wasn't the wind." He was already moving again, long legs eating up the ground as he strode purposefully toward the source of the sound. "That was a person, maybe two, from the sounds of it"
"What? No, that's—I really think it was just the wind. Or maybe Peeves playing a prank. You know what a menace he is, always causing trouble, we should probably go back inside and—"
But he wasn't listening. Because he was Na Jaemin, and he'd caught the scent of rule-breaking, and Merlin forbid he let it go in favor of the much more appealing option of minding his own damn business.
You had no choice. You were either going to have to physically stop him (a laughable notion - he had a good six inches and probably thirty pounds of muscle on you), or you were going to have to get to Jo first.
The words were out of your mouth before you could think better of them. "Wait!"
Miraculously, he actually stopped walking and turned to look at you, one eyebrow arched expectantly.
"I—" Your mind raced, grasping for any excuse, any diversion, anything to keep him from taking another step. "I think I saw something. Over there." You pointed vaguely off to your left, in the opposite direction of Jo's laughter. "We should go check it out."
Jaemin regarded you with exasperation. "You know, for someone who's spent the better part of six years avoiding attention, you're shockingly bad at subterfuge."
"I–I'm just being cautious. It's dark out here, and there could be...things. Dangerous things. Like snargaluffs, or...or a moke on the loose."
"A moke," he repeated flatly. "An invisible lizard the size of a mouse. You think I should be worried about a moke ambushing me.”
“They can be vicious!”
“They’re ten inches tall.”
“Size isn’t everything,” you shot back, then immediately regretted it as his grin widened into something positively wicked.
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he said smoothly, and you felt your face flame.
“That’s not—I didn’t mean—oh, for Merlin’s sake.” You covered your face with your hands, wondering if it was possible to die of embarrassment. “Can we please just check the trees?”
“Why?” He took a step closer, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “What are you so afraid I’m going to find if we keep going this way?”
You hesitated, weighing your options. On the one hand, the truth was unthinkable. You couldn't just throw Jo to the wolves like that, not after you'd promised to cover for her. On the other hand, you were rapidly running out of plausible lies, and Jaemin clearly wasn't buying any of them.
“Nothing,” you said, but it came out weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.
“Nothing,” he echoed. “Right. So you won’t mind if I just—”
He made to move past you, toward where Jo’s laughter had come from, and you did the only thing you could think of.
You grabbed his arm.
The moment your fingers closed around his sleeve, you realized what a monumentally stupid mistake you’d made. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric and the solid muscle beneath. He stilled instantly, his gaze dropping to where your hand clutched at him, then slowly lifting to meet your eyes.
“Please,” you said quietly, all pretense abandoned. “Don’t go over there. Just—just forget you heard anything, and I’ll explain later. I promise.”
He studied you for a long moment. You were acutely aware of how close you were standing, of the way his eyes seemed to catch every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.
"So you are covering for someone," he said at last. "A friend, I'm guessing. The one you're always with? The loud one, with the"—he gestured vaguely—"the hair?"
"Her hair is perfectly normal, thank you very much, and I don't see how that's any of your business."
"It absolutely is my business, seeing as there are students out of bed and I'm a prefect. I'm supposed to report this sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, well, I'm also a prefect, and I'm asking you not to." Desperation bled into your voice, and you hated it, hated that you were practically begging him for something that you had no right to ask for. “Please, Jaemin. Can't you just...look the other way? Just this once?"
He was silent for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable. For the sneer, the cutting remark, the gleeful reminder that he was a Slytherin and Slytherins didn't do favors without expecting something in return.
But when he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "You really care about her, don't you? Your friend."
You swallowed hard, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. "She's my best friend. I'd do anything for her."
"Even lie to a fellow prefect and risk getting in trouble yourself."
"Yes." You met his gaze squarely, unflinching. "Even that."
Another long silence, and then he sighed. "All right, fine."
You blinked. "Fine?"
"Fine, I won't report her. But"—he held up a hand as you opened your mouth to thank him—"I want something in return."
There it was. You should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Slytherins always had an angle, and Jaemin was Slytherin to the core.
Wariness crept into your voice as you asked, "What sort of something?"
His lips curved into a smile that could only be described as predatory. "A favor. One favor, to be determined by me, at a time of my choosing. Do this, and I'll conveniently forget I heard anything tonight."
Your stomach dropped. A favor. An open-ended, unspecified, could-be-anything favor, owed to Na Jaemin. Well. This was how you died, not in a blaze of glory like a true Gryffindor, but in the thrall of a serpent's forked tongue and devastating jawline.
But what choice did you have? If you refused, Jo would be caught for sure. And then she'd be expelled, and it would be all your fault, and you'd have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life. A life which, frankly, was looking shorter and shorter with each passing minute as Jaemin stared you down, waiting for your answer.
"Fine," you said through gritted teeth. "One favor. But nothing illegal or dangerous or humiliating."
His smile widened, showing far too many teeth for your comfort. "Look at that. You’re negotiating. Will wonders never cease?"
"Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."
"Oh, I'll take them." He held out a hand, long fingers uncurling in an inviting gesture. "Shall we shake on it?"
You glared at his hand like it might bite you (and really, with Jaemin, who knew?) but reluctantly reached out and grasped it. His skin was warm, his grip firm, and you tried very hard not to think about how nice his hand felt in yours.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured, and was it your imagination or did his thumb just stroke across your knuckles?
You snatched your hand back like you'd been burned, face flushing. "Yes, well. You'd better hold up your end of the bargain."
"I'm a man of my word." He sketched a mocking little bow. "Your friend's secret is safe with me for now."
The words 'for now' hung there as a silent threat, and you suppressed a shiver. What had you just agreed to? What price would you have to pay for your loyalty?
As if reading your thoughts, Jaemin's smile turned sly. "Don't look so worried. I promise I won't ask for anything too dreadful. Probably."
"Probably," you repeated faintly.
"Probably," he confirmed, and then he turned on his heel and started back toward the castle, leaving you to trail after him in a daze.
The rest of the patrol passed in a blur. You walked in silence, Jaemin seemingly content to let you stew in your own anxiety, and by the time you returned to the Entrance Hall, you were a nervous wreck. You kept imagining all the horrible things he might ask for—doing his homework for the rest of the term, being his personal servant, confessing to McGonagall that you were the one who'd let those nifflers loose in the staff room last year (even though that had been entirely Jo's doing and you'd just been an unwilling accomplice).
At the foot of the stairs, Jaemin paused and turned to face you. In the dim light of the entrance hall, his eyes were pools of shadow, unreadable and fathomless.
"I'll be in touch," he said, his voice low and full of dark promise. "Sweet dreams."
And then he was gone, melting into the shadows like he'd been born from them, leaving you with a racing heart and the sinking certainty that your life was about to become a lot more complicated.
The next morning, you cornered Jo in the common room before breakfast, pulling her into the corner by the window where no one could overhear.
“Tell me everything went okay last night,” you demanded without preamble. “Please tell me you didn’t do something insane—”
“Whoa, whoa!” Jo held up her hands, her eyes wide. “I’m fine! Everything went perfectly. Well, mostly perfectly. There was a weird moment where I thought I heard someone coming, but then nothing happened, so…” She trailed off, then grabbed your shoulders. “Wait. What happened to you? You look like you haven’t slept.”
“That’s because I haven’t.” You started pacing anxiously. “Jo. I think I might have done something really, really stupid.”
Her expression changed from concern to dread in the span of a second. “What kind of stupid?”
“The kind that involves Na Jaemin and a debt to repay.”
“Oh no.” Jo’s face went pale. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” You tugged at your hair, feeling the full weight of last night’s decision crushing down on you. “He wanted to patrol the grounds, Jo. He would have found you. I couldn’t let that happen, so I… I made a deal with him.”
Jo stared at you like you'd just confessed to murdering the Minister of Magic. "You made a deal with Na Jaemin. The boy who once convinced half the school that Professor Flitwick was secretly a goblin in disguise."
"To be fair, he has a dash of goblin blood..."
"Not the point!" She grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to stop pacing. "What kind of deal are we talking about here? What did you promise him?"
You took a deep breath. "A favor."
"A favor," she repeated slowly. "What kind of favor?"
“The unspecified kind. The ‘to be determined at a later date’ kind. The ‘I now owe Na Jaemin a debt that he can collect on whenever he wants’ kind.”
She looked about two seconds away from fainting. “You didn’t.”
“I panicked!” you wailed, not caring that you were probably drawing attention from the other early risers scattered around the common room. “It was either agree to the favor or let him catch you with Mr. Mysterious! What was I supposed to do?”
“Not sell your soul to a Slytherin, for starters!” She released you and began pacing, chewing on her thumbnail in that way she only did when she was truly stressed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad. Na Jaemin with a favor from you? He could ask for anything. Anything.”
“You think I don’t know that?” You dropped your head into your hands. “I’ve been up all night imagining the horrible things he might ask for. What if he wants me to do something illegal? What if he wants me to sabotage someone? What if he wants me to—” You shuddered. “—publicly humiliate myself somehow?”
Jo stopped pacing, her expression shifting from panic to determination. “Okay. Okay, we’re not going to catastrophize. Yes, this is bad. Yes, owing Jaemin a favor is potentially disastrous. But it’s not the end of the world.”
“Isn’t it though?”
“No.” She sat down beside you, taking your hand. “Listen to me. You did this to protect me. You put yourself on the line because you’re a good friend, the best friend, and I’m not going to let you face this alone. Whatever Jaemin asks for, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”
You wanted to take comfort in her words, in the fierce loyalty shining in her eyes. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just made a deal with the devil, and the bill would come due sooner rather than later.
“Okay,” you said quietly, squeezing her hand. “Together.”
“Together,” she confirmed. Then her expression turned mischievous. “Besides, who knows? Maybe he’ll ask for something simple. Like help with his Potions essay or something.”
You snorted despite yourself. “Jaemin doesn’t need help with Potions. He’s annoyingly good at everything.”
“Well then maybe he’ll ask you to—I don’t know—organize his sock drawer? Polish his prefect badge?”
“Jo.”
“I’m just saying, it might not be as bad as you think!”
But even as you tried to let her optimism buoy you, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had just changed irrevocably. That in agreeing to owe Jaemin a favor, you'd set into motion a chain of events that you couldn't possibly predict or control.
Whatever he wanted from you, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be something as simple as organizing his socks.
A haze of anxiety and paranoia defined the following week, one that had you reaching a level of vigilance that would have impressed even Mad-Eye Moody.
You jumped at every sudden noise, flinched every time a Slytherin so much as glanced in your direction, and spent an inordinate amount of time scanning the Great Hall for any sign of Jaemin’s blonde head bent in whispered conversation with his housemates, plotting your doom.
To avoid him, you mapped out convoluted routes to class, opting for deserted corridors even when they made you late. Mealtimes were rescheduled to avoid the rush—breakfast at dawn, lunch in the late afternoon, and dinner only when the Hall had emptied to a few stragglers. In Potions, which was the one class you shared with him, you positioned yourself as far from his usual spot as physically possible, practically pressed against the dungeon wall, and refused to so much as breathe in his direction.
Not that it mattered… Because he didn’t approach you at all.
He just watched you.
From across the courtyard, his gaze would find you through a flurry of Slytherin green. Other times, your eyes would drift upward in Potions only to find him already staring, head propped lazily in his palm. He looked for all the world as if you were far more entertaining than any lecture Professor Slughorn could provide.
You started second-guessing everything. The way you sat, the way you spoke, the way you tugged at your sleeve or tucked your hair behind your ear when nervous. You found yourself becoming a caricature of yourself: rigid, overly cautious, desperate to give nothing away.
By the end of the week, you were a nervous wreck. You’d bitten your nails down to the quick. Developed a stress-induced rash on your neck that no amount of Essence of Dittany could soothe. And even started having vivid nightmares about Jaemin cornering you in increasingly absurd locations like the Prefects’ bathroom, or memorably in the middle of a Quidditch match where he’d swooped down on a broom to demand you juggle puffapods while the entire school watched.
“You need to sleep,” Jo said on Friday night, eyeing the bags under your eyes with concern. “This is getting ridiculous. You look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus Charm.”
“I can’t sleep,” you muttered, your third cup of coffee cooling forgotten beside your Transfiguration essay. “Every time I close my eyes, I just see his face. That stupid, smug, infuriatingly perfect face.”
Jo’s eyebrows shot up. “Perfect?”
“Putrid,” you corrected hastily, feeling your face heat. “I meant putrid. The point is, I can’t relax knowing that at any moment, he could just… appear and demand whatever horrific thing he’s been planning.”
“Maybe he’s forgotten about it,” Jo suggested, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Maybe he was just messing with you, and he never actually intended to collect.”
You wanted to believe that. You really did. But you’d seen the satisfied glint in Jaemin’s eyes when you’d shaken hands.
No. He hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The weekend dragged on with NEWTs studying, failed naps and increasingly creative avoidance techniques. By Sunday morning, you were so on edge that when an owl swooped down at breakfast and dropped a letter directly onto your plate, you actually screamed.
Half the Gryffindor table turned to stare.
“It’s just the post,” Jo said soothingly, though she was eyeing the letter with nearly as much suspicion as you were. “Probably from your mother.”
Your hands shook as you picked up the envelope. The handwriting was your mother’s, thank Merlin, and you sagged with relief as you broke the seal.
“See?” Jo said. “You’re being paranoid.”
“Can you blame me?” you muttered, scanning your mother’s cheerful recounting of your aunt’s latest garden gnome infestation. “It’s been a week, Jo. A whole week of nothing. It’s unnatural.”
“Psychological warfare, that’s what this is. Classic Slytherin mind games. He’s letting you stew, letting the anticipation build, until you’re so wound up that you’ll agree to anything just to put yourself out of your misery.”
“Thank you, Jo,” you said through gritted teeth, stabbing your sausage with enough force to make your fork screech against the plate. “That’s incredibly comforting.”
“I’m just saying, it’s textbook manipulation.” She reached for the marmalade, unbothered by your glare. “My cousin Fergus dated a girl from that house once, and she used to—”
But you never found out what Jo's cousin's Slytherin ex-girlfriend did, because at that moment, a hush fell over the Great Hall. You looked up, already knowing what you'd see, and felt your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Jaemin was walking toward the Gryffindor table with purpose and intent, his long strides eating up the distance between the Slytherin table and yours. His eyes were fixed on you with such singular focus that you couldn’t have looked away if you tried.
There was a small satisfied smile playing on his lips.
He was enjoying this, the utter bastard. Enjoying the way every eye in the hall was now fixed on you, the way whispers erupted in his wake like the hissing of a hundred snakes.
He came to a stop directly across from you, and you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. They were dancing with amusement, and you had the sudden, wild urge to tip your pumpkin juice into his lap.
"Good morning," he said, for all the world as if this were a perfectly normal interaction and not a blatant violation of the unwritten rules that governed breakfast seating arrangements. "Sleep well?"
You gaped at him, too stunned to formulate a response. Beside you, Jo made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort hastily disguised as a cough.
Jaemin’s smile widened, showing a flash of teeth. “I’ll take that as a no.” His gaze swept over you, taking in the bags under your eyes, the coffee stains on your robes, the general air of sleep-deprived panic you’d been cultivating all week. “Have you been avoiding me?”
The question was delivered lightly, almost teasingly, but there was an undercurrent to it. A knowing edge that said he was perfectly aware of every corridor you’d ducked down, every meal you’d skipped, every desperate attempt you’d made to stay out of his path.
“Avoiding you?” you repeated with a nervous laugh. “Of course not. I’ve been—I’ve been busy. Studying and stuff.”
“Mm.” He didn’t sound remotely convinced. “Well, you’re not busy now, are you? I need to talk to you.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep meaningfully across the rapt faces surrounding you. “Privately.”
Oh no. Oh no no no.
"Huh?" you said eloquently.
"Talk. Privately," he repeated, enunciating each syllable as if you were a particularly slow-witted troll.
“I’m eating breakfast,” you said weakly, gesturing at your plate where your eggs had gone cold and congealed.
“You can eat later.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “Come on. This won’t take long.”
Every fiber of your being wanted to plant yourself in your seat and force him to either leave or make a scene. But you could feel the weight of the entire school’s attention pressing down on you.
You glanced around, taking in the avid stares, the blatant eavesdropping, the gleeful anticipation on every face. Even the staff table looked uncommonly interested, with Professor McGonagall peering at you over her spectacles and Flitwick not even pretending not to listen in.
"Fine," you bit out, shoving back from the table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. "Lead the way."
Jaemin inclined his head, that infuriating smile still playing about his lips, and turned to walk out of the hall. You followed, determinedly ignoring the explosion of chatter that erupted in your wake.
He led you out of the castle, across the dew-damp lawn, all the way to the edge of the lake where a lone beech tree stretched its branches over the water. It was, you noted sourly, an incredibly picturesque spot for a clandestine meeting. Almost as if he'd planned it that way.
"All right," you said, crossing your arms and fixing him with your best glare. "What do you want?"
He leaned against the tree trunk, the picture of nonchalance, and regarded you with a calculating expression. "I think you know."
"The favor," you said flatly.
"The favor," he agreed. "Time to pay up, I'm afraid."
Your heart began to race at this, palms turning clammy as every horrible scenario you'd imagined over the past week came rushing back.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Fine. What is it? What do you want me to do?"
Jaemin pushed off the tree and took a few steps toward you until he was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
He looked down at you, his expression turning serious, almost solemn. "I need you," he said softly, "to be my girlfriend."
What the fuck.
You stared at him dumbly. Surely he'd said something else—"be my guard friend" or literally anything that made more sense than what you thought you'd heard. But after several seconds of awkward silence he simply stood there, staring back.
"I'm sorry," you said at last. "I must have misheard you. It sounded like you just said—"
"Be my girlfriend," he repeated, enunciating each word carefully. "That's the favor I'm asking."
You searched his face for any sign that this was a prank, or at the very least a bizarre figment of your overtired and overstressed imagination.
But he looked deadly serious, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was bracing himself for your reaction.
"Right," you said slowly. "Okay. So you've clearly been hit with a Bludger recently. Or maybe you inhaled some dodgy spores from the Forest?" You peered at him more closely, genuinely concerned now. "I think you might be having some sort of mental episode—"
"I'm not having a mental episode."
You started backing away slowly, hands raised placatingly. “Just stay there, I'm going to go get help. Maybe Madam Pomfrey has an antidote for whatever's happened to your brain—"
"My brain is fine," Jaemin said, and he actually had the audacity to look amused. "I'm completely serious."
"That's even more concerning!" You threw your hands up. "Jaemin, you can't just—I mean, we barely even—we're not even friends! You spent two years torturing me and then four years pretending I didn't exist! And now you want me to be your girlfriend?"
"Fake girlfriend," he corrected.
"Oh, well, that changes everything," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fake girlfriend. Of course. How silly of me. That makes perfect sense."
"It does, actually, if you'd let me explain—"
"No. Absolutely not. This is—this is insane. You've lost your mind. Gone completely round the bend." You started pacing frantically. "You could have literally any girl in this school. Any girl! I’m sure there’s probably a waiting list even. And you want me to pretend to date you?"
"Yes."
"Why?!"
"Because you're perfect for this," he said with a shrug.
You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "I'm what now?"
"Perfect," he repeated, and there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice now. "Think about it. You're a half-blood—"
"Oh don’t start with that blood purity crap—"
"No, I mean that it works perfectly because you're not involved in pureblood politics. You're not part of my usual social circle. You have no reason to want anything from me or my family beyond this one favor." He was ticking points off on his fingers now. "If we start dating, it'll be believable precisely because it's so unexpected."
"You think people will just believe that we're dating. You and me."
"Why not?"
"Because—" You gestured wildly between the two of you. "—because look at us! You're you, and I'm—I'm me! I spend my free time reading in corners and avoiding human interaction! You spend yours being disgustingly popular and having your pick of the female population! We have nothing in common! We don't even like each other!"
"All excellent points for why no one will suspect it's fake," he said smoothly. "If I were trying to stage a relationship, I’d pick someone more obvious. Someone from my house, someone I'm already friendly with. The fact that it's you makes it more authentic."
You stared at him, your brain struggling to process this absolute madness. "Have you been Imperisued or something? Seriously, I'm genuinely worried about you right now."
"I appreciate your concern," he said dryly. "But I assure you, I'm thinking perfectly clearly."
"Then explain it to me," you demanded, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Because from where I'm standing, this makes about as much sense as trying to teach a troll how to read. Why on earth would you need a fake girlfriend? You're Na Jaemin! Half the school is in love with you! If you wanted a real girlfriend, you could probably just point at someone and they'd swoon into your arms!"
"That's actually part of the problem," he muttered, and was that... was that a hint of frustration in his voice?
You blinked. "What?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "There's a girl. Yuna. Her family and mine... they move in the same circles. Have for generations. Old pureblood families, lots of money, all that tedious rubbish."
"Okay...?"
"And lately, she's gotten it into her head that we're meant to be together. That it's our destiny to unite our families, carry on the pureblood tradition, produce the next generation of perfectly bred wizarding heirs." His voice was slightly tinged with disgust. "She won't take no for an answer."
Despite yourself, despite the absolute insanity of this entire situation, you felt a bit of sympathy. "And you don't want that."
"I'd rather wrestle a Hungarian Horntail," he said flatly. "But she's not listening. Every time I tell her I'm not interested, she just smiles and says I'm playing hard to get. That I'll come around eventually."
"That's..." You searched for the appropriate words. "That's actually kind of disturbing."
"It's extremely disturbing," he agreed. "And I can't just tell her to fuck off, because our families... it's complicated. There's business deals, social connections, generations of intertwined pureblood nonsense. If I publicly reject her, it could cause all sorts of problems."
"So you need a girlfriend," you said slowly, finally starting to understand. "A visible reason why you can't be with her."
"Exactly." He gave you a hopeful look. "Someone who won't get caught up in the drama and then can walk away clean when it's over. Someone like you."
You covered your face with your hands and sighed. "This is still insane."
"Is it though?"
"Yes! Completely, utterly, absolutely insane!" You started pacing again. "Jaemin, in case it's escaped your notice, we can barely stand each other! We've barely had a conversation longer than five minutes that didn't involve you annoying me or me wanting to hex you! How exactly do you propose we convince anyone we're madly in love?"
"We don't have to be madly in love," he said. "Just... dating. You know, just act like a regular couple, sit together at meals, go to Hogsmeade on weekends. People see us together, word gets back to Yuna, she backs off. Simple."
"Simple?” you repeated incredulously. "You think any part of this is simple?"
"More simple than the alternative." His expression turned serious. "Look, I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice. But I'm running out of options here, and you're—" He paused. "You're the only person I can trust with this."
That brought you up short. “You barely know me."
"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you're loyal. I know you'd do anything for your friends, you proved that when you made our deal. I know you're not interested in status or popularity or any of the things most people want from me. And I know that when this is over, you'll keep your word and walk away."
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. This wasn't the smug, teasing Jaemin from the patrol or the cold, dismissive one from your earlier years. This was someone... genuine. Vulnerable, even.
"I think I need to sit down," you said faintly.
There was a convenient rock nearby and you sank down onto it, your head spinning.
"So just let me make sure I got it right," you said, staring out at the lake. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend. To protect you from an obsessive pureblood heiress who won't take no for an answer and so you won’t get trapped into a marriage of convenience.”
"That's the gist of it, yes."
"For how long?"
"A month? Maybe two at most."
"Two months?!" You whipped around to stare at him. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend for two months? Are you completely off your rocker?!"
“Come on, two months isn’t even that long—"
"Two months is eight weeks! Sixty days! Over a thousand hours of my life spent pretending to be in love with you!" You were nearly hyperventilating now. You shot to your feet, pacing again.
“Again, no need to be madly in love—"
"And have you thought about the logistics of this?" You spun to face him. "Every girl in this castle is going to hate me! They already probably think we're shagging or something after your little breakfast stunt, and that was two minutes! Imagine two months of that! I'll need to go into witness protection!"
“I think that’s a bit of an overreaction.”
"Jaemin, people will actually want to murder me. There will be attempts on my life. I'll have to taste-test all my food for poison. Sleep with one eye open. Practice a good shield charm—"
"Nobody's going to try to murder you."
"You don’t know that!"
“And we wouldn't even be together the entire time," he continued as if you hadn't spoken. "Just... in public. Where people can see us. The rest of the time you can go back to pretending I don't exist."
You let out a laugh that bordered on hysteria. "Oh, well, that makes it so much better. Thank you for that generous concession."
"Are you finished panicking?" he asked mildly.
You glared at him. "No. No, I'm not finished. I'm just getting started. Do you have any idea how exhausting this sounds? How mortifying? I've spent six years perfecting the art of being invisible, and now you want me to voluntarily become the center of attention? The subject of gossip and speculation? Do you know what that will do to me?"
“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”
He seemed too casual about all this. It made you wonder if he did this sort of thing often. Not that it would be surprising, purebloods had weird customs that you could never begin to understand.
"Okay," you said slowly after a few seconds of gathering what little patience you had. "Okay. Let's say—and I'm not agreeing to anything—but let's say I did this. Don't you think people would find it a bit suspicious? Us dating out of nowhere? We've barely spoken in years. We're not friends or even friendly. People aren't stupid, Jaemin."
"We'll say we've been keeping it quiet," he said, like he'd already thought this through. "We didn’t want the attention, wanted to make sure it was real before we went public. No one will question it if we sell it right."
"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" You fixed him with a glare.
“Easy. We make it look like we can't keep our hands off each other. You know, hold hands, and that sort of thing. Make it look convincing."
“You want me to hold your hand?”
"Among other things."
"What does that even mean…?”
"Well, we'd have to play it convincingly," he said reasonably. "Couples don't just hold hands. They sit close. They touch. They..." He paused, his eyes glinting with amusement. "They kiss occasionally."
"KISS?!" The word came out as a strangled shriek. "You want me to kiss you?!"
"I mean, not right now necessarily—"
“Oh, you’re barking mad if you think I will kiss you!”
"Come on, y/n. It's just a bit of acting. Surely a clever girl like you can manage that?" His voice dropped, turning silky and persuasive.
You bristled slightly at the blatant flattery even as some traitorous part of you warmed at the compliment. "And what's in it for me? Besides the joy of being glared at by every girl in this castle and kissing your dumb face?"
"The fact that I won’t tell McGonagall about your little friend’s nocturnal escapade isn’t enough for you?” he reminded you.
You froze, shoulders tensing. "You're really going to hold me to that? For something this insane?"
"A deal's a deal. I helped you and nowI need your help."
"I don't know," you said slowly. "This is...it's a lot to ask."
"I know." He took another step closer, his eyes intent on yours. "But I'm asking anyway. I need your help, y/n. Please."
You had agreed to this. You had shaken his hand, accepted his help, promised him a favor. And now he was calling it in.
"This is blackmail," you said weakly.
"It's really not."
You stared at him, at his stupidly handsome face and his infuriating certainty, and felt the trap closing around you. You still could refuse, tell him to shove his favor and walk away. But then he could—would—tell McGonagall about Jo. And Jo would be expelled. And it would be all your fault.
"Fuck," you groaned.
"Is that a yes then? he said.
You truly hated everything about this.
Still, you heard yourself say, "Two months. That's it. And we need to set ground rules, boundaries. I'm not going to do anything that makes me uncomfortable."
Relief flashed across his face, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. "Okay, that’s fair."
"And when it's over, we go back to normal. No hard feelings. We just... end it and move on."
"Agreed." He held out a hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "So. Do we have a deal?"
You hesitated for a long moment, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he must be able to hear it. This was, without question, the most insane thing you had ever considered doing. It was reckless and impulsive and had the potential to blow up in your face in a truly spectacular fashion.
But looking up into Jaemin's eyes, seeing something that might have been hope or desperation or both, you found yourself reaching out and taking his hand anyway.
"Deal," you said, and sealed your fate for the second time in a week.
"Excellent." His smile was pure satisfaction. "I'll pick you up for breakfast tomorrow. Try to look a little pleased to see me and not like you want to murder me."
"I make no promises," you muttered.
As you walked back toward the castle, your mind whirling with the absolute insanity of what you'd just agreed to, one thought kept circling back:
Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general menace to your sanity, wanted you to be his fake girlfriend.
Jo was never going to believe this.
A waking nightmare—that was the only way to describe the days following the grand revelation of your supposed relationship.
It felt as though Hogwarts had contracted a plague, a virulent strain of "Y/N-and-Jaemin" fever that consumed everyone from the dungeons to the astronomy tower. No one could quite wrap their heads around the unlikely pairing of a Gryffindor nobody and the Slytherin prince, and that confusion turned into a collective obsession.
Everywhere you went, eyes followed. First-years openly gawked as you passed. Third-years whispered behind their hands, their eyes following your every move with ravenous curiosity. Even the portraits seemed more interested in your comings and goings, their painted heads swiveling to track your progress through the corridors.
Horrible as the attention was, the rumors were worse. Wild, baseless theories seemed to spawn from thin air, multiplying with the rapid, disgusting speed of Horklumps in a garden.
“They've been secretly dating since third year,” one voice hissed in the corridor, “before he was even popular, I heard.”
The theories only grew more ridiculous from there. According to a Ravenclaw, you had saved his life during a Quidditch match—or perhaps from a rogue curse. One Hufflepuff swore on her life she’d seen the two of you kissing in the Astronomy Tower a year ago. Most sinister of all were the whispers of blackmail or pranks, culminating in the one theory that nearly made you choke on your pumpkin juice: “Oh Merlin, do you think she’s pregnant?”
The attention was suffocating, oppressive, like being trapped in a greenhouse in the middle of summer with no windows and too many people pressing their faces against the glass. You couldn't breathe without someone noting it, vouldn't eat without a dozen pairs of eyes watching every bite, and couldn't so much as sneeze without someone speculating about whether Jaemin would find it endearing.
And as if the whole thing wasn’t a nightmare already, there was Jaemin himself. Whatever level of insufferable he had occupied before was nothing compared to this new persona: the devoted boyfriend that was attentive, affectionate, and clearly determined to make the charade as mortifying as humanly possible.
He'd materialize at your elbow between classes, his arrival heralded by the subtle scent of broom polish that never quite left his robes and that you were beginning to recognize with Pavlovian dread. He'd fall into step beside you with that athletic grace of his, his hand finding the small of your back with proprietary confidence.
“There you are,” he’d say, his voice carrying an affected breathlessness as if he’d been searching the entire castle rather than simply memorizing your schedule. “I was looking for you.”
“Were you,” came your flat reply, as you struggled to ignore the sudden weight of a hundred curious stares pinning you to the spot.
“Mm.” Without an ounce of hesitation, his hand would slide around your waist, hauling you firmly against his side. “Missed you in Charms. You disappeared before I could catch you.”
“I was in a rush,” you’d mutter, omitting the fact that the rush was specifically to escape him.
“I know.” His smile would be warm and intimate, a masterpiece of conviction. “Let’s walk together next time. I can’t stand being away from my princess for too long.”
A collective swoon would ripple through the nearby students at the display.
Mealtimes offered no reprieve. He'd bypass his usual spot at the Slytherin table entirely, crossing the Great Hall with long strides to slide onto the bench beside you at Gryffindor. The first time he'd done it, the entire Hall had gone silent, hundreds of heads swiveling to watch as Na Jaemin—too cool for cross-house fraternization—planted himself among the lions.
“Morning, princess,” he’d announce, his voice projecting just far enough for half the table to catch. A casual kiss to your temple followed, delivered with such affection that you nearly lost your balance on the bench.
A sharp kick from Jo connected with your shin under the table. Smile, her wide-eyed expression screamed. You’re supposed to be in love with him, remember?
Obediently, you’d attempt a smile. Though it likely looked more like a pained grimace, Jaemin seemed satisfied enough. His arm draped across your shoulders as he reached for the orange juice, acting as if this were the most natural routine in the world.
Every meal followed the same suffocating pattern. He was always there, a solid line of warmth pressed against your side. Beneath the table, his thigh would brush against yours, making you hyperaware of his every shift. Often, his hand would rest on your knee, his thumb tracing absent patterns that felt far too intimate for public consumtion. Occasionally he’d lean in, murmuring something pointless like “Pass the salt” or “Your hair looks nice today” into your ear—but to the rest of the room, it looked like he was whispering sweet nothings.
The Great Hall devoured every crumb of the spectacle.
But while the general student body watched with wide-eyed fascination, you were forced to contend with a far more dangerous audience: the inner circle.
Jaemin’s friends were not merely students; they were the closest thing Hogwarts had to a royal court. To exist within the castle walls was to know them by reputation—a collection of wealthy, beautiful purebloods who navigated the drafty corridors with the effortless entitlement of aristocrats. Yet, observing them from the safety of the Gryffindor table was entirely different from being the direct target of their scrutiny.
Giselle led the first offensive.
She didn't walk so much as glide, approaching the Gryffindor table like an elegant snake. Everything about her was designed to intimidate, from the lethal sharpness of her cheekbones to the glossy waves of hair that fell perfectly down her back. Even her uniform defied the rules; her tie was knotted into an oversized, rebellious bow that no prefect would ever have the courage to cite as a dress-code violation.
“Jaemin,” she purred, ignoring your existence entirely as she draped herself against the table. “We’ve missed you at breakfast. The Slytherin table is positively bereft without your presence.”
“I’m sure you’re all managing,” Jaemin replied, his tone conversational and mild. He didn't move his arm from its proprietary position across your shoulders.
“Barely.” Only then did her eyes slide toward you in a slow, assessing sweep that made you feel like a piece of furniture being appraised for auction. “And this must be the famous girlfriend. Y/N, was it?”
“Yes,” you managed, forced to swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat to keep your voice from cracking.
“Mm.” Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “How… unexpected. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken before, have we? What house are you in again?”
The question was a blatant insult, considering you were currently sitting at the Gryffindor table draped in scarlet and gold.
“Gryffindor,” you ground out through gritted teeth.
“Oh, right. Of course.” She paused to examine her dark green nails. “I always have trouble keeping track of the… quieter students. You must be one of those studious types. The ones who hide in the library all day.”
Boring. Forgettable. Beneath notice. The implication was clear. Beside you, Jo’s hand whitened as her grip tightened around her fork.
“I suppose so,” you said, choosing caution over a confrontation you weren't prepared to win.
“Cute.” Giselle’s smile widened, though it never reached her eyes. “Jaemin’s never been much for books, have you, Jaem? More of a... social creature. Though I’m sure you two have found something in common to keep things interesting.”
Beside you, Jaemin remained a statue of calm, taking a slow sip of his tea as if he were watching a particularly dull play rather than a verbal execution.
The pressure didn't let up as the days went on. A few days later, Changmin intercepted the two of you in the crowded corridor between Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Towering and broad-shouldered, he possessed the rugged, athletic build of a seasoned Beater. He didn't need words to dominate the space; his presence alone caused younger students to scatter like leaves. When he looked at you, his smile was so predatory and sharp it made you think of a wolf finally closing in on a scent it had been tracking for miles.
"So this is her," Changmin said, his eyes traveling over you with clinical detachment. "Have to say, mate, when you said you were seeing someone, I pictured… I don't know. Someone different."
Jaemin’s voice remained light, though his eyes turned piercing. "What do you mean?"
"Just… different." A shrug followed, along with a dismissive flick of his gaze. "No offense, of course."
"Of course," you echoed through a tight jaw.
"It’s just surprising, is all." Changmin gestured vaguely with one hand. "You’ve always gone for a certain type, and she’s… well, not that."
Not pretty enough, you knew he meant.
Jaemin’s arm hooked around you, pulling you into his side. "She’s exactly my type," he countered. "Perfect, actually."
His words were meant to be reassuring but they'd just made you feel more like a prop in whatever game he was playing.
A shift in strategy occurred by the following week. The subtle snubs evolved into a coordinated siege as Changmin and Giselle began appearing together, a united front of immaculate hair, expensive robes, and thinly veiled hostility.
They seemed to materialize in every common space you frequented, armed with false smiles and poisonous pleasantries. Every interaction was a minefield; every question was a calculated probe designed to expose the fraying seams in your story.
Their interrogation didn't stop at the legitimacy of your relationship. They began taking aim at the very fabric of your life... Quite literally.
"Those robes," Giselle remarked during a chance encounter in the corridor, her eyes sweeping over your silhouette with a look of practiced pity. "Are they... vintage? They have that distinctive, worn quality. That 'hand-me-down' aesthetic."
The fabric felt suddenly heavy and scratchy against your skin. They had been your mother's, mended with care and kept clean through sheer effort, but they lacked the shimmer of new silk. Heat flooded your face, a hot prickle of shame you hated yourself for feeling.
"They're fine," you muttered, clutching your books tighter to your chest.
"Oh, I'm sure they're perfectly serviceable," she added, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Not everyone has the luxury of replacing their wardrobe every season, after all."
Changmin leaned across the table, his expression open and conversational, though his eyes remained predatory.
"So, what does your father do for work?" he asked, swirling the pumpkin juice in his goblet as if it were a fine vintage. "My father sits on the Wizengamot, of course. And Giselle’s family runs one of the largest potions corporations in Europe. It's always so interesting to hear what other families do."
"He works for the Ministry," you said shortly, keeping your eyes fixed on your plate.
"Oh? How prestigious. Which department? International Magical Cooperation? The Auror Office?"
"Magical Maintenance."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate. You didn't need to look up to feel the shockwave of silent communication passing between them. You could practically hear the click of the mental locks falling into place: the suppressed smirks, the shared glances, and the smug, knowing silence that broadcast exactly what they thought of your family’s status. You weren't just the 'wrong type' for Jaemin; in their eyes, you were a glitch in the social order.
"Very honest work, I’m sure," Giselle added finally, her voice carrying just enough to be heard at the neighboring tables. "Someone has to keep the toilets functioning."
Jo who'd been next to you the whole time, bolted upright, her face flushed a dangerous shade of scarlet. You moved instinctively, grabbing her arm and hauling her back into her seat before she could cause a scene.
The real ambush, however, didn't come until Friday evening.
You'd been in the library trying to calculate the magical decay of a complex curse for your Arithmancy assignment. Beside you, Jaemin had been hovering for the better part of an hour, his presence a persistent distraction.
"If you carry the nine there," he whispered, his long finger hovering over your string of equations, "doesn't the probability of a backfire increase by 12%?"
"No, Jaemin," you huffed, rubbing your temples where a dull ache was beginning to bloom. "This isn't Divination. You cannot simply guess your way through Arithmancy. Seven is a powerful magical prime, but in an inverted sequence, its weight is halved. I am trying to ensure you don't accidentally liquefy your own bones during the NEWTs."
"Right, right. Half the weight, double the trouble," he murmured. He wasn't even pretending to look at the numbers anymore; his gaze was fixed on the way you were biting your lip in concentration. "Explain the Pythagorean bridge to me again? That was very sexy."
A sharp retort about his lack of focus was halfway up your throat when the shadows fell over the table.
Giselle and Changmin. They were flanked by Sungchan, another Quidditch type you vaguely recognized, and a fourth person whose presence made the air leave your lungs in a rush.
Yuna.
She stood there, ice-blonde and perfectly beautiful. You felt Jaemin’s posture stiffen beside you. You hadn't known. He’d never mentioned she was part of his circle, that she was this close to the people he spent every waking hour with. The "fake" part of your relationship suddenly felt dangerously flimsy.
"Study date?" Giselle asked, sliding into the seat directly across from you. "I’m sorry, is that a textbook, Jaemin? I thought you used those as coasters."
Jaemin didn't look up from your parchment. "We're just working."
"It’s Friday night," Sungchan cut in, leaning heavily against a nearby bookshelf. "The guys are sneaking kegs of firewhisky into the common room as we speak. There’s a party starting in ten minutes, mate. We’ve been looking for you for an hour."
Yuna stepped forward, her dark eyes narrowing as she focused on you for the first time.
"Y/N, right?" she said, her voice a soft, melodic contrast to the tension. "What exactly have you done to him? Jaemin hasn't missed a Friday night since third year. And yet, here he is, looking at... what is that? Arithmancy?"
"It’s important for the exams," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you felt. "And he's actually quite good at it when he tries."
A snort of pure skepticism escaped Yuna. "Since when is calculating the weight of a hex more entertaining than a party?"
"Since I realized I was failing," Jaemin interjected smoothly, reaching out to lace his fingers with yours atop the table. You knew it was a calculated move, a public display for the one person who mattered. "Y/N pointed out that if I don't pass the Arithmancy boards, I won't be able to take the advanced Theo-Magic track next year. She's very persuasive when she wants to be."
"Persuasive, huh?" Giselle repeated, though her eyes flicked toward Yuna to gauge her reaction. “I can only imagine the things she can do, if she’s managed to make you skip every single party since you started dating.”
Giselle’s implication was blatant, dripping with enough tawdry subtext to make your cheeks flame. You looked at Jaemin, waiting for him to shred her with his notorious silver tongue. Instead, he remained maddeningly static. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation.
“Did you know there’s actually a betting pool regarding how long youll two last?” Yuna asked, her tone conversational, as if she were discussing the Quidditch scores than your social execution. “The smart money says two weeks. That is, if the novelty doesn’t wear off by Tuesday.”
The news hit your stomach with a cold, hollow thud. “There’s a what?”
“Don’t look so scandalized.” she waved a hand, her emerald ring catching the light. “It’s nothing personal, darling. People adore a spectacle, and this is a bewildering one. Jaemin has spent years as the prize everyone was chasing, and then he suddenly chooses...”
She trailed off. Her silence was more eloquent than any insult.
"The weird girl who hides in corners," Sungchan supplied helpfully. "No offense."
"Loads taken," you snapped before you could stop yourself.
“So defensive.” Yuna chuckled cruelly.
“That’s enough,” Jaemin said. His voice lost its playful lilt, replaced by a low edge. It was the sound of a predator deciding a conversation had reached its conclusion.
“We’re just teasing, Jaem. Don’t be so sensitive.” Giselle stood, smoothing her robes. “If Y/N is going to be part of our inner circle, she’ll need a thicker skin. We aren't known for our gentleness.”
“I am dating Jaemin,” you said, your voice finally steady. “Not applying to be your friend.”
The temperature at the table dropped approximately ten degrees.
“Well,” Yuna said, her delicate features arranging themselves into an expression of theatrical, wide-eyed surprise. “It seems the little bird has claws after all."
They had successfully poked at the seams of your composure and were now departing before the scene became truly messy.
"A little parting advice, Y/N," Giselle said, pausing as she turned. "The more defensive you become, the more it appears as though you’re hiding something. And in this school, secrets are the only currency that matters."
Then they were gone. The only sound left was the rustle of their expensive robes fading into the library stacks. You sat there, shaking, while Jaemin’s fingers remained locked with yours.
“They’re foul,” you muttered, the sharp thud of your textbook echoing too loudly against the mahogany table. “Your friends are actually vipers, Jaemin.”
“I know.” His reply was flat, lacking any of the heat you were looking for. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” You yanked your hand away from his, suddenly angry at him. “Because you just sat there like a statue. You let them say all that, and you didn't even blink.”
“And what did you want me to do? Start a row in the middle of the library?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe defend me!” The words burst out, earning a sharp, hawk-like “Shh!” from Madam Pince.
You leaned in, dropping your voice to a fierce whisper. “Tell them they’re being cruel. Tell them to sod off! But you just sat there looking like you were enjoying the show.”
Jaemin didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as he studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes.
“If I get too defensive, they’ll know something’s up,” he said eventually. “You heard Giselle, she's looking for a reaction. That’s what they’re all doing. They're looking for proof that we’re lying. The more I protest, the more suspicious they get.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit there and take it?” You felt a hot sting behind your eyes and hated yourself for it. “I have to let them slag me off and talk rubbish about my family, all to keep your precious cover story alive?”
“Just for a bit,” he insisted. “Once they’re convinced it’s real, they’ll back off. But right now, they’re testing us. They’re testing you. And if we want this to work, you have to pass.”
“I’m trying to pass the bloody test!” you hissed, your voice rising again.
“Trying, yeah.” He leaned forward, his shadow falling over your parchment. “But you’re not being very convincing, Y/N.”
Your face flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you always look uncomfortable.” He ran a hand through his hair, his composure finally fraying. “You look miserable, Y/N. Constantly. Like being near me is a form of torture.”
“Well, it isn’t exactly a holiday,” you shot back.
“I know this isn’t ideal,” he continued, ignoring the jab. “I know you didn't want this. But we made a deal, and if you keep acting like I’m a Dementor every time I come within a foot of you, no one is going to believe this.”
“So what? You want me to swoon? Hang off your arm like a mindless doll?”
“I want you to look like you can at least tolerate me,” he cut in, his tone sharpening. “I want you to stop flinching when I hold your hand. Lean into me instead of going rigid as a board. Smile, Y/N. A real one, not that grimace you do when people are watching.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
“Well, your best isn’t good enough.” He looked at the library door, then back at you. “Giselle asked me why you’re so tense all the time. I told her you were shy about public affection, but that excuse only works for so long.”
You stared at him, your chest tight with a cocktail of fury.
“Maybe you should’ve picked someone who actually wanted to be your girlfriend.”
“I picked you because I thought you were smart enough to pull this off, but if you can't... ” He trailed off, shaking his head. "If you can’t even manage to stay in the same room as me without looking like you’d rather be drowning in the lake, the whole thing falls apart.”
"So will you be satisfied if I start kissing the floor you walk on? " you asked bitterly.
“It’d be a start,” he said simply. “Look, I know they’re awful. But you need to try harder. Stop pulling away. Stop acting like my touch is burning you.”
“It is burning me,” you muttered. You didn't mean to say it out loud, and you immediately wished you could swallow the words back down.
Jaemin’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.” You stood up abruptly, gathering your things with fumbling hands. “Forget it. I’ll try harder, alright? I’ll be more convincing. I’ll smile and lean in and act like I’m absolutely mad about you. Is that what you want?”
“Y/N, wait—”
“I’m going back to the common room.” You slung your bag over your shoulder, refusing to look at him. “I’ll see you at breakfast. I’ll be sure to put on a proper show.”
“That’s not what I—”
But you didn’t stay to hear the rest. You turned and walked away, your vision blurring slightly as you navigated between the towering bookshelves, Madam Pince's disapproving glare following you all the way to the exit.
Behind you, you heard Jaemin sigh, but he didn’t call after you.
Just as well. You needed to be anywhere but near him.
Expectations of a smooth public performance next morning were shattered the moment Jaemin actually appeared. You had braced yourself for the usual, the effortless slide onto the bench, the heavy weight of his arm claiming your space, and that charming attitude that suggested your library row had been nothing more than a minor blip.
Instead, the Jaemin who approached the table looked like he’d gone several rounds with a rogue Bludger. His tie was a shambles, hanging loose around his collar, and his hair was a chaotic nest of blonde strands as if he’d spent the early hours of the morning dragging his hands through it in frustration. He didn't sit, but lingered at the edge of the bench with a strange, jittery energy.
"Can we talk?"
The question was a mere breath under the noise of clattering plates and the morning owl post.
You looked back down at your porridge. "About what?"
"Yesterday." He sounded nervous, not the polished Pureblood prince, but a boy who was genuinely out of his depth. "Please?"
Jo delivered a sharp kick to your shin under the table. Why did she keep doing that?! You winced, the sting jolting you out of your stubborn trance. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding.
"Fine. Where?"
"Third floor. The corridor by the one-eyed witch statue." He checked his watch, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against the wood of the table. "Ten o'clock?"
"That’s oddly specific," you muttered, finally meeting his eyes.
"Just—trust me on this. Please?"
There was that word again. Please. It was a far cry from the boy who had told you your best wasn't good enough yesterday. And because you were apparently a glutton for punishment, you felt your resolve crumble.
"Ten o'clock," you agreed.
He didn't offer a smirk or a wink for the benefit of the watching Great Hall. He simply gave a tight nod and sat down, keeping a conspicuous gap between your shoulder and his.
Stone walls and guttering torches made the third floor just as drab as the rest of the castle. A few portraits dozed in their frames, and the statue of the one-eyed witch stood sentinel at the far end, her painted eyes seeming to follow your every move with an almost unsettling intensity.
Five minutes of waiting had already passed, which was roughly four minutes and fifty seconds longer than it took to start feeling like a total idiot.
Just as the urge to bolt back to the safety of the common room became overwhelming, the rhythmic scuff of boots echoed against the flagstones. Jaemin rounded the corner, his usual swagger replaced by a stiff gait. You drew a breath, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove this clandestine little meeting, but he hoisted a hand to silence you.
"Before you lay into me," he started, coming to a halt just out of arm’s reach, "I want to apologize. Properly. For yesterday."
The anger you’d been carefully stoking for the last twelve hours flickered and died, leaving you feeling strangely hollow. "Oh."
"I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right." He dragged a hand through his hair, a sign of genuine nerves that made him more like a tired teenager. "You’re right. This situation is mental. My friends are absolute vultures, and I’ve been asking you to stand in the middle of the pack without giving you a single bit of support."
"I mean... yeah." You leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to hide how much that small bit of validation actually mattered. "That has been the arrangement so far, hasn't it?"
"Well, it’s a rubbish arrangement." He stepped into your personal space, his eyes searching yours with an earnestness that felt far too real. "I want to make this bearable for you. But for that to happen, I think we need to... practice."
"Practice?"
"At being comfortable," he explained, as if he were simply suggesting a bit of extra Quidditch drills. "You said my touching burns. Not literally, I hope, but—" He gestured between the two of you. "There’s this tension. This massive wall between us. People can see it, Y/N. It’s written all over you."
"Right. So your grand plan is..."
"Exposure therapy," he said. "We need to get accustomed to one another. And we need to do it without an audience watching your every flinch."
A snort almost escaped you as you processed the sheer absurdity of the suggestion. It felt like a scene ripped straight from one of those tawdry novels Jo kept hidden in her trunk, the ones with titles like The Warlock’s Wicked Whim.
But beneath the embarrassment sat a cold, hard logic you couldn't ignore. Every time his skin brushed yours, your heart panicked. You went rigid, your breath hitched, and your pulse became a frantic drumbeat in your ears. If you could feel that visceral wrongness vibrating through your bones, then vipers like Giselle and Yuna could definitely tell too.
"And you want to do this here?" A wary glance down the drafty corridor followed, half-expecting a gaggle of students to peek around the corner, eager for a glimpse of the castle's most talked-about couple. "What if someone comes by?"
"They won't." Jaemin started walking again, gesturing for you to follow. "That’s the whole point of meeting on this floor."
Confusion was about to mount into another argument when he came to a sudden halt in front of a completely unremarkable stretch of stone wall. Without a word, he began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, his brow furrowed in a look of intense concentration.
For a moment, you just watched him, convinced that he'd finally cracked under the pressure and that this whole fake relationship scheme had driven him round the bend. You were seconds away from suggesting a firm dose of Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey when the masonry began to ripple.
Solid stone blurred and shimmered like the surface of the Black Lake under a midday sun. Then, with a low, tectonic grind, an ornate wooden door bled into existence.
Your mouth fell open. You'd heard of this, of course. Read about it in 'Hogwarts: A History'. But reading about something and seeing it happen right in front of your eyes were two very different things.
"The Room of Requirement," you breathed, awe temporarily overriding your general state of irritation.
"The Room of Requirement," Jaemin confirmed, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I figured if we're going to do this, we should do it somewhere we won't be interrupted."
"Unless you don't want to?" he asked, and there was a carefulness to the question, an unspoken offer of an out. "I know this is... I know it's a lot to ask. But I really think it'll help. I do."
You stared at the door, your mind whirling. This was insane. Completely, utterly, certifiably insane. Practicing feeling comfortable with Na Jaemin in a magical room that appeared out of thin air? This was your life now? This was what your Hogwarts experience had come to?
But what was the alternative? Continue on as you had been, flinching and grimacing your way through this charade until even the most gullible Hufflepuff could see right through you? Let Jaemin's awful friends pick and prod at you until you broke?
No. No, as much as it pained you to admit it, Jaemin was right. If you were going to make it through this with your dignity remotely intact, you had to stop being the weak link. You needed to become a better liar.
And if that meant subjecting yourself to Merlin knows what kind of 'practice' in a secret magic room... well. So be it.
“I swear if this is some kind of prank…”
"It's not." He pushed open the door, warm, inviting light spilling out into the corridor. "I promise."
The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt a strange sensation wash over you. Like stepping into a warm bath after a long, cold day. The room was...not at all what you expected. It was smaller, cozier. There was a plush sofa against one wall, a few cushy armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. The lighting was soft, emanating from no discernible source, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and old books. It felt safe, somehow. Comforting. Which only served to put you more on edge.
"So," you said, crossing your arms over your chest as the door swung shut behind you with a soft, final-sounding click. "You brought me here to practice. Practice what, exactly?"
Jaemin had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Intimacy."
"I'm sorry, what?”
"Not—not like that," he said quickly, and was that a hint of a flush on his cheeks? Surely not. Na Jaemin didn't get flustered. It must be a trick of the light. "I mean... being close.. and comfortable enough to casually touch each other. You know, the things couples do in public that you keep shying away from."
"You make it sound so simple," you muttered, feeling a blush rise to your own cheeks despite your best efforts.
"It’s not that big of a deal." He gestured to the sofa. "Look, we're going to have to spend the next two months being physically affectionate in front of the entire school. And right now, every time I so much as brush against you, you look like you'd rather be facing a herd of centaurs. So we need to practice. To make it feel normal."
Normal. What a ludicrous concept. There was nothing normal about this. But you bit back the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. You’d agreed to this madness, and backing out now would only make you look more pathetic.
"Right. So you want me to get used to you pawing at me."
"I do not paw—" He cut himself off, taking a visible breath to steady himself. "I want you to get used to me touching you in a completely respectful, non-pawing way.
You stared at him and he stared back. You could practically hear the seconds ticking by, feel the weight of the impasse settling over the room.
"Fine," you said at last, the word feeling like it was being dragged out of you with fish hooks. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"
His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. "Just… come sit with me. We'll start slow."
He settled onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. You approached warily, lowering yourself onto the opposite end and putting as much distance between your bodies as physically possible. Jaemin looked at the three-foot chasm of empty space and raised an eyebrow.
"You're going to have to get closer than that."
"This is close."
"You’re barely sitting on the couch."
"Baby steps," you muttered.
"We don't have time for baby steps." But his voice was gentle, coaxing. "Come on. I don't bite."
That remains to be seen, you thought. But despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you scooted closer. Then a bit closer still. You stopped in the middle of the sofa, a foot of space still separating you, but closer than you'd ever voluntarily been to him outside of your mandated public displays.
"Better," Jaemin said, and the soft, approving lilt in his voice sent a traitorous flutter through your stomach. "Now, I'm going to put my arm around you. Like I do at meals. And I want you to try not to tense up. Okay?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice not to shake.
Slowly, broadcasting his movements like he was approaching a skittish animal, he lifted his arm, draping it across the back of the sofa. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, the weight of it startling in its warmth, its solidity.
Instantly, you felt your entire body go rigid, your muscles locking up like you'd been hit with a full body bind curse. Every nerve ending was suddenly alight, hyper-aware of the exact dimensions of his palm, the precise pressure of each individual finger.
"You’re doing it again," he murmured. His voice was much closer than you’d expected. "Tensing up."
"I know," you gritted out. "I’m trying."
"Here." His other hand hovered just shy of your arm, hesitant. "Just breathe. Focus on that."
Breathe. Right. You could manage that.
You sucked in a breath, held it for a count of three, and forced it out. You repeated the cycle until the iron bands of your muscles began to slacken, slowly adjusting to the foreign sensation of him.
"Good," Jaemin whispered. "See? Not so terrible."
"It’s weird," you countered. It was unsettling and entirely too much. "You’re weird. This whole thing is mental."
"Noted." There was a definite streak of amusement in his tone now. "But you aren't flinching. That’s progress."
He was right. The initial shock of the contact was fading, replaced by a strange sort of...not comfort, exactly. Awareness, maybe. You were intensely conscious of the weight of his arm, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed next to you.
The feeling wasn't the searing, blistering heat you'd stupidly mentioned yesterday in a moment of unthinking frustration. But it was a lot. Intimate in a way you weren't at all prepared for, in a way that made your heart thud traitorously against your rib cage.
"Okay," Jaemin said after the silence had stretched out just long enough to teeter on the edge of uncomfortable. "Next step. I'm going to pull you a bit closer. Like I do when we're walking to class."
"Do you really need to narrate every little thing?" You couldn't help the note of exasperation that crept into your voice.
"I'm trying not to spook you."
"I'm not a skittish woodland creature."
"Could've fooled me," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.
Before you could formulate a properly scathing response, he drew you firmly into his side. Your instinct was to lock up again, but you fought it. This close, the scent of him was overwhelming—clean linen, and a subtle hint of broomstick polish.
It was disorienting. Overwhelming. But...not entirely unpleasant, if you were being honest with yourself. Which you absolutely were not going to be, because that way lay madness.
"Are you okay?" Jaemin asked, and his voice lacked his usual arrogance, sounding instead like he was actually concerned about your boundaries.
For a dizzying second, you wondered if there was more to him than the unflappable, silver-tongued Slytherin. Was this just as strange and unsettling for him? You pushed the thought away immediately. Thinking of Jaemin as a real person with real nerves was a one-way trip to jagged rocks and shark-infested waters. He was a means to an end. A necessary evil.
"It's fine," you said, and if your voice came out a little breathier than usual, a little less steady, well. That was nobody's business but your own. “Not terrible, I suppose."
"High praise, coming from you," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, could practically feel the curve of his lips where they brushed against your hair.
You chose to ignore that, focusing instead on keeping your breathing steady and your heartbeat under control.
Time passed, seconds or minutes or hours, you couldn't quite tell. The room had narrowed down to the weight of Jaemin's arm around you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the soft sounds of your breathing intermingling in the quiet room.
The whole thing was almost peaceful, provided you let yourself forget exactly who he was and why you were here.
“How much longer do we have to do this?” you asked eventually, when the silence and the sensation started to feel like too much.
Jaemin shrugged, the movement jostling you slightly. “Until it feels normal, I guess. Or at least not horribly awkward.”
You let out a long sigh. “We’re going to be here a while, then.”
He laughed, the sound warm and resonant in the small room. “Probably. But look on the bright side—at least the couch is comfortable, right?”
You made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an agreement.
“Just think,” he continued, a teasing lilt returning to his voice, “a few more of these sessions and we’ll be the most convincing couple Hogwarts has ever seen. We’ll put the real ones to shame.”
“Be still my beating heart,” you deadpanned. “What a glittering future.”
“We’ll practice the basics for now. Then we’ll work our way up.”
“Work our way up to what, exactly?” You regretted the question the moment it left your lips. His arm tightened slightly, and his voice took on a silkier quality.
“Well,” he said, “eventually, we’re going to have to practice kissing.”
You practically launched yourself off the cushions at that. You scrambled to the very edge of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The distance between you was back to a yawning three feet in a matter of seconds.
He’d mentioned kissing when he proposed this mad arrangement in the first place but you genuinely thought he’d been trying to ruffle you. The prospect of actually kissing Na Jaemin was so far outside your comfort zone it felt like another planet.
“Absolutely not!” you gasped, your eyes wide with genuine alarm. “Not happening. Not in this lifetime.”
Jaemin stared at you, his arm still draped over the empty space where your shoulder had been a moment ago. He looked startled by your sudden flight, but it only took a second for that lazy amusement to crawl back onto his face.
“It’s going to come up, Y/N,” he said, dropping his arm and leaning back comfortably, as if he hadn't just suggested something world-ending. “Couples kiss. Especially 'new' couples who are supposedly mad about each other. If the first time I kiss you is in front of the entire Great Hall and you look like you’re about to be sick, the game is up.”
“I get it,” you snapped, your face feeling like it was being held over a Bunsen burner. “I get it. But we’re not—I mean, we don’t need to do that. It’s way too much.”
“We don’t have to do it today,” he agreed, his voice surprisingly gentle as he watched you vibrate with nerves at the end of the sofa. “We’ll work up to it slowly. Baby steps, remember?”
“I hate this,” you mumbled, slowly sinking back into the upholstery, though you stayed firmly out of arm's reach.
“I know,” he said, his eyes tracking you with a look that was far too observant for your liking. “But you’re getting much better at pretending you don't.”
The witching hour, that eerie stretch of night when all respectable souls should be tucked safely in their beds, found you instead padding down the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, your dressing gown pulled tight around you and your wand tip illuminating the way.
It was a terrible idea, really, wandering the castle at this hour. You were a prefect, for Merlin's sake. You knew the rules better than most. Out of bed after curfew, risking detention or worse, all for what? A craving for something sweet that couldn't wait until the civilized hours of morning?
But sleep had proven elusive, your mind refusing to quiet, insisting instead on replaying the events of the past week in excruciatingly vivid detail. The practice sessions with Jaemin in the Room of Requirement featured most prominently, of course. The steadily shrinking distance between your bodies, the way his touch was beginning to feel almost... familiar.
You were making progress. Which was precisely the problem.
So now, at an absolutely unreasonable hour, you found yourself seeking solace in the kitchens. If you were going to be awake anyway, you might as well have a biscuit to keep you company.
You reached the portrait of the fruit bowl, tucked away in a corridor no one ever noticed, and tickled the pear. It squirmed and giggled, as it always did, before transforming into a door handle.
The kitchens were a welcome oasis of warmth, the vaulted ceilings echoing with the industrious sounds of house-elves going about their nightly duties—kneading dough for the morning's bread, organizing the pantry, scrubbing the massive cauldrons until they shone. They looked up as you entered, surprise evident on their wrinkled little faces.
"Miss!" squeaked a particularly diminutive elf, hurrying over to you, her tea towel toga flapping about her knees. "Miss should be in bed! Is Miss hungry? Was something not to Miss's liking at dinner?"
"No, no," you assured her quickly, crouching down to her level with a smile. "Dinner was wonderful, as always. I just couldn't sleep and thought a little something sweet might help."
The elf's large eyes widened further, a delighted smile stretching her mouth. "Oh yes, yes! Dipsy can help! We has treacle tart left over from dinner, and chocolate biscuits, and Dipsy can bring fresh cream for Miss's tea—"
"Just a biscuit or two would be lovely," you said. "And maybe a bit of that apple tart, if there's any left? I don't want to make extra work for you."
"Is no work at all!" Dipsy insisted, already scurrying off toward the enormous cooling racks that lined one wall. "Is Dipsy's pleasure to serve! Miss sit, sit! Dipsy will bring tea!"
And so you found yourself perched on a stool at one of the long preparation tables, watching with a mix of amusement and awe as Dipsy and two other elves fluttered about, assembling a plate of biscuits and tart and a pot of fragrant, steaming tea.
"Thank you," you said sincerely as they presented you with your midnight feast. "This is exactly what I needed."
Dipsy beamed, her bat-like ears quivering with pleasure. "Miss is always so kind, so polite! Not like some students, so rude and demanding they is. But Miss is a good student, yes she is!"
You felt a pang at that, remembering all the times you'd seen your classmates treating the house-elves like mere servants. "You work so hard," you told her. "The least I can do is be polite."
The ancient elf in the tea towel toga shuffled up then, setting a small pot of jam next to your plate. "Special raspberry preserves," he croaked. "Made 'em myself. Good for what ails you, they is."
"That's very kind, thank you," you said, touched by the gesture.
You passed the next quarter hour in the warm bustle of the kitchens, savoring your illicit snack while the elves worked around you, peppering you with questions—did you need anything else, what did you think of the new recipe they'd tried at lunch, would you like to take some extra tarts back to your dormitory? It was soothing, the cheerful chatter and clatter, so different from the brooding silence of your room.
By the time you'd drained your teacup and consumed a frankly inadvisable number of biscuits, you were feeling considerably more yourself.
"Thank you," you said again as you rose to leave. "I feel much better."
"Miss is welcome anytime!" Dipsy assured you earnestly. "Dipsy is always here if Miss needs a little pick-me-up!"
You left with a smile and a promise to visit again, slipping back out into the dark and drafty corridor.
It was deserted, as you'd expected. Or so you thought, until a voice emerged from the shadows some twenty feet ahead, stopping you in your tracks.
"Out for a midnight stroll?"
You nearly leapt out of your skin, your wand raised defensively before you'd even fully registered the words. But then a familiar figure stepped into a pool of torchlight, and your racing heart stuttered for an entirely different reason.
Jaemin. Even in the middle of the bloody night, he managed to look put together, his school robes immaculate and his prefect badge gleaming. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, and there was a glint in his eye that might have been amusement.
"Merlin's beard, Jaemin," you hissed, lowering your wand. "Are you trying to get hexed? You can't just lurk in the dark like some sort of—villain!"
"I'm not lurking, I'm patrolling," he countered. "It's my job to accost students out of bed after hours. Which, need I remind you, you currently are."
"I’m a prefect too," you shot back, though you were painfully aware that your current attire—dressing gown, fluffy slippers, and basically a bird's next on your head—didn’t exactly command authority.
"A prefect who's very much off duty," Jaemin pointed out, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that made you acutely conscious of your bare legs and messy hair. "And wandering the castle at two in the morning, no less."
You crossed your arms, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. "I couldn't sleep. Not that it's any of your business, but if you must know, I was hungry. I went to the kitchens."
"The kitchens," he repeated slowly.
"Yes, the kitchens. You're familiar with the concept, I assume? Big room, lots of elves, food comes from there?"
Jaemin, looking awfully like he was trying not to smile, said again, "You went to the kitchens. At two a.m. In your dressing gown."
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt a little. "Yes, that's what I just said. Is there an echo here I'm not aware of?"
"Y/n y/l/n, prefect and notorious rule-follower, snuck out of bed and all the way down to the kitchens in the dead of night...for a biscuit?"
"What, like you've never had a late-night snack craving?"
"No, I can't say I have." He was definitely fighting a smile now. "I'm just surprised. I didn't take you for the type."
"Yes, well, there's a lot you don't know about me," you muttered, brushing past him to continue your trek back to Gryffindor tower. To your great chagrin, Jaemin fell into step beside you, long legs eating up the distance effortlessly.
"And here I was thinking I had you all figured out... Now I come to find you have a dark side. Late-night wanderings, clandestine trips to the kitchen...so scandalous. Merlin only knows what other secrets you're hiding behind that prim prefect exterior."
"Oh, yes," you agreed dryly. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. Careful, Na, or I'll file you away in my mental 'too curious for his own good' cabinet with all my other deep, dark secrets."
It was possibly the most ridiculous thing you'd ever said, made all the more absurd by the fact that you were padding through the halls in slippers, being relentlessly followed by the boy you were supposed to be pretending to date. Who was going to write your biography one day? They'd have a field day with this.
"So why are you lurking about in the dark, anyway?" you asked, feeling the need to shift focus away from your own nocturnal misadventures. "Isn't this usually when you abscond to the grounds to catch hapless rule-breakers?"
"Wasn't in the mood," Jaemin said with a shrug. "Thought I'd switch it up tonight. Catch hapless biscuit thieves instead."
You shot him a withering look. "I'm not a thief. The elves gave me those biscuits fair and square. And anyway, you're one to talk about avoiding the grounds. What, did our last excursion awaken a sudden fear of the dark?"
"Hardly." A pause. "Just wasn't the same without my favorite patrol partner, I suppose."
Your steps faltered a bit at that, and you hoped desperately that the darkness was enough to hide the flush you could feel creeping up your neck. Favorite patrol partner. He had to be mocking you. Nevermind that he'd said it almost...softly. Sincerely, even. A trick of the acoustics in this drafty old castle, no doubt.
“I’m flattered,” you managed, arranging your face into an expression of arch disdain. "Though I think we both know I'm likely the only patrol partner you’ve terrorized on the grounds. Bit of a low bar, as far as favoritism goes."
“I'm grading on a curve," Jaemin said with a smirk. "Bumping you to the head of a class of one."
"How magnanimous of you."
"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."
A slow shake of the head was the only response you could muster. Between the amusement and the sheer exasperation, it was hard to keep track of your own feelings. This boy. This ridiculous, irritating, unfairly handsome boy. How had your life come to revolve around verbally sparring with him in darkened hallways in the middle of the night?
You'd reached the stairs leading up toward Gryffindor Tower, and you paused at the base, turning to face Jaemin. He was looking at you intently, as if he wanted to say something.
"You've been better this week," he said abruptly.
You blinked, caught off guard by the change in topic. "What?"
"At pretending," he clarified. "You don't flinch anymore when I touch you. That thing you did yesterday, with your hand on my chest when you were laughing at Jo's joke - that was good. Natural."
Heat crept up your neck at the memory. You'd surprised yourself with that gesture, the easy intimacy of it. It had just...happened. No thought, no awkwardness. For a moment, it had felt real.
"Oh," you said eloquently. "Um. Thanks?"
Jaemin nodded. "I can tell the practice is helping. People are buying it. Even Giselle's backed off a bit."
"Only a bit," you muttered. Jaemin's prickly best friend had been keeping a hawkish eye on you. She'd cornered you just yesterday, demanding to know Jaemin's favorite Quidditch team. You'd guessed the Falmouth Falcons, only to be informed with a triumphant sneer that he was actually a die-hard Montrose Magpies supporter, had been since childhood, and really, what kind of girlfriend doesn't know that?
"She's protective," Jaemin said, as if reading your thoughts. "But she's coming around. Slowly."
"Hooray for small mercies," you said dryly.
Jaemin's lips twitched. "Anyway, I didn't just track you down to compliment your acting skills."
"So why did you track me down, then?" You folded your arms, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up at his words. "Other than to save me from death by biscuit overindulgence, of course."
"Next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," he said.
You nodded slowly. "I'm aware."
"It's also Valentine's Day."
"Oh." You blinked. "Right." Somehow, in the midst of all the fake dating drama and NEWTs prep, you'd completely forgotten about the most romantic day of the year. "That's...a thing."
"A thing we should probably do together," Jaemin said. "I mean, it would look weird if we didn't, wouldn't it? The whole school will be there, all the couples will be out in force..."
Suddenly your hands felt clammy. He was right, of course. If you were really dating, you'd be all over each other on Valentine's Day. Holding hands, sharing butterbeer, probably snogging in some corner of Madam Puddifoot's like every other disgustingly happy couple.
But you weren't really dating. And the thought of upping the ante on this charade you were already barely keeping up with...it made you feel a bit sick.
Jaemin must have seen some of this on your face, because he quickly added, "We don't have to make a big deal of it. Just walk around together, maybe get lunch at the Three Broomsticks. I could buy you some chocolate from Honeydukes, let people see me being a good boyfriend. That's all."
"Right," you said faintly. "Sounds...great."
He studied you for a moment. "I mean, if you had other plans, or if you think it's too much—"
"No," you said, more firmly than you felt. "No, you're right. We should go together. For appearances' sake, if nothing else."
His eyes flickered at your words, a brief shadow passing over them before he straightened up. "Great," he said briskly. "It's a date then."
You took a step back, suddenly desperate for the safety of your dormitory. "I should go. It’s late."
Jaemin nodded. "Get some rest, Y/N. I’ll see you in Potions."
"Can't wait." You started up the stairs, but paused at the landing to look back. "Goodnight, Jaemin."
"Goodnight." He waited a beat, his voice dropping to a low, melodic murmur. "Sweet dreams, baby."
You huffed a laugh to hide your skyrocketing pulse and hurried up the stairs, feeling his gaze on your back until you turned the corner.
Valentine’s Day with Jaemin. It was just another scene in the play. You could handle it.
Right?
But as you climbed the stairs to your bed, you had the sinking feeling that 'sweet' dreams were the last thing you were going to get.
The Hogsmeade trip came around quicker than expected. It had barely stopped raining for weeks, but on Saturday the sun was a weak golden disk behind a scrim of clouds, and every student with even a shred of romantic aspiration was queued up to be let out the gates, Gryffindor and Slytherin and the rest all jostling close, careful to keep up appearances for whatever audience they believed themselves to have.
You, on the other hand, spent the first half of the walk pretending that the clumps of snow along the path were of great zoological interest, then the next half pretending you couldn’t feel Jaemin’s hand cradling your elbow, like you were some frail Victorian damsel and the uneven ground posed a mortal peril.
“This is a bit much, isn’t it?” you muttered, as you reached the crest of the hill and saw the town below.
Every shop window had been transformed into a shrine for Valentine’s Day: Sugar quaffles in the shape of anatomically correct hearts, boxes of chocolates spelled to whisper eternal devotion when opened, bargain bouquets of roses that swatted at you if you tried to walk by without paying them a compliment. Even the cobblestone streets seemed to have been scrubbed up for the occasion, each puddle reflecting a film of pink and red banners strung overhead.
Jaemin grinned at your side, unbothered by the spectacle. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” you insisted, though you eyed the brightly colored display tray warily. “I just don’t want to accidentally eat one of those chocolates that makes you recite poetry. Last time Jo had one, she spoke in haikus for three hours. It was a nightmare.”
“That sounds amazing, actually,” Jaemin said, a devilish glint in his eye. He veered off the main path, his long coat swishing around his ankles as he approached the sugar-dusted worker hawking the tray. “Let’s see if we get Lord Byron or... Byron-but-make-it-sexy.”
“Those are the same thing, Jaemin.”
He snagged two samples before you could protest, pressing a heart-shaped truffle into your gloved palm. The chocolate was dark, dusted with shimmering pink edible glitter. “Go on. What’s the worst that could happen? A little rhyming couplet never killed anyone.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smell of rich cocoa was overpowering your common sense. You took a tentative bite.
The chocolate was velvety, melting instantly over your tongue with notes of dark cherry and espresso. For a second, you thought you were safe. Then, a strange warmth bloomed in your diaphragm. It wasn't the heat of the candy, but more like a physical compulsion, like a marionette string tugging at your vocal cords.
Your lips parted against your will. You tried to say ‘It’s good,’ but your voice, suddenly projecting with a nasal, theatrical vibrato that echoed off the cobblestones, intoned:
“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove!”
Jaemin doubled over, nearly dropping his own sweet, his laughter bright and loud in the crisp air. “Oh, brilliant! Shakespeare it is! Give it some more feeling, come on!”
“Shut up!” you tried to hiss, but the magic ignored your intent completely. Instead, you threw a dramatic hand over your heart, your eyes fluttering shut as you bellowed, “O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken!”
You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, as a group of Ravenclaws walked by, giggling. The spell finally sputtered out, leaving you breathless and flushed.
“I hate you,” you mumbled into your palm, though the lingering taste of cherry was admittedly delicious. You looked up at him, realizing something didn’t add up. “Wait. How do you even know that was Shakespeare? Or who Lord Byron is?”
Jaemin finally straightened up, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. He popped his own truffle into his mouth, looking entirely unbothered.
“We have a library at the Manor that rivals the one at Hogwarts,” he said casually, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “My parents… well, they’re traditionalists, obviously. But my mother has always insisted that a true wizarding education is incomplete without understanding the ‘arts of the common man.’”
He swallowed, and for a second, his eyes went wide. You braced yourself for a poem, but he just cleared his throat and smirked. A dud candy. Typical luck.
“She thinks Muggles are tragically fascinating,” he continued, offering you his arm. “She insisted I read the classics. ‘If you are to rule the world, son, or simply live in it, you must understand how the other half feels.’ Or something like that.”
You stared at him in slight awe. You had never really considered that wizards from old, sacred twenty-eight families cared much about the Muggle world, other than to look down on it. As a half-blood who spent most of your childhood navigating the regular world and reading paperbacks, you assumed Jaemin’s world was entirely insulated.
“I’m just glad they’re using good material this year,” he finished, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Sonnet 116? ‘It is the star to every wandering bark’? Very romantic choice, Y/N. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
You tried to glare at him, to maintain your annoyance at being made a public spectacle, but his smile was so wide, so full of genuine delight, that your irritation evaporated like breath on glass.
“I’m telling you that you’re paying for these sweets,” you said, linking your arm through his.
“Fair enough,” he hummed. “Where to next?
Before you could answer, a shrill voice cut through the chatter of the crowd. "Jaemin! Yoo-hoo, over here!"
You turned to see Yuna Bae waving at you from the doorway of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. She was resplendent in robes of pale pink, her dark hair arranged in perfect curls. Beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, was a Ravenclaw you recognized from your Charms class. Taehyun, you thought his name was.
Jaemin's grip on your arm tightened imperceptibly. "Yuna," he said, his smile never wavering. "Fancy seeing you here."
"Oh, you know me," Yuna trilled, her eyes raking over you dismissively. "I never miss a Hogsmeade weekend. Taehyun was just treating me to tea. Why don't you join us? I'm sure we could squeeze you in."
The way she said that made it clear she was referring solely to Jaemin. You might as well have been a Flobberworm for all the attention she gave you.
“Y/N and I were just heading to Tomes and Scrolls. She’s been telling me about the new research into the Goblin Wars that just arrived and you know I can never resist a good history tome.”
Well, that was a blatant lie. You’d mentioned the book in passing a week ago, but Jaemin would rather drink Bubotuber pus than read a dry history text. Still, you appreciated the save. Yuna’s smile dimmed a fraction, her eyes flicking to the modest storefront of the bookstore as if it were a contagious ward at St. Mungo’s.
“Is this what you’re prioritizing now, Jaemin? This… little excursion into the mundane?”
Her eyes raked over your clothes down to your scuffed shoes. “I’m simply fascinated, Jawm. Your family has spent generations cultivating a certain standard, and you're playing the role of the benevolent saint. Taking pity on the less fortunate is a fine hobby, but surely you’re bored of the charity work by now?”
You felt your heart drop to your stomach. You started to speak, but Jaemin’s voice cut through first.
“Yuna.” The word was a warning, low and dangerous. “Watch yourself.”
“I’m being perfectly transparent,” she snapped, her feline eyes flashing. “It’s embarrassing, Jaemin. People are laughing. They’re wondering how long this little ‘experiment’ has to last before you regain your senses and return to your own kind. You’re a Na. Act like it.”
“I am a Na,” Jaemin said flatly, his arm sliding from your elbow to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “And Y/N is my girlfriend. She isn't an experiment, and she isn't someone you get to talk down to. If you can’t show her the respect she’s earned, then you and I have nothing left to discuss.”
Yuna’s jaw tightened, her composure finally cracking into a mask of pure venom. “Earned? She’s a nameless Gryffindor with nothing to her name but a few decent marks and a tragic wardrobe. Don’t think for a second this won't reach your father, Jaemin. He won't be as ‘charmed’ by your rebellion as you are.”
“Send the owl tonight if you like,” Jaemin countered, his voice steady. “Tell him I’m busy.”
Yuna’s eyes flicked to you one last time. “Enjoy your biscuits while you can, darling. The higher you climb, the harder the fall.”
You simply smiled, though your chest was tight with fury.
"Oh, I’ll keep that in mind. Do enjoy your tea, Yuna. I hear the service is wonderfully… swift today.”
As she turned on her heel to sweep into the tea shop, you kept your hands tucked inside your coat pockets, your fingers curling around the smooth wood of your wand. With a sharp, silent flick of your wrist and a jagged thought of Ventus, you sent a precise jinx whistling through the air.
The effect was instantaneous.
Just as Yuna reached for the heavy brass handle of the shop door, an invisible, violent gust of wind caught the hem of her pristine pink robes. They billowed up like a startled peacock’s tail, tangling around her head and blinding her just as she stepped forward.
Thwack.
She walked straight into the doorframe with a dull thud. Her scream of outrage was muffled by her own silk skirts, and as she scrambled to untangle herself, her designer boots skidded on a patch of black ice you’d surreptitiously greased with a bit of Glacius. She performed a frantic, uncoordinated flailing dance that sent her expensive handbag flying into a nearby slush pile.
Taehyun made a strangled noise that was either a cough or a repressed sob of laughter.
Jaemin stood perfectly still beside you, watching as a disheveled Yuna finally managed to shove her way inside the shop, her perfect curls now looking like a bird's nest and her dignity in tatters. He slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes wide delight.
"Did you just…?"
"The wind in the Highlands is so unpredictable this time of year," you said, keeping your gaze fixed on the shop window as Yuna frantically tried to wipe slush off her bag. "It’s a real hazard for those who aren't used to the climate."
"You're terrifying," Jaemin whispered, a grin breaking across his face. Absolutely terrifying. I love it."
"I told you," you said, finally meeting his gaze with a defiant spark in your eyes. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. And I really, really hate being called a charity case."
"Fair point," he laughed, steering you away before she could recover enough to look back. "Come on, Shakespeare. Let's check out the books."
Tomes and Scrolls was blessedly quiet, the heavy wooden door acting as a silencer against the bustle of the High Street. You inhaled deeply, loving the smell of aged parchment, beeswax, and the faint, ozone-like spark of old magic trapped in ink. This was your happy place.
You moved instinctively toward the back, trailing your fingers along the spines. Some books hummed under your touch; others, like the Compendium of Common Curses, seemed to shy away.
“There,” you whispered, spotting a thick, midnight-blue spine with silver embossing The Iron Quill: Unfiltered Testimonies of the 1612 Rebellions.
You pulled it from the shelf, cradling it like it was made of glass. “I’ve been waiting for this for months, Jaemin. It’s based on the personal journals of Ug the Unreliable that were found in a sealed vault in Gringotts last summer.”
You opened it to a random page, your eyes lighting up. “Look at the diagrams! Everyone thinks the rebellion started because of the wand-ban, but these letters suggest a secret trade embargo on silver-threaded lace. It could completely rewrite the seventh-year curriculum. If the economic tension preceded the legislative one, it changes the entire motive of the Goblin liaisons!”
You turned a page, your voice gaining speed and volume as the academic thrill took over. “And look at the footnotes! There’s a cross-reference to The Tales of Beedle the Bard that suggests the ‘Warlock’s Hairy Heart’ was actually a coded political allegory for the Minister of Magic at the time. It’s brilliant. It’s... it's...”
You broke off, suddenly aware of the silence. Jaemin wasn't looking at the book. He was leaning against the mahogany shelf, watching you with with interest.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You started to close the book. “I’m boring you to death, aren't I? You probably want to go look at the Quidditch supplies or–”
“No,” Jaemin said softly. He stepped closer and reached out, not to take the book, but to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all. I like seeing you like this. Passionate. A little bit nerdy. It’s... it's really cute, Y/N.”
You froze, the heavy tome suddenly feeling very light compared to the way your heart was thudding against your ribs. You looked down, pretending to be intensely interested in a footnote about goblin-wrought armor, trying to ignore the way his thumb lingered near your temple.
“It’s just history,” you whispered, though your pulse was racing fast enough to win a broom race.
“But you love it,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. “And that’s why I like listening.”
You didn’t quite know what to say to that so you busied yourself with the book, pretending to be engrossed in the table of contents, trying to ignore the way your pulse was racing.
It was just an act, you reminded yourself. A show for the onlookers. Jaemin was a good actor, that was all. There was no real feeling behind his words or his looks.
You lingered by the history section for a moment longer before a small, unassuming sign caught your eye toward the very back of the shop, nestled under a low, sloping ceiling: "Non-Magical Curiosities & Literature."
“Wait,” you said walking towards it. “I didn’t know they kept a Muggle section here.”
Jaemin followed as you navigated the narrowing aisles. This corner of the shop was more cramped, the books bound in plain cloth or faded dust jackets rather than dragon-hide or shimmering silk.
You scanned the titles until your eyes snagged on a familiar, battered spine. You pulled out a well-loved copy of Wuthering Heights.
“Since you’re so well-versed in Byron and Shakespeare,” you said, holding the book out so he could see the cover, “did your mother ever make you read the Brontës?”
Jaemin took the book, his long fingers tracing the silhouette of the moors on the cover. “I don’t think this one made the library list. Is it another tragedy?”
“The best kind of tragedy,” you sighed as you leaned back against the shelf. “It’s about a love so intense it’s practically a curse. Heathcliff and Cathy... they’re terrible for each other, really. They’re vengeful and cruel, but they’re also part of the same soul. There’s this one line—” you paused, closing your eyes for a second to recall the words that had lived in your head since you were twelve. “‘I am Heathcliff. He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.’”
When you opened your eyes, Jaemin was staring at you with an intensity that made the air in the cramped corner feel suddenly very thin. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something much more sincere.
“That’s a bit more intense than a Honeydukes poem,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of the pages.
“Muggles don’t have magic to fix their problems,” you explained, feeling a rush of that deep-seated passion again. “They don’t have Amortentia to force a feeling or Cheering Charms to dull a heartbreak. They just have words. They have to build these massive, sweeping worlds of emotion just to explain how it feels to be alive. I think… I think sometimes that’s more powerful than any spell we’re taught.”
Jaemin looked from the book back to you, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You talk about them like they’re the ones with the real power.”
“In a way, they are,” you whispered.
He handed the book back to you, but as your fingers met on the cover, he didn't pull away. “Well, if it’s that good, I suppose I should read it. But only if you promise to highlight the best parts for me. I want to see the world the way you see it.”
His words caught you off guard. You looked down at your joined hands, the scent of old paper and Jaemin’s expensive, woody cologne swirling around you.
“I can do that,” you promised softly.
The afternoon bled away as you drifted from one storefront to the next. It was…nice. More than nice, actually. Despite yourself, you found yourself relaxing and enjoying the banter.
Despite the frantic warnings screaming in the back of your mind, you found the armor around your heart beginning to flake away. You were relaxing, leaning into the sharp cadence of his banter and the way his shoulder occasionally brushed yours
As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, Jaemin suggested one last stop.
“Three Broomsticks?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”
Jaemin shrugged, a smile playing about his lips. “It’s tradition, isn’t it? Can’t come to Hogsmeade and not have a Butterbeer.”
He had a point. The warmth of the pub sounded inviting after the chill of the February air. “Lead on, then.”
The place was packed to the brim with students crowding every table, their cheeks flushed from the cold and the Butterbeer. You wove your way through the throng, Jaemin’s hand at the small of your back.
“Y/N! Jaemin! Over here!”
You turned to see Jo waving at you from a table in the back. Beside her, was a handsome boy you vaguely recognized as a seventh year Hufflepuff. Won-something?
“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Jo said as you approached, her eyes bright. “Y/N, this is Wonbin. Wonbin, this is my best friend, Y/N. And her boyfriend, Jaemin.”
Wonbin smiled at you. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/N. Jo’s told me a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” you said, sliding into the seat across from them. Jaemin settled beside you, his thigh pressing against yours under the table.
“Oh, definitely,” Wonbin said, grinning. “Though she did mention something about an incident with a Niffler and a bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion…”
You groaned, shooting Jo a look. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault the Niffler got loose, I maintain that to this day.”
Jo laughed, leaning into Wonbin’s side. They looked so comfortable together, so at ease.
Not for the first time since you arrived at Hogsmeade and finding yourself surrounded by dozens of loving couples, you felt a pang of something that might have been envy. What must it be like, to have that? To not have to question every look, every touch, every flutter of your heart?
You glanced at Jaemin, only to find him already looking at you. His eyes were the color of dark mahogany in the firelight.
If this were a real date, he would lean in. If you were a real girlfriend, you would let him.
The thought of his lips on yours, not as a tactical maneuver to thwart Yuna, but as an answer to the restless, poetic ache that had started in the bookstore, sent a shiver through you that was violent in its intensity. You wondered if his mouth would taste like the dark chocolate he’d eaten earlier, or the butterbear he was having now.
Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a drumbeat of "what if" that threatened to drown out your common sense. You looked away quickly, grabbing your Butterbeer and taking a long swig to hide the sudden heat in your cheeks.
The conversation kept flowing around you, but you found it hard to concentrate. Everywhere you looked, couples were leaning into each other, hands entwined, heads bent close. All you could hear around you was the sound of laughter and the soft smack of lips meeting in chaste kisses.
Suddenly, your skin itched with a restless sort of energy. You were hyperaware of Jaemin beside you, the solid warmth of him, his hand on yours on the table.
This was supposed to be a date. A fake date, yes, but a date nonetheless. And what did couples do on dates?
They kissed.
The thought was terrifying and… exciting. Kissing Jaemin, how would that feel? Putting your mouth on his mouth in front of all these people.
“Y/N?” Jaemin’s voice was barely audible over the din, but it vibrated through your very bones. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, his scent of cedar and winter air enveloping you. “You’ve gone very quiet. Where did you go?”
You took another gulp of Butterbeer, trying to drown the sudden dryness in your throat. There was no need to get so worked up about it, really. It was all part of the act. Just one more scene to play, one more line to deliver.
You could do this.
Setting your tankard down with a thunk, you turned to Jaemin, determination surging through you. His eyes widened slightly as you leaned in, your hand coming up to rest on his chest.
“Y/N,” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”
“Improvising,” you murmured, and kissed him.
For a moment, he was utterly still beneath your lips. Then, just as you were about to pull away feeling completely humiliated, he came to life, his hand cupping your cheek, his mouth slanting over yours.
It was…Merlin. It was everything. His lips were soft and warm but still demanding, the scrape of his calluses against your skin sending goosebumps down your arms. You melted into him, your fingers curling into the soft wool of his sweater, anchoring yourself lest you float away entirely.
Someone wolf-whistled, probably Jo, and you jerked back to reality, breaking the kiss with a gasp. Jaemin looked as dazed as you felt, his eyes dark, his lips kissed-red.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough. “That was…something.”
“Um… yeah,” you said weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Gotta be convincing, right?”
Jaemin’s pupils were more dilated than before. “Right,” he said. “Of course.”
He turned back to his drink, and you did the same, trying to ignore the way your lips were tingling, the way your heart was doing a complicated tap-dance against your ribs.
That wasn't real, you reminded yourself as you gulped down the rest of your Butterbeer, the alcohol doing little to steady your nerves. None of it was real.
Jo was grinning at you across the table, her eyes knowing. You glared at her, silently daring her to say something. Wisely, she didn’t, but her smile spoke volumes.
As the evening wore on and the empty tankards accumulated, you found your tongue loosening, your inhibitions lowering. The pub seemed overly warm, the laughter too loud, the press of bodies too close. You needed air, needed space. You needed…
“I need to pee,” you announced loudly, lurching to your feet. The room swayed around you, and you grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself. “I’ll be…I’ll be back.”
You wove your way through the crowd, ignoring Jo’s concerned call of your name and the way Jaemin slightly rose from his seat, his hand outstretched as if to stop you.
You didn’t need his help or anyone’s help. You were fine. You were absolutely, totally fine.
Outside, the night air was a blessed slap of cold. You took in great lungfuls of it. Merlin’s beard, how much had you had to drink? The empty tankards swam before your eyes in a hazy blur. Three? Four? More? It was hard to keep track when the Butterbeer had been so sweet and the pub so warm and Jaemin’s lips so soft against yours…
Oh no. Oh no no no. You’d actually kissed him, right there in front of everyone. What were you thinking?
Well, it didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting away, finding a quiet place where you could think. Somewhere without Jaemin’s eyes on you.
You picked a direction at random and started walking with unsteady steps. The high street was nearly deserted now, the lovebirds gone home to their castles and their common rooms and their cozy little romances.
Leaving you alone with your thoughts and your too-fast heartbeat and the sinking realization that you were, perhaps, a bit drunker than you’d initially thought.
“Y/N!”
You closed your eyes briefly, both thrilled and terrified by the sound of his voice.
“I’m fiiiiine,” you slurred without turning around. “I just need a minute.”
Jaemin caught up to you in two long strides, his face tight with concern as he reached out to steady your swaying frame. "You're completely blasted. Please, just stand still for a second before you fall into a ditch."
"I am not blasted," you informed him with great dignity, though you tripped over your own feet and ended up slumped against his chest. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but swimming with a sudden honesty. "You're the one who’s blasted— Blasted with... with your perfect hair and your Byron talk."
“Let’s just get you back first, okay?”
“I can get there by myself, thank you very much.” You slurred, starting to walk in the opposite direction of the castle.
“I’m sure you can. But I'd rather help you get there in one piece.” He said, sliding his arm around your waist and gently veering you in the right direction.
You tried to pull away, a whine building in your throat. “Don’t wanna. M’having fun.”
“I think you’ve had quite enough fun for one night,” he replied, his voice dripping with that dry, aristocratic patience that made you want to kick his shins.
“Are you mad at me…” You said softly after a second. “Because of the kiss? I—I didn’t mean—”
Your eyes smarted. Tears, sudden and hot, pooled and fell freely. You felt mortified and ridiculous and very impervious at once. The laugh you tried to force came out more like a sob.
“M’sorry,” you hiccuped. “What was I thinking? I’m awful.”
He stopped walking and turned to face you. For a moment, he was quietly furious and perhaps even a little bewildered, which made him look achingly human.
“Don’t say that,” he breathed. He did not sound like someone who believed in platitudes. “You’re not awful. You’re just tired and you’ve had too much to drink.”
“M’drunk, not dumb. I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. Jus’ got…got lost in the moment.”
“Let’s just go back to the castle first” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober.”
You sniffled weakly, wiped at your face with the back of your hand, and let him shepherd you back toward the castle.
By the time you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you were barely keeping your eyes open, your body growing heavier with each step.
“Password?” the Fat Lady trilled, eyeing Jaemin suspiciously.
You tried to form the word ‘Flibbertigibbet,’ but your tongue felt like a thick piece of wet paper and it came out as something closer to "Flub-a-dub". The Fat Lady, mercifully, just sighed and allowed you access anyway.
“I’ll help you,” Jaemin murmured, his arm tightening around your waist to keep you upright as the portrait swung open.
But as he made to step over the threshold, you planted a hand firmly on his chest.
“You can’t come in,” you said, shaking your head slow and wide.
He raised an elegant eyebrow. “And why’s that?”
“Cause you’re a snake,” you told him seriously. “And the Fat Lady… She doesn’t like snakes. Nope! No snakes ‘llowed in the lion house. S’the rules.”
You dissolved into giggles, finding this logic unbearably funny. The look on Jaemin’s face only made you laugh harder, a snorting, hiccupping thing that had you clutching at the portrait frame for support.
“Right. God forbid I upset the natural order,” he said, a reluctant, lopsided smile finally tugging at his lips.
He reached out, gently tucking a messy strand of hair behind your ear. “I think that’s quite enough out of you. Go on, get to bed.”
You sketched a salute, barely avoiding smacking yourself in the face. “Aye aye, cap’n,”
And with that, you let the portrait swing shut, cutting off the sound of Jaemin’s laughter. You made your way up to your dormitory on unsteady legs, collapsing into bed fully clothed.
As sleep claimed you, dragging you down into dreamless oblivion, one last thought chased itself around your fuzzy brain.
No snakes in the lion’s den. Not even pretty ones with soft lips and warm hands.
It was a good rule, you decided muzzily. A very good rule indeed.
pairing: grad student!haechan x grad student!reader
genre: fluff, slight angst
word count: 10.2k
synopsis: academic validation and beating lee donghyuck are your only motivations in life. spoiler alert: you end up achieving only one of the two.
author’s note: this was supposed to be released for holo LMAO better late than never? anyways ladies this is fiction <3 do NOT ever give a male english major the time of day - signed an english major (p.s. i mention christmas exactly one time in this so this counts as a holiday fic)
warning(s): sexism in academia, brief descriptions of sexual harassment
playlist: rose-colored boy by paramore ― enemies by lauv ― always, everytime by the wrecks ― let it happen by gracie abrams ― running home by jade lemac
Act I) And when I close my eyes, I see you for who you truly are, which is UUUG-LAY.
When it comes to receiving bad news, you would consider yourself pretty good at handling it. You’ve always been the type to compartmentalize and try to find the most rational way to react. Having such an analytical personality is part of the reason why you decided to pursue an English degree in college. Sure, some may consider you cold and elitist, but to that you respond―well, yes!
That being said, you’re about 30 seconds away from hurling up your breakfast burrito and $8 matcha latte in a projectile fashion.
You stare at Dr. Min, the Program Director of the English Department and your mentor, like she just dropkicked you in the gut. Normally, your mouth would be agape with despair and horror, but you smartly keep your lips sealed tight due to previously mentioned urge to spill chunks all over her pristine office.
The situation is worsened by the fact that there is a creature standing right beside you, looking only slightly disgruntled. Like he just received a cup of cold coffee level of disgruntled. As if Dr. Min didn’t just casually destroy your entire world.
The creature goes by the name of Lee Donghyuck. He’s barely a human, simply masquerading as one with his fluffy hair and glowy skin. Rather, he’s just a walking, talking literary reference to the most pretentious authors ever. His sole reason for existence is to compete with you for teacher’s pet. The two of you have been vying for Dr. Min’s attention since you both got into grad school. More specifically, you both have been competing for the eventual letter of recommendation that you’ll need from her in order to get into the highly prestigious PhD program. She’s super selective of who she will write the letter for, so you and Donghyuck essentially have been in a constant WWE brawl to kiss her ass.
“Two graduate faculty members are on sabbatical, so the amount of staff available to vote on your papers are an even number,” Dr. Min had explained, “Hence, why we’re in this situation. You both have the same amount of votes.”
“Can’t you just be the tiebreaker, Dr. Min?” Donghyuck asks, carding a hand through his brown hair. It’s still tinted a light purple hue from when he dyed it to cosplay Rafayel from Love and Deepspace for Halloween. Yes, he does play a gacha dating sim about random men who look AI-generated. Of his many sins, this is low on your list.
Dr. Min shakes her head, smiling apologetically. “You know I always abstain from voting when it comes to my mentees’ papers.”
“So, what’s going to happen now? Which one of us will be going to the symposium?” you ask, finally managing to gather yourself and speak up. Despite your best efforts, you feel another wave of nausea hit you when Dr. Min glances your way. There’s something about the way she’s so poised and collected that always makes you think she’s silently judging you.
“That’s what I’ve called you both here for,” she trails off, clapping her hands together. “I’ve decided that, for the first time in this university’s history, we will be sending two representatives to the annual Shakespeare Scholars Research Symposium!”
Dr. Min pauses, most likely expecting celebratory cheers from the two of you. However, she’s met with stone-cold silence. You and Donghyuck just stand there stiffly, arms hanging limp by your sides and faces scrunched like you just ate the dog food flavored jelly bean from the BeanBoozled game.
“Don’t get too excited, now,” Dr. Min jokes awkwardly. “Why the doom and gloom?”
“But…our papers are way too similar. It wouldn’t make sense for both of us to go,” you protest.
As much as you hate to admit it, you and Donghyuck are often interested in the same topics and themes when it comes to your research papers. This time is also no exception. For this paper, you decided to write about the female empowerment in the classic 1999 romcom 10 Things I Hate About You compared to the original source material, Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Meanwhile, Donghyuck (because he’s incapable of not riding on your coattails) decided to write about gender identity in the classic 2006 romcom She’s the Man compared to Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.
“Well, the concepts are certainly similar, but the actual content is different,” Dr. Min replies, “Besides, I think we need more pop culture in academia.”
When you and Donghyuck fail to respond again, she huffs. “Come on, you guys! I know the two of you are competitive, but it’s a wonderful opportunity. This is going to look amazing on your CV when you apply for the PhD program.”
The mention of the PhD program makes you and Donghyuck perk up like meerkats, and you know Dr. Min did it on purpose.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Dr. Min. We would be happy to represent the university together,” Donghyuck quickly says, putting on the fakest smile you’ve ever seen. His eyes sparkle in a way that reminds you of those shiny plastic dolls that end up having a demonic spirit in them. Then he looks over at you and beams through grit teeth, “Wouldn’t we?”
A fake smile of your own slowly spreads across your face like paralyzing venom as you glare at Donghyuck. “Yes, of course.”
“Good.” Dr. Min nods, satisfied. “I’m glad to see that you two are getting along better. I’ll see you on Friday at the airport, bright and early.”
You and Donghyuck say your goodbyes to her before marching out of her office like the twins from The Shining. The moment the door closes behind you, the two of you recoil from each other like being within 6 feet of one another will make your skin melt off. You both start speedwalking to the exit of the building at the same pace, completely parallel to each other on opposite sides of the hallway.
“You are such a two-faced liar,” you hiss in a hushed whisper, “Always making me look like the difficult one while you’re all happy-go-lucky, kumbaya.”
“Well, if it always looks like it, then maybe it’s the case, don’t you think?” Donghyuck sweetly retorts.
“Ooh, burn,” you say sarcastically, “Your words might actually have some merit if there wasn’t steam coming off the top of your overinflated, egoistic head. I know you’re just as pissed about this as I am.”
“Oh, Y/N. You are always so shortsighted,” Donghyuck sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Don’t you see the bigger picture?
“Oh, this will be good,” you say wryly, crossing your arms and waiting for him to continue.
“Elementary, my dear Watson―” he starts.
“Doyle never wrote that line―” you quickly interrupt.
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t deserve to be Watson. You’re Moriarty.”
“Why do I feel like I have to go through the Labors of Hercules in order for you to get to your point whenever I talk to you?” you demand.
“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, this symposium will be a great opportunity to settle this once and for all. You know they always give out a Best Research Paper award at the end. We may have tied today, but our tiebreaker can be that award. Whoever wins gets the recommendation letter from Dr. Min,” Donghyuck smugly explains.
“You know, maybe there’s not just Helium in that skull of yours,” you smile, “I think that’s a great idea. I suppose a broken clock is right twice a day. ”
“You are so eloquent when it comes to insulting me, yet I don’t see any of that fire in your actual writing?” Donghyuck questions, blinking innocently.
“Oh, I’ll show you―”
You’re just about to rattle off another one of your eloquent insults when a loud howl of wind from the outside interrupts you, making the two of you jolt. Just as you reach the doors to the building, you see through the glass that the sky is a smoky, hazy gray. Rain is starting to fall, and it looks like it's about to become a torrential downpour in a little bit.
You curse under your breath, thinking about your five minute walk to the bus station and whether or not you can beat out the thunderstorm.
“Well, this certainly has to be a bad omen,” Donghyuck says unhelpfully.
You jerk your head towards him and jab a finger in his direction. “This isn’t over. I have to catch the bus before I get waterboarded by this rain. I’ll deal with you on Friday. Until then, stay out of my sight.”
Donghyuck shrugs, fishing out an umbrella from his backpack. Because of course he needs to flaunt the fact that he has an umbrella and you don’t.
“Sounds good to me,” he replies casually.
Steeling yourself for the rain and wind to pelt your face, you open the door in one fell swoop and walk outside―except you’re not getting wet because Donghyuck is trailing behind you and holding his umbrella above your head.
“Uh, why are you following me?” you ask as he moves to walk beside you, even though you know his car is parked in the opposite direction.
“Curb your main character syndrome, Y/N. I have somewhere to be, and it happens to be in the same direction,” he sighs.
“Where?” you probe, suspicious.
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” he answers snottily.
“Then why are you sharing your umbrella with me? Did you get visited by three ghosts on Christmas?” you demand.
“Is it really sharing if you’re just standing next to me and happen to be in the radius of my umbrella?” he ponders.
“You’re like a bridge troll that asks people three riddles before letting them pass,” you sigh.
“Please. As if you could ever solve my riddles.”
You respond by flipping him off, and he just grins.
The two of you walk the rest of the way in silence, the sounds of the rain growing heavier and cars speeding by serving as your only background noise. Occasionally, his elbow bumps your arm due to your proximity to each other. The mixture of the thick humidity in the air and the drifting scent of his fabric softener makes your head swim.
When you make it to the bus station, you don’t say bye to him, nor does he say it to you. Instead, he swiftly turns on his heel and walks back. He doesn’t look back at you either, so your eyes linger on his back for just a tad longer than they should.
You notice that one of his shoulders is damp, the sleeve of his shirt sticking to his skin, as raindrops roll down his arm.
Act II) Ooh, see that, there. Who needs affection when I have blind hatred?
Donghyuck is being eerily quiet this morning, and it’s starting to unnerve you.
He didn’t even jump at the opportunity to compliment Dr. Min’s new haircut (that she got specifically for this conference) the moment she arrived at the airport. When the three of you walked over to the security check line, he just stood there, thumbs tucked underneath the straps of his backpack as he bounced on the balls of his feet. If he heard even a second of the conversation you and Dr. Min were having, he gave no indication of it.
He’s never this silent unless he’s scheming something.
At one point, you started eyeing the security cameras nearby to see if you had accidentally gotten yourself on a prank show. As if this was all an elaborate setup by Donghyuck in order to humiliate you, and you weren’t going to the symposium after all. For a brief moment, you imagine Dr. Min also being in on the ruse and laughing with him about how awful your paper was and how funny it is that you actually thought you had a chance.
Maybe your therapist was right about you having paranoia issues.
Your delusions begin taking over your mind until you finally can’t take it anymore. Once the two of you get situated on the plane (Dr. Min got put up in first class, and you and Donghyuck were relegated to economy as lowly grad students), you finally ask:
“Okay, what is your problem? You’re acting weird―er than usual.”
Donghyuck is looking straight ahead, peering at the folded tray table on the seat in front of him. It takes him a second to acknowledge your words, turning towards you with a strained smirk.
“Wow, are you worried about me?” His voice trembles.
It isn’t until he turns towards you that you finally get a good look at his face. His normally glowing complexion is completely blanched, and his expression is strained, twisted into a grimace. In other words, he looks completely terrified. It scares you a little too.
“Jesus,” you breathe, leaning in, “now I kind of am. Are you sick?”
“I guess that’s one way to describe it,” he laughs, closing his eyes and leaning back. “Mentally and physically, yes. But not, like, in a stomach flu kind of way.”
You pause, studying his face. “Are you…afraid of flying?”
He opens one eye and glances over at you. “How much aura would I lose if I said yes?”
You lightly shove his arm. “Be serious. You have no aura anyways.”
“Ouch. That’s one of the more hurtful things you’ve said to me recently.”
“Seriously, are you okay?” you ask firmly.
“Of course,” he replies, inhaling but his breath hitches, “I’ll have to be. This paper isn’t going to present itself.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“What good would that do? Besides look super lame and give you another thing to hold against me,” he jokes.
You snort. “Why would I hold this against you when I have actual legitimate reasons to find you lame?”
Donghyuck looks genuinely taken aback, eyes widening like a newborn doe. His voice is quiet and hopeful, almost innocent, when he says, “...Yeah?”
He sounds so sincere that you feel your face grow warm. “That is so rude. What kind of monster do you think I am? No matter how much I hate you, I’m not such a terrible person that I would make fun of your phobias.”
He blinks. “No, that’s not what I meant―”
“Whatever. I don’t want you to think I have something over you now, so we’ll make it even,” you announce, “I’ll tell you one of my fears too.”
“Y/N, you don’t have to―”
“When we were going through security earlier and you were being super quiet, I fully thought you and Dr. Min had planned an elaborate prank on me in which I wasn’t actually going to the symposium and that you were only letting me believe I was when, in fact, my paper was terrible,” you confess, blurting everything out in one breath.
Donghyuck stares at you, completely bewildered. “So, you think I’m such a monster that I would―”
“My point being,” you continue, “that I have an irrational fear of being left out. Because I’m not good enough.”
“Y/N―”
“But this doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna kick your ass at the symposium. I will be getting that award. Just…sometimes I gaslight myself into thinking the opposite,” you quickly add, realizing that you may have just given away a little too much of yourself.
That’s the thing with Donghyuck. It’s really easy to forget about everything else when you’re bickering with him. You’ve never had to worry about what to say to him. He’s so smug and annoying and irritating that it makes you feel like you can do anything if it means being able to beat him.
Maybe that’s why you freaked out so much when he was so quiet this morning. Maybe that’s why you’re telling him this now.
“You know, you could’ve just said spiders or something,” he finally says after a long pause, a shit-eating grin finding its way to his lips. The color has come back to his face, and he’s got that mischievous spark in his eye again.
“Firstly, I’m not afraid of spiders. Secondly, you’re an unbelievably huge asshole.” You cross your arms. “I can’t believe―”
“Y/N.” Donghyuck reaches over and gently tugs on the sleeve of your sweater. His touch makes you fall silent. “I’m only going to say this once. And if you try to bring it up again, I’ll deny it, so listen carefully.”
You roll your eyes, waiting for another terrible joke.
“Look at me,” he whispers, leaning in to make sure your eyes meet his. His brown eyes are so dark that they almost look black, like pools of obsidian, yet his gaze is so warm and firm as if you were being enveloped by a warm sunrise. The soft expression on his face anchors you to your seat, and you can’t bring yourself to look away despite knowing you probably should.
“You are brilliant,” he states, as if they’re the truest words in the world.
His sincerity catches you completely off guard, and your mind goes blank. All you can think about is the way he’s looking at you like he’s never been more sure of anything else.
The two of you flinch when you hear the roar of the airplane’s engine, indicating that it’s about to take off. Donghyuck clenches his jaw and pulls away, and you can see his entire body tense as he grips the armrest so hard that his knuckles turn white.
Ripping your eyes off of him, you reach under the seat for your backpack and fish out your AirPods with trembling fingers. You’re still so shaken from earlier that you randomly select a playlist before handing one of the AirPods to Donghyuck. When he raises an eyebrow, you simply reply, “To help you relax.”
He wordlessly takes it and puts it in his ear, taking in the song. A few more seconds pass by before he, stifling a laugh, asks, “So, your idea of relaxation is playing death metal at full volume?”
You gasp, looking back down at your phone and realizing you had selected your road rage mix by accident. Too embarrassed to admit it, you reach over to take the AirPod out. “Fine, be ungrateful then. I’ll listen by myself.”
Donghyuck tuts and leans his head away from your hand, nearly hitting it against the window. “Excuse me, I am trying to relax.”
“You’re obnoxious.”
“Can’t hear you over the sounds of my relaxation,” he says in a sing-song voice.
“Whatever,” you sigh, but you’re fighting a smile.
Throughout the flight, you occasionally sneak glances at Donghyuck, checking to see if he’s uncomfortable. He’s always fast asleep, head leaning against the window and lips slightly parted. To your relief, he looks much more serene than he did at the start.
He still doesn’t budge when the flight attendant comes around to hand out Biscoff cookies, and you’re tempted to steal his pack for yourself but decide against it. Instead, you begrudgingly put them in his lap. If you were anywhere else, you one-hundred percent would, but it doesn’t feel right this time.
After scarfing down your cookies, you drift off yourself and don’t wake up until a crackly announcement from the captain that your flight will be landing soon startles you awake. When you look over at Donghyuck, he’s still asleep. Shifting in your seat, you hear plastic crinkling in your lap, and you look down in confusion.
A pack of Biscoff cookies.
Taking a shaky deep breath, you lean back against your seat. The two-pack, cinnamon-flavored shortbread cookies sit in your lap like a ticking time bomb. You think about sharing an umbrella under the rain. You think about Donghyuck’s fear of flying. You think about how he thinks you’re brilliant. You think about these damn Biscoff cookies.
Suddenly, you wish you weren’t sitting arm-to-arm with Donghyuck; you wish he was always a hallway’s distance from you. Because that was the distance that you can think clearly when he’s around you. Because that was the distance before―
Before.
Act III) Nonsense! You don't need a man to wear a beautiful dress!
“Somehow, there was a misunderstanding and only a single room was booked for the both of you.”
Well, so much for distance.
Dr. Min looks like she wants to crawl in a hole. “I am so sorry, you guys. The hotel is used to each university only bringing one student, so they weren’t expecting two. And the hotel is fully booked for the symposium, so they don’t have an extra room.”
You and Donghyuck exchange defeated glances, too exhausted from the flight (for many reasons) to even react.
“None of the nearby hotels have any available either,” Dr. Min continues, “so, I can’t believe I have to ask this of you guys, but would you mind sharing a room? The room also has a sofa pull-out bed, and maybe you guys can rock-paper-scissors for it.”
This certainly throws a wrench in your Avoid Lee Donghyuck Like the Plague weekend plans, but Dr. Min looks so stressed that you really don’t want to further complicate things for her. When you look over at Donghyuck (something that you had been explicitly trying not to do), he’s already looking at you, waiting for your answer.
“It’s fine,” you finally say, sighing, “We’re all grown-ups, after all.”
Dr. Min turns to Donghyuck, expectant. He just shrugs, replying, “If Y/N’s okay with it.”
“Great. Thank you guys so much!” Dr. Min exclaims, clapping her hands together before handing you the room key. “You guys can take some time to get some rest and freshen up. Don’t forget we’re going to have dinner with a few of my colleagues tonight too. Meet me here at 7:30 sharp.”
The two of you say your goodbyes before trudging over to the elevator. You don’t say anything to each other even as you enter your cramped room, equipped with a single queen-sized bed and a sofa pull-out couch that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 60s.
You and Donghyuck just stare in disbelief for a moment before he turns towards you and holds out a fist. “Rock, paper, scissors?”
“Huh?”
“Rock, paper, scissors!” You don’t even have time to react as Donghyuck starts counting down, lowering his fist on every word.
Without thinking, you pick scissors, only for him to pick rock.
“Looks like I get the bed,” he says smugly.
“You ambushed me. That’s not fair,” you demand, crossing your arms.
“Two out of three?”
“Rockpaperscissors!” you blurt at the speed of light, trying to catch him off guard.
This time, he picks scissors while you pick paper.
“You suck,” you snap, shoving his hand away and stomping towards the pull-out couch before dropping your bag on it. Donghyuck’s laugh rings throughout the room like a bell from behind you.
This feels more like before―when he pissed you off more than anything. Donghyuck from before was too nice, too soft. It’s actually better that you’re sleeping on the musty pull-out couch; this is more of your dynamic with him. Before he shared his umbrella with you. Before he told you about his fear of flying. Before he called you brilliant. Before you nearly had a panic attack over some Biscoff cookies.
“I’m getting ready first,” you say petulantly.
“Be my guest,” he replies, raising his hands up like he’s surrendering, “Take as long as you need.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Because of the double standard, of course. Women have to uphold a much higher beauty standard, and there is more societal pressure for them to feel like they have to dress up―”
“Holy performative male.” You roll your eyes. “Do you cry when you think about women getting their periods, too?”
“Only when I’m drinking my matcha and reading Sylvia Plath.” He winks.
After grabbing a change of clothes and your skincare regimen, you promptly push past him and close the bathroom door in his face.
.
.
.
In the end, it does take you a while to get ready. Between doing your skincare, putting on a full face of makeup, and styling your hair, you made sure to put in extra effort since you could be potentially networking with Dr. Min’s colleagues. You even brought your best evening gown in anticipation.
When you finally emerge from the bathroom, Donghyuck is sitting on the bed with his laptop, furiously typing away. His eyes briefly glance up at the sound of the door opening and returns to the screen before he does a double take, eyes widening when he finally sees you.
“What are you doing?” you ask, nodding towards his laptop.
“Oh.” He stops for a moment. “My presentation notes. For the presentation. Tomorrow.”
“What a vast vocabulary you have there, English major,” you tease, sitting on the edge of the bed so that you can slip your heels on. “Are you that nervous for tomorrow?”
Donghyuck laughs, but it’s more like a breathless huff that he releases. “Something like that.”
“You’re talking in riddles again. Whatever, just hurry up and get ready. We have to be down there in forty minutes,” you say after glancing at your phone.
Clearing his throat, he gives you a quick two-finger salute before closing his laptop and grabbing his stuff. He stiffly walks around you at an odd angle, as if you had an invisible force field around you, and keeps his eyes straight ahead.
While Donghyuck is getting ready, you scroll on TikTok, watching meditation videos and tutorials on breathing exercises in order to relax. You so badly want to make a good impression on Dr. Min’s colleagues (and, subsequently, on Dr. Min too) that you’re making yourself nauseous from imagining all the ways things could go wrong.
You’re in the middle of a third attempt to completely clear your mind for a meditation exercise when Donghyuck steps out of the bathroom. Like the pain he is, he completely destroys any hope of a clear and sound mind as he walks over to you.
Donghyuck is wearing a navy blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the top two buttons undone, tucked into a pair of black slacks. His hair is lightly gelled, and you hate how effortlessly handsome he is.
“What are you doing?” He asks, gesturing to your phone that’s still playing a video of a woman sitting cross-legged and telling you to breathe in and out.
Hurriedly, you lock your phone and put it away in your purse. “Nothing.”
“Why are you watching meditation videos? Nervous?”
“Why do you ask if you already know?” you retort.
“I enjoy the validation,” he replies smoothly, “So, is that a yes?”
“Yes, if you must know, I am nervous. Not all of us are natural-born ass-kissers, you know,” you hiss, “I need to get on their good side. Connections are everything in academia.”
“Ah, but you don’t need meditation or ass-kissing to make a good impression. You forget the simplest method of all,” he points out.
“And that is?”
“Being yourself,” he beams.
“Thanks for the advice, Sesame Street. You think I wouldn’t be doing that if it worked?” you ask wryly.
“How would you know if you’ve never tried it?” He crosses his arms.
You stand up, suddenly feeling slightly offended. “What are you implying?”
“Oh, I think you know.”
“That is so rich coming from you. You’re the fakest of us all,” you snap, jabbing a finger in his chest.
“I never said it works for me.” Donghyuck smiles, tilting his head.
You pause, blinking as your hand falls limply to your side. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know?”
When you can’t think of a response, he shrugs. “Or maybe you don’t.”
You watch him walk past you to get the room key from the nightstand, slipping it into his wallet, before grabbing your purse from the bed and handing it to you. “Come on, we’ll be late for dinner.”
And just like that, dinner is the last thing on your mind.
.
.
.
“It’s so surreal seeing you two in such fancy clothes. You guys look amazing!” Dr. Min gushes, as the three of you take your seats inside a fancy restaurant whose name you can’t even pronounce. A salad from here probably costs a month’s worth of rent. Luckily, you’re not paying.
“You look stunning tonight as well, Dr. Min,” Donghyuck instantly responds, turning up his ass-kissing to 100.
You just sip on your glass of water, trying to distract yourself with a task by picking up and setting down your glass continuously. Eventually, a waiter comes by and dramatically refills your glass without you even asking. You murmur a quick thank you before going right back to your routine.
“Oh, here they are!” Dr. Min stands up and waves to someone behind you, and you quickly set your water back down. You smooth out the bunched up dress in your lap and tuck your hair behind your ears. As Dr. Min ushers her colleagues over to your table, you feel Donghyuck’s warm hand gently on your knee, stilling your leg that you didn’t even know you were furiously bouncing.
He doesn’t say a word, only looking at you for a second before pulling away, standing up and plastering on a big grin to greet Dr. Min’s colleagues. Your leg burns like his fingerprints individually branded you.
Mind whirring, you shakily stand up and hope that your face is doing something similar to a smile.
“Donghyuck, Y/N, these are my colleagues. This is Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory,” Dr. Min introduces, gesturing to two middle-aged men in suits who are both wearing glasses. Frankly, they look identical to you, but such is the case with the elites in academia.
You all say your greetings before sitting down, and thankfully, Dr. Min orders the food for you, rattling off fancy French dishes that you couldn’t even begin to spell. She also orders a few bottles of super expensive wine, though you and Donghyuck choose to abstain. Despite your initial nerves, the dinner isn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. The conversation flows naturally between everyone, and you even get a few laughs from Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory, which gives you a slight confidence boost. It isn’t until dinner is starting to wind down, and the professors are flushed and slightly slurring that Dr. Gregory turns towards you, saying, “You know, Y/N, you’re such a pretty girl. If only you would smile a bit more. You’d be a real stunner if you smiled more.”
The pungent scent of wine on his breath wafts over to you as he continues, “Don’t be so uptight, you know?”
Your entire body freezes, and you suddenly feel sick to your stomach. This isn’t exactly your first time dealing with creepy old men, but you’ve never had to do so with creepy old men that could control your future in your career. Especially not with your mentor’s colleagues―the mentor that you revere and want so desperately to impress.
You feel your face burn with shame and humiliation, as you try to think of something to say that will diffuse the situation but also not offend Dr. Gregory. Dr. Min and Dr. Collins look uncomfortable as well, but they don’t seem like they know what to do either.
“Oh, lighten up! It was just a joke,” Dr. Gregory finally says after noticing the tense atmosphere, “You young people never have a sense of humor.”
“Pray tell, what was the joke?” Donghyuck asks, his words dripping with a venomous sweetness. He’s gripping the cloth napkin in his lap with such strength that you think he might rip it. He’s seething with so much rage that you can feel it radiate from his body like heat waves. You’re worried he’s about to jump across the table and attack Dr. Gregory, so you slowly reach under the table and place your hand on top of his.
It’s not worth it, you want to tell him.
Without looking at you, Donghyuck releases the napkin and flips your hand with your palm facing upwards before lacing his fingers through yours, keeping your entwined fingers tucked into his lap. He holds your hand tightly but not enough to hurt. Just enough that you know he’s not going to let this slide.
“Explain the joke,” Donghyuck continues to press, “What’s so fucking funny?”
Dr. Gregory just stares at him in a drunken daze, and Dr. Min hesitantly glances between the two, finally stammering, “N-Now, that language isn’t appropriate, Donghyuck. However, Dr. Gregory needs to apologize to Y/N, too. Gosh, Dr. Gregory, you always get too drunk for your own good.”
“You know, Dr. Gregory,” Donghyuck starts, completely ignoring her, “you’d be a real stunner if you went to an AA meeting instead of lurking around at research symposiums and sexually harassing female students.”
“How dare you accuse me of―” Dr. Gregory begins sputtering, face turning even redder.
“Oh, lighten up! It was just a joke. What, you old perverts don’t have a sense of humor?” Donghyuck raises his voice, so that the surrounding tables can hear him. He stands to his feet, taking you with him, before using his free hand to slam a glass of water in front of Dr. Gregory. He uses so much force that the glass clatters loudly against the wooden table, and water splashes all over the table and Dr. Gregory’s lap.
“Sober up, you piece of shit. Talk to her like that again, and I’ll make sure you’re drinking your fancy wine through a tube in your neck.”
Donghyuck drags your chair out of the way, making sure to scrape the metal against the floor so that it makes a screeching noise, and leads you away from the table and out of the restaurant. Against your better judgment, you look back at the table. The three professors just sit there, shoulders slumped, looking smaller and smaller as you walk away. In the past, they stood tall like the highest peak of a mountain that you could never reach. Now, you can’t help but think that they look so…pathetic.
Donghyuck doesn’t speak to you as you make your way back to the hotel; he just holds your hand like you’ll slip away if he doesn’t. After a few minutes, he takes your intertwined fingers and puts them in his pants pocket. He’s walking so fast that you start to stumble over the uneven pavement in your heels.
“Wait, Donghyuck―”
You nearly trip, but he quickly turns around and catches you. His hands are on your waist, warm and firm, as he carefully steadies you.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say quietly.
Donghyuck takes in a deep breath, his hands linger around your waist as if he was the one being steadied. When he speaks, he unconsciously pulls you in a bit closer. “Yeah, I should’ve done a lot worse.”
“Come on, you’re a grad student who’s cooped up at home all day writing research papers. You’re not exactly Mike Tyson,” you try to tease. You’ve never seen him this angry before.
“I could definitely kick his teeth in.” He looks a little too determined for your liking.
“And then get an assault charge?” You sigh. “I’m not paying your bail.”
He seems to soften up a bit as he studies your face. His hands flinch at your sides, seemingly realizing that he’s cradling you against him, before he takes a step back. His palms drag against your dress as he lets go of your waist.
“Are you okay?” Donghyuck doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, as he lifts them back up before putting them back down.
“Of course.” You give him a halfhearted smile. “Not exactly my first rodeo with this kind of stuff.”
You can see a muscle in his jaw spasm.
“It was nice seeing you cuss him out though. Took the words right out of my mouth. But, you know, I would probably get called a bitch or something if I said it.” You shrug.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Misogyny?” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you on your performative male shit again?”
“Well, anyone who knows me knows that I am a staunch feminist. An ally, if you will.” Donghyuck raises a fist in the air, and you roll your eyes, though you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. When you meet his gaze again, he hesitantly chews on his lip for a moment before continuing, “But…I’m also sorry that you had to listen to him speak to you like that. I wish there was something I could do that was more productive than kicking his teeth in.”
“Hm,” you hum, tapping your chin, “I suppose I could forgive you if you ordered room service. I’m starving. All that bougie French finger food Dr. Min ordered basically evaporated into thin air the moment I put it in my mouth.”
You give him a mischievous grin, and the tension visibly leaves his body.
“Deal.”
.
.
.
That’s how the two of you end up lounging on the bed together, a pepperoni pizza and chicken and waffles feast sprawled out in front of you. One of the television channels is playing a rerun of The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, so you and Donghyuck keep your eyes glued to the screen like children with their iPads. Occasionally, one of you will comment on how much both of you hate Gale and kick your feet when Peeta says his iconic “if it weren’t for the baby” line.
Once the movie is over and the food is completely cleared out, you both flop onto your backs, feeling like stuffed turkeys with how much you ate. The two of you lay there in content silence for a second before you let out a sigh.
It was a lot easier to not think about anything when you had all these distractions, but now that the night is winding down, reality is setting in quickly.
“Tomorrow is going to be so awkward,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “Dr. Min is probably pissed.”
Donghyuck furrows his eyebrows. “Surely, you don’t mean she would be pissed at us. Not when it was her creepy ass friend’s fault.”
“Well, we certainly didn’t act very professional either.”
“Y/N. Look at me, please.” You feel his hands gently swat yours away from your face.
Begrudgingly, you turn your head towards him. His face is a lot closer than you’re expecting, and your eyes wander as you start to count all of the moles on his smooth skin. Your gaze briefly flickers to his heart-shaped lips before hurriedly traveling back up to his eyes.
“You are not the one who should be worried about tomorrow,” he states firmly, “Dr. Min is the one in a position of authority. It’s her job to protect you.”
“I hope that’s the case,” you mutter.
“It is. She will.” He sounds so sure.
“Well, it doesn’t matter―”
“It does.”
“―I just need to get through this presentation, and I’ll never have to see any of these people ever again.” Truthfully, you probably will since academia circles run small. Donghyuck knows that too.
“Do you―” He hesitates, scanning your face carefully. “Are you going to file a report against Dr. Gregory?”
You laugh humorlessly. “Would anyone believe me?”
“You have three witnesses.”
“That I would be asking to jeopardize their own careers for me,” you point out, “I know we’ve had quite a spirited rivalry, but even I wouldn’t try to sabotage you like this.”
His expression is twisted into something you can’t quite discern. “What―”
“I’m not going to file a report,” you state matter-of-factly, “It’s not worth it.”
Donghyuck goes quiet, clearly trying to collect himself, before whispering hoarsely, “It’s your decision.”
He stares at you for a very long time when you don’t respond. Without even realizing it, the two of you had turned your bodies toward one another on the bed. Your legs are curled upwards, and if you wanted to, you could shift just slightly and bump his thighs. If you wanted to, you could reach out and brush the stray curl from his eyes.
“Y/N.” He murmurs your name so softly that you almost don’t hear him. In fact, the syllables blend together almost as if he were sleeptalking.
“Yeah?” You hold your breath.
“Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever you decide to do, just know that I’m on your side. Always.”
You don’t remember what you said back; you don’t even remember what he looked like when he said it, no matter how desperately you try. You almost wonder if it was just a dream.
All you know is that you wake up wrapped in Lee Donghyuck’s arms the next morning. His bicep is under your neck while his hand is cradling the back of your head. His other arm is slung over your waist, fingers splayed across the small of your back. The hem of your evening gown has ridden up to your thighs, and your bare legs are tangled with his. Your cheek is tucked snugly into the crook of his neck, and every time he exhales, you feel his lips brush the crown of your head. He smells like faded cologne and warm skin.
Sunlight streams into your eyelids when you blearily blink, but you’re so distracted by the peaceful expression on Donghyuck’s face that you barely notice. Without even thinking, you brush the stray curl from his eyes. He slightly stirs at the movement before pulling you in closer, stilling once again after another second.
Against your better judgment, you lean forward, burrowing your face into his neck and feeling his skin against yours. As you listen to the sound of his breathing, it doesn’t take you long to fall back asleep.
Act IV) But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
When you wake up, you’re under the covers. Donghyuck is gone.
Except when you turn to the right, he’s curled up in a cramped fetal position on the pull-out couch with no blanket. His back is facing you, but you can see his shoulders steadily rise up and down.
You’re more impressed by how deeply you were sleeping to not notice him tuck you under the covers and then set up the couch.
Shit, what if you drooled on him and that’s why he moved?
Your hand frantically flies to the corner of your mouth, but it’s dry. Almost cracked. Then you realize that you slept in your makeup, and your skin is probably gasping for any sort of hydration.
Swinging your feet over the side of the bed, you tip-toe your way to the bathroom. Carefully shutting the door behind you, you quickly begin your morning routine of brushing your teeth, washing your face, and taking the hottest shower you can handle. You stand still, letting the scorching water run down your body, as you recall the events from the night before. In the end, not even the scalding temperature can burn away the feeling of being enveloped in Donghyuck’s arms.
Furiously scrubbing your face, you wish you had just gotten up and moved to the pull-out couch when you woke up the first time. Instead of cuddling Donghyuck like a psycho. He probably felt you clinging to him like a koala and promptly escaped, even though you were the one who lost rock-paper-scissors.
Better yet, you wish you had never come here in the first place. Maybe then your professional and…personal lives wouldn’t be in complete shambles.
Eventually, the water starts to run cold, and you have no choice but to step out into the steam-filled bathroom. Your phone chimes on the corner of the sink, and you reach over to check it―
Your heart is nearly regurgitated out of your mouth.
It’s a text from Dr. Min inviting you to breakfast. Just you and her.
.
.
.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me privately.” Dr. Min is nervously wringing her hands as you awkwardly push around the omelette in front of you.
Honestly, you had contemplated waking Donghyuck up and dragging him down with you, but then you came to your senses. You’re not sure when the switch happened that he’s the first person you turn to for help, and it freaks you out exponentially. Especially when just 48 hours ago, you would’ve rather hacked off your arm than ask him for anything.
Besides, this is nothing you can’t handle. You’re pretty sure.
“No problem.” You try your best to look cool and composed.
“I wanted to apologize for Dr. Gregory’s behavior last night. He got way too drunk, and it was completely unacceptable. He also wants to extend his sincerest apologies. I will make sure this never happens again.”
You’re not sure what to say in response. She’s waiting for you expectantly, almost as if she wants you to exonerate her from her guilt. Normally, you would rush to tell her that everything is okay and it’s all in the past now. But the expression on her face reminds you too much of last night, of how small she seemed.
“Okay.” You nod stiffly. “I appreciate you letting me know.”
There’s an awkward, drawn out pause between the two of you before Dr. Min clears her throat. “Okay. Good.”
You start getting up to leave, but you hear a shrill, “Wait!”
In all your years of knowing her, you’ve never seen Dr. Min look this nervous before. She can barely even maintain eye contact with you as she fidgets with her sleeve. “I, um, need to talk to you about something else. About the symposium.”
So much has happened that you’ve barely even thought about the symposium. It almost relieves you to hear about something so normal, considering how…not normal everything has been.
That is, until she says her next words:
“There’s been a bit of a mix-up. Initially, they were planning on having a keynote speaker. However, the speaker ended up canceling, so the schedule was made without his inclusion. The problem now is that the speaker informed us last-minute that he’ll be able to make it after all. So, I’ve been asked by the organizers to cut one of my students from the program, since I was the only one who brought two.”
You shakily inhale when it dawns on you that this is the real reason she called you down here. That it was always going to be you. The truth of being inferior feels like someone just knocked the wind out of you. You’re struggling to breathe properly, but you will yourself to maintain your composure; you’ll be damned if you have a panic attack in front of Dr. Min.
But all that goes through your head is not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.
“It’s not because your paper isn’t up to par,” she quickly insists, “in fact, your paper was brilliant―”
She couldn’t have picked a shittier adjective. That word is another gut punch.
“―it’s just that Donghyuck is more of what they’re looking for. What they’re expecting.”
That makes you pause. “What?”
“The judges have their…biases. They’re much more inclined to respond to him,” Dr. Min responds vaguely, almost as if she’s too afraid to say what she really means aloud.
“Because Donghyuck is a man?”
“Trust me, as a woman, I understand. It’s ridiculous that academia is still such a deeply patriarchal system. I’m just trying to play by their rules. If Donghyuck gets the Best Research Paper award, it’ll look really good for the university,” she explains as if it’ll all make sense to you now.
“So, you acknowledge how academia has fostered an incredibly sexist environment, yet you want to continue upholding that culture?” you ask incredulously, “Or is it because you’ve, against all odds, already succeeded in this environment so you don’t want to upset the status quo? You’re willing to close the door behind you if it means that you can retain your position?”
“I have always championed for more female scholars in our field, Y/N. This is different. It’s beyond that,” she answers defensively.
“Because your reputation is on the line?”
Dr. Min purses her lips. “I am doing what is best for our school. I hope you’ll understand that some day. I’m sure Donghyuck will as well.”
“We’ll see about that.” You clench your jaw.
“Don’t further complicate things,” she warns, clearly perceiving your words as a threat, “I really am sorry that this happened. I know this would have been a wonderful addition to your CV and your application to the PhD program. I promise I will write you that letter of recommendation if things go smoothly today.”
You actually laugh at her, a hysterical shriek bubbling in your throat. “You were my hero, you know.”
Without waiting for her response, you get up from your seat and walk away, never once turning around to look back at her. You’re not sure how you gathered up the strength to return to your room without collapsing once, but you swear you’re going to faint when Donghyuck peeks his head out of the bathroom when he hears you come in. He has a running blowdryer in one hand and a round brush in the other. He looks so happy to see you that you feel nauseous.
“Hey! I was wondering where you went. For a moment, I thought my snoring scared you off―what’s wrong?” In an instant, he’s set everything down and is making his way over to you.
You sidestep him before dragging your numb body to the edge of the bed, sitting down with your back turned against him. Squeezing your burning eyes shut, you try to remember the breathing exercises you had been watching the day before.
“Are you sick?” You hear Donghyuck’s soothing voice in front of you, but you don’t dare look at him. “Do you need anything?”
You shake your head, feeling a sob rack your body.
“Please tell me what’s wrong. What can I do? Tell me what to do, Y/N.” He sounds so scared that you know you won’t be able to tell him the truth. You’re not cruel enough to make him throw away this opportunity for you.
“Nothing,” you finally manage to get out. When you open your eyes, he’s kneeling in front of you, desperately scanning your face. What a sight he’s probably getting with all the tears and snot. “I’m not presenting today. There was a scheduling issue, and they had to cut someone from the program.”
“What? Why would they cut someone when it’s their own fault? And why you?”
You shrug halfheartedly. “Dr. Min didn’t tell me. Maybe my paper was just not as good as yours.”
“No,” he responds immediately, “that’s impossible. There had to have been another reason. If anything, Dr. Min should have cut me. I was the one who acted out of line.”
You smile bitterly. “When you do it, you’re a badass. When I do it, I’m a bitch.”
It was a sentiment you had echoed last night, but you had no idea just how ironic those words would turn out.
“Then take my place.” Donghyuck says it like it’s the simplest solution in the world.
“What, no,” you say in bewilderment, “Dr. Min has made it clear that she wants you to present. Besides, your name is on the program.”
“Fine. I won’t present either.” He crosses his arms and looks away like a child throwing a tantrum.
“Are you insane? What’s the point of all this if neither of us presents?” you demand.
“I’m not going to do it if you’re not.”
“Don’t you want the recommendation letter from Dr. Min?”
He stares at you in disbelief. “You think I care about that?”
“In case you forgot, you’re the one who suggested the competition―”
“Y/N, that was before―” he pauses, wetting his lips, “before this.”
Neither of you seem to know what this is.
“It hasn’t been a competition to me for a while now. The letter, the award, this whole symposium, none of that matters to me. I just care about you.” Donghyuck’s voice breaks slightly. “The only thing I want is you.”
“But you hate me. We’re…sworn enemies.” Your voice is barely a whisper.
That gets a chuckle out of him. “Maybe, initially. Maybe I didn’t like how much smarter you were than me. Maybe I didn’t enjoy the way you would always rip me a new one during class discussions. But―no matter how much I fought it, I started looking for you in every room I stepped into and only cared about what you had to say. I told myself a million different reasons for why I was acting the way I was. I thought whatever was forming was loathing, that you were just someone that I needed to prove I was better than. I convinced myself that I needed to tease and annoy you in any possible way because it was a tactic to gain the upperhand. When in reality, I was just doing whatever I could to get your attention. I suggested the competition because I would finally stop thinking about you if we settled our rivalry once and for all. But, Y/N―”
Donghyuck gently reaches up and cups your cheek with his hand, running his thumb along your cheekbone. You subconsciously lean into his touch, eyes fluttering.
“Y/N, the award has always been yours. You’ve won from the very start, and I never stood a chance. I’m not doing this without you.”
The boy you’ve spent your entire college career trying to outshine looks at you like you’re his North Star.
Your fingers slide up his forearm before gently closing around his wrist, cradling his hand against your face. Tilting your head downwards so that you’re level with his kneeling position, you place your forehead against his. Donghyuck lets out a soft gasp like you just sent an electric shock through his body.
“You have to do it. Something good has to come out of this shitshow,” you insist firmly.
He tries to pull away to protest. “No―”
“You said you’d be on my side.”
He looks at you like you’ve physically hurt him.
“Okay.” He finally relents, slumping his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
You surge forward, wrapping your arms around him. Donghyuck catches you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, burying his face in your neck and holding you like he exists only to do so. He holds you so lovingly that you almost break and tell him the truth.
But you don’t.
Instead, you let him go and tell him to hurry up and get ready. You don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on you even as he walks away.
When the two of you finally make your way down to the conference room where the symposium is being held, Dr. Min is already waiting. You slightly flinch when you see her, and to your dismay, Donghyuck seems to notice. He gives you a quizzical glance before looking at Dr. Min, gauging her facial expression. Dr. Min, on the other hand, pretends like nothing happened, and it scares you how good she is at it.
“There you guys are! Come on, Donghyuck is up first.” She ushers you both behind a makeshift stage that they’ve set up. “Okay, make sure to take a few deep breaths. Don’t bury your nose in your notes. Make sure to make eye contact with the audience.”
Donghyuck isn’t paying attention to her whatsoever. Instead, he’s peering around the stage, clearly up to something. You don’t even have time to ask him what he’s planning before the announcer calls his name.
Suddenly, Donghyuck doubles over, clutching his stomach in pain. “Owww!”
He drags the last syllable, getting progressively louder the longer he holds the word. Both you and Dr. Min slightly jump at the volume of his voice.
“What’s wrong?” she asks frantically.
“Oh, my stomach is killing me,” he moans dramatically, “I think it might be the shitty French food we ate last night. Oh, I’m going to throw up.”
He makes dry heaving noises, and Dr. Min takes a step back. “Um, okay. Let’s get you to a bathroom.”
“What about the presentation?” he asks in between vomiting sounds.
“You can’t present if you’re sick. We’ll―”
“Oh, I have a wonderful idea.” He claps his hands together. “How about Y/N presents in my place?”
You should’ve known Donghyuck would have something up his sleeve.
“And look! A copy of Y/N’s paper magically showed up, so she’s all set! Wow, Shakespeare must be in the building with us on this beautiful afternoon.” He whips out the folded pieces of paper in his back pocket that you had thought was his paper. When he notices your death glare, he places the back of his hand on his forehead. “Oh, I feel so sick…”
“Lee Donghyuck, I’m going to kill―”
“We don’t have time for this,” Dr. Min snaps, snatching the paper from Donghyuck and shoving it into your arms. “I don’t know how you two planned this, but I’ll deal with you afterwards. Just go and present.”
“But I―”
Dr. Min grabs your shoulders and essentially manhandles you onto the stage. You stumble out in front of a giant crowd full of confused scholars who definitely just heard all the ruckus Donghyuck made. Awkwardly shuffling over to the podium, you clear your throat into the mic by accident, causing a piercing feedback noise.
“Oh, uh, sorry about that. I’m not Lee Donghyuck. He had…other issues to deal with. My name is Y/N, and I’m here to present on―”
You pause for a moment when you look down at your paper. Written in red ink are loopy, sprawling letters at the top of the page that read:
You are the badass.
Looking back up at the expectant crowd, you take the pages of your paper and rip them in half, the sounds of paper tearing echoing throughout the room.
“I originally planned on presenting about female empowerment in the 1999 film 10 Things I Hate About You compared to the source material, The Taming of the Shrew. However, I cannot, in good faith, speak on this topic without first recounting my own experiences this past weekend. Isn’t it a Shakespearean twist that all we do is sit around and discuss political and sociological issues being acknowledged in works of literature yet we can’t recognize those same problems in our own field? I hope my words force us to acknowledge our own internalized biases.”
.
.
.
In the end, you don’t receive the Best Research Paper award.
In fact, security escorts you out of the conference room shortly after you finish speaking.
You’re not sure what the repercussions of what you just did are going to be, but you can’t find it in you to care. When you’re deposited in the hotel lobby, Donghyuck is already waiting for you.
“How’s your stomach?” you ask sarcastically.
He just shakes his head and chuckles incredulously. “You always find a way to one-up me.”
“So, you’re admitting defeat?” You close the distance between the two of you, stepping so close that your chests nearly touch.
Donghyuck swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Y/N, I―”
You throw your arms around his neck and bring him down to press your lips against his. He snakes an arm around your waist and lifts you up, pulling you tightly against him. He kisses you like he’s on his dying breath, and he holds you like you’re everything he ever dreamed of. For the first time in your life, you know you are.
“Complete and utter defeat,” he whispers against your lips.
Academic validation and beating Lee Donghyuck are your only motivations in life. You end up achieving only one of the two.
.
.
.
It isn’t until when you get back from the symposium the next week that you discover multiple sexual harassment claims were filed against Dr. Gregory after your speech and he was fired by the university. Additionally, Dr. Min was put on administrative leave for allegations of discrimination and abuse of power. She apparently is also being investigated separately by the organizers of the symposium for attempted bribery of the judges by not disclosing the fact that she habitually took them to dinner (who were actually Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory).
“Now, that’s some Shakespearean karma.” Donghyuck winks when he shows you the news article.
“I guess we’re not getting those recommendation letters.” You sigh.
He throws his head back and laughs.
Lacing your fingers through his, you lean your head against his shoulder as the two of you walk down the sidewalk―the sounds of the rain growing heavier against your shared umbrella and cars speeding by serving as your only background noise.
a oneshot where yushi gets jealous of how close you are with riku
w.c 1.3k
tags tokuno yushi x reader , fluff , jealousy , established relationship
note hellooo short fluffy one thats been sitting in my drafts to end the year :3 also thankyou all for 200 followers, i appreciate all of the support soo much !! im slowly getting around to the anon reqs in my inbox, so i hope to post those soon ! <3
ʚɞ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚
You were mindlessly flicking through TV channels, still tired from waking up, curled up into the corner of the couch under a weighted blanket. The dorm was silent apart from the buzz of the TV. Daeyoung and Riku were still asleep, and your boyfriend, Yushi, had gone out before you woke up to get the two of you coffee and breakfast.
Before you could settle on a show to watch, you heard the click of a bedroom door and the faint shuffle of footsteps, followed by the hum of the bathroom lights turning on. You wondered which member had just woken up.
You weren’t left wondering for too long, as, a few minutes later, you saw a sleepy, bed-headed Riku walk through the living room door. He wore a fluffy, black nightgown and cat slippers. Smiling, you patted the space next to you, inviting him to sit with you.
Bar Yushi, you were the closest to Riku out of the Wish members. He was your friend long before he even became a trainee, and was the person who introduced you to his members. He’d also been your biggest cheerleader when it came to confessing to Yushi, practically on his knees, celebrating when you finally did.
Riku flopped onto the sofa next to you, sighing dramatically before resting his head on your shoulder.
“How do you two wake up so early? I’m dying here,” he yawned, stealing the remote and switching to Netflix.
“No one told you to wake up,” you teased, flicking his forehead gently, and he clutched it like you’d mortally wounded him. “Why didn’t you sleep in?”
“I’m so hungry,” he groaned, throwing his head back.
As if in sympathy, your own stomach grumbled loudly. When was Yushi going to get back? Then an idea struck. You grabbed your phone from the coffee table and dialled your boyfriend’s number.
Ring, ring—
It barely rang once before being put through.
“Hey, baby. Everything okay?” Yushi’s voice was warm, easy.
“Yeah, all good! I was just wondering if you could pick up some breakfast for Daeyoung, too?”
Riku’s head snapped to face you at that, mouthing ‘What about me?!’ with an incredulous look plastered on his face. You laughed, nodding at him, “And Ri, too, if you will?”
“Of course, I’ll be on my way back in 10.”
You couldn’t help but grin at the generosity of your boyfriend. You knew he’d been hoping for a quiet morning with you, but he never complained about sharing you with the members. He loved that they loved you too—almost as much as he did.
Riku threw his arms up in victory. “Thank you, God!”
“Hey,” you laughed, shoving his arm. “It’s me you should be thanking!”
***
Twenty minutes later, Riku had fallen asleep next to you, snoring lightly. You giggled at how easy it was for him to doze off, but knew he deserved sleep after long days with full schedules. Looking down at your stomach, you wondered how far away Yushi was.
As if he had heard your silent prayers, you could hear the sound of keys jingling in the front door. You would have got up to help your boyfriend unpack, but you didn’t want to disturb your sleeping best friend next to you.
Yushi entered quietly, arms spilling over with takeout bags and coffee trays. He set everything down on the kitchen counter, his jaw a little tighter than usual.
“Ushi,” you whispered, “thank you for bringing these, you’re the best.”
But he didn’t respond. Maybe you were just too quiet; he probably didn’t hear you. Yet, he had a small scowl on his face that turned the tide of your emotions. You suddenly felt as if Riku was far too close to you, and you pushed yourself up to go and greet your boyfriend. Riku stirred in his sleep, but ultimately didn’t wake up.
You slid your arms around Yushi’s waist, resting your head against his back. He was still slightly cold from the walk outside, his t-shirt cool against your forehead. He stiffened underneath your touch, unmoving and rigid. Silently, he grabbed a plate and placed all of the food onto it—a blueberry muffin, some croissants, small pieces of bread—and your stomach growled in anguish once more.
“Baby…” You moved next to him and tried to read his face. “What’s wrong?”
You knew something was up because his eyebrows were tightly knitted together, his lips pressed into a thin line. Yet, he didn’t let up.
“It’s unlike you to let a frown ruin that pretty face of yours, Yushi,” you brushed his cheek with your fingers. "Tell me what’s up.”
“My pretty face or Riku’s pretty face?” He mumbled under his breath. You could just about make out what he was saying.
You blinked, then stifled a laugh. “Wait, what?”
But he didn’t move, nor say anything, just continued to arrange the breakfast. You grabbed his broad shoulders and turned him to face you.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, Yushi? Or will you just say nothing and leave me to guess what I’ve done wrong?” You pleaded with him.
He sighed, his breath slightly shaky and uneven. “If you would rather spend time with Riku, just tell me that…” he whispered, voice even quieter than before.
“What?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Why was he suddenly acting like this? He never had an issue with you and Riku being friends before. You looked over at your boyfriend, whose ears were blushing bright red. He was biting down on his bottom lip and focusing intently on his hands, fidgeting nervously.
He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks dusting pink. “You two looked really… comfortable. He was all over you.” His voice was shaky, uneven.
Your irritation instantly dissolved into affection. “Oh, Ushi…” You stepped closer to him and ran one hand down his arm until your fingers found his, the other cupping his face and guiding him to look at you. His eyes were glossy, refusing to make contact with yours. “Are you jealous?”
His ears flushed bright red. “I’m not jealous,” he muttered, which was exactly what someone jealous would say.
You couldn’t help it—you giggled quietly, tugging him closer. “You’re adorable.”
He pouted harder. “I’m serious. Sometimes it feels like you and Riku have this whole world that I can’t really be part of.”
To you, his words sounded impossibly insane. And you decided to relay your thoughts to him.
You cupped his cheeks gently, thumbs brushing the faint tear he tried to hide. “Baby, listen to me. Riku’s my friend. You’re my home. You’re the one I wake up thinking about, and the one I fall asleep missing. I love you.”
Yushi’s breath caught, eyes flicking up to yours. “Really?” he whispered, voice trembling just a little.
“Really,” you smiled, rising on your tiptoes to kiss him. His surprise melted quickly into a grin as he kissed you back; it was warm and soft and Yushi.
When you finally broke apart, he pressed your forehead against his. “I love you, too. Sorry for being irrational.”
You pinched his cheek, which was tinged pink. “Don’t apologise,” you brought his hand to your face and kissed the soft pads of his fingertips. “Just remember that you’re the only one I’ll ever love like this.”
He chuckled, brushing his nose against yours. “You always know exactly what to say.”
“I try,” you said, pecking his cheek.
Then, Riku began to stir, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“Oh, Yushi, you’re back!” He got up, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m starving. I’ll go and wake Daeyoung and we can all eat together!”
Yushi nodded quickly, his earlier shyness returning as Riku shuffled away. You turned back to him, grinning.
“You’re so cute when you’re jealous,” you whispered, bumping his shoulder playfully.
He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
You laughed and kissed the top of his head. “Thank you for breakfast, my jealous little cat.”
He laughed into your neck, his voice muffled but sweet. “You’re never gonna let this go, are you?”
“have a couple kids, got the whole block looking like you…”
📀now playing: wi$h li$t by taylor swift
❯ summary: The Wish List Pot™ is a tradition your friend group meets up for every year. The rules are simple: everyone writes down a silly, anonymous Christmas wish and tosses it into the pot. Easy. Only… this year, you’re not feeling very silly. This year, the only thing you want is your boyfriend. And, honestly? His babies inside you.
The annual holiday hangout you and your friends host to celebrate Christmas happens on the third Friday of December. Every year. Like clockwork. No negotiation, no “oops, something came up,” no last minute rescheduling because someone’s doubled booked.
It’s a priority. It’s immovable by design. In fact, when you gifted everyone custom calendars last year, they all found the date already printed in bold red letters, as if it were a national holiday. Because these people—dramatic, childish, aggressively chaotic people—are your family. And every family has its own holiday traditions.
Yours just happens to be The Wish List Pot™.
Yes. That’s the actual name. You can thank Renjun and Hyuck for that stroke of linguistic genius. They spent an entire hour arguing over alternatives (‘Dream Jar,’ ‘Festive Flowerpot,’ and Hyuck’s personal favourite, ‘Santa’s Special Suggestions’) until Hyuck’s girlfriend finally snapped, snatched the pot right off the table, and wrote WISH LIST POT across it in permanent marker to shut them both up. It saved the rest of you from permanent ear damage, too.
But the name isn’t the important part. The timing is.
The third Friday of December is so important because the wishes that go into the pot are supposed to be unattainable. Ridiculous. Entirely unrealistic. They are wishes, not asks. Things no one could possibly obtain in the week or so left before the holidays. That’s the whole point. They’re meant to be wild and impractical and embarrassingly revealing.
Which, of course, is what makes the night so fun—because somehow, every year, someone still manages to shock the rest of you.
“Hyuck, get your ass out of my face!” Renjun smacks him with a rolled-up Argos magazine, the force sharp enough to make the string lights tremble.
Hyuck whirls around, affronted, the Wish List Pot now balanced precariously in his lap as he flops back down on the sofa. “Jesus fucking Christ! If your lazy ass just sat up and grabbed the pot, my ass wouldn’t even be in your face—”
“For fuck’s sake.” Hyuck’s girlfriend pinches the bridge of her nose. “Do you two ever stop talking about each other’s asses?”
Before either can fire back, Jaemin—your boyfriend—waltzes in from the kitchen. He’s carrying a beer in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.
“No,” he answers, deadpan. “Unfortunately they’ve been doing that for years. So much so, Jeno and I actually had a bet back in college that they were gonna fuck. Or that they had fucked already—”
“We haven’t!” Renjun and Hyuck snap simultaneously, voices overlapping in perfect defensive harmony.
Jaemin just stretches the word, “Okayyyy,” then he settles onto the couch beside you, immediately slinging his arm over your shoulders. You ignore the popcorn bowl he sets down because his lips brush your forehead, and suddenly that’s the only thing that matters.
You burrow deeper into your blanket, tucking your toes under your thighs as a shield against the December air. (Because you’re at Mark’s place and he refuses to use his fireplace. It’s strictly decorative.)
“Did you make your wish yet, baby?” he murmurs against your ear, warm breath skimming your skin. You roll your eyes, but still flush. Because. Well. It’s him.
A major consequence of having an annual Wish List Pot—and a boyfriend who’s in the same friendship circle—is that Jaemin started pestering you for your wish the second the clock hit 12:00 a.m. on December 1st. It’s absolutely against the rules. He knows that. He does not care.
Because Na Jaemin is, unfortunately for your sanity, a man who makes things happen. Grand gestures, tiny gestures, everything. He does them all without being asked. Nothing is unattainable to him.
Well… everything except the thing you slipped into the pot this year.
“I’m just saying,” Hyuck’s girlfriend declares from the armchair, arms crossed tight, “I think you’re more obsessed with his ass than mine.”
Hyuck groans dramatically. “Baby, don’t be stupid. You know I love your ass. I tell you every time I pound—”
“Oh my god, stop!” Chenle yells from the floor, recoiling. “Christ, Hyuck, you don’t hear me talking about my sex life with my girl every Christmas, but you somehow manage it every year.”
“That’s because you two”—Hyuck gestures between Chenle and his girlfriend, like he’s presenting evidence—“probably don’t fuck.”
There’s a dangerous inhale from Chenle; he’s two seconds from launching himself into an argument that will inevitably end with someone being banned from the occasion next year. But before that chaos can detonate, Jisung reaches forward, plucks the Wish List Pot from Hyuck’s lap, and clears his throat loud enough to cut through the noise.
It works. Miraculously.
“If the two of you can stop acting like children,” Jisung says, voice dry enough to be dehydrated, “I’d quite like to read our wishes.”
“He started it,” they both chorus, each stabbing an accusatory finger at the other. Identical expressions. Identical childish behaviour.
You laugh—because of course they do. It’s exactly like you always say: these dramatic, childish, aggressively chaotic people are your family.
Jisung reaches into the pot, swirling his hand around. After a moment, he pulls out a neatly folded slip of paper.
“Wish one,” he announces. He unfolds it with zero urgency, just to spite everyone’s anticipation. “Someone wants… a yacht life.”
“Don’t we all,” Chenle mutters, which earns a wave of agreeing grumbles just as Jisung passes the pot to Jeno sitting beside the tree.
Jeno unfolds his slip. “Person two wants… an Oscar.”
Immediately, everyone’s eyes snap to Jaemin. Your boyfriend, who has been chasing an acting career since high school. Your boyfriend, who has the talent and drive and soft, stubborn hope that makes you believe he’ll get there one day.
He lifts his beer to his lips, trying to pretend the room’s collective attention isn’t strangling him. “Come on, guys. This is supposed to be anonymous. Stop looking at me.”
But you don’t.
You can’t.
You won’t.
“Baby,” you say quietly, nudging your knee against his. “You think you’re not capable of winning an Oscar?”
For a beat, something vulnerable flickers across his face—like you peeled back a layer he wasn’t ready for anyone to see. His eyes drop, his shoulders stiffen, and without a word, his arm slips away from around your shoulders. You feel the loss like a draft of cold air.
He leans forward, snatching the pot from Jeno a little too quickly.
“Next,” he says, forcing brightness into his tone, redirecting all focus away from himself. He unfolds the next paper. “Someone wrote…” His brows furrow. “‘a fat ass with a baby face?’”
Hyuck immediately hacks out a fake cough. “Renjun.” He thumps his chest for dramatic effect.
Renjun sputters. “Now look who’s talking about my ass?!”
They launch into yet another bickering match—loud, pointless—but you barely register it. Because you’re still watching Jaemin. Your very capable, endlessly hardworking Jaemin, who seems to doubt himself more than he admits. Who won’t even look at you now, even though you can feel him sensing your eyes on him. He doesn’t want to talk about it at all.
And maybe… maybe that makes you start doubting your own wish. The one you folded so carefully. The one you slipped into the pot with trembling fingers and a pounding heart.
The one he absolutely cannot find out about now if he’s not willing to discuss his own paper.
The group barrels on, oblivious to the way your pulse is suddenly thumping like a drum. Jaemin notices though, and he gives your leg a squeeze as wishes keep flying around the circle.
Someone wants “a lit spring break” (impossible, considering it is currently winter). Someone else wants “a contract with Real Madrid” (wildly unlikely, mostly because not a single one of your friends actually plays soccer—you’re pretty sure Hyuck’s girlfriend just has a crush on Jude Bellingham and is manifesting). Another wants to “live off the grid” (absolutely preposterous, because how the hell would this tradition survive without the group chat?).
“One left,” Chenle announces, practically glowing with the power of being the one holding the final slip.
Your stomach drops straight through the couch cushions. You know it’s yours. Your mouth goes dry. Your brain starts an emergency meeting, all of your thoughts yelling contradictory advice.
You could reach for the pot. You could insist on reading it yourself. You could “accidentally” swallow the paper whole. But that would be suspicious. And being suspicious is the thing that makes people instantly remember forever.
Besides… it’s not like everyone will immediately connect you to your wish.
Right?
Chenle clears his throat. Dramatically. Loudly. “The grand finale is…” He unfolds the paper. His eyes widen. “Holy shit.”
“Don’t say holy shit,” Jisung mutters, “just read it—”
“Who the fuck wrote: ‘to get pregnant’?”
Silence. Pure, echoing, apocalyptic silence.
And wow—that’s infuriating, because if you’d known all it took to shut this group of gremlins up was anonymously confessing your desire for your boyfriend to knock you up, you would’ve done it years ago. It’s not even that weird. People want things. Fantasies exist. Biology is real.
So why—why—are everyone’s heads slowly swivelling between the only three girls in the room?
No one talks.
No one even breathes.
Why is no one talking?
Would it look more suspicious if you broke the ice?
You’ll never find out, because Hyuck clears his throat.
“Well,” he says, far too loudly, “safe to say it wasn’t my girl who wrote that.” He leans over and presses a deliberately obnoxious kiss to his girlfriend’s cheek. “Because she wouldn’t have to beg me to put a baby in her. I’d happily ditch the condoms and cu—”
“Stop!” Chenle yelps. “Oh my God. I know way too much about your sex life already.”
The argument erupts like it always does. You tune it out, exhaling shakily as you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, cocooning into whatever false sense of safety it can offer. God knows you need it.
Because you feel it. That pull. That stare.
The same look you’d been throwing at Jaemin earlier now burns into the side of your face with the subtlety of a solar flare. His gaze is hot and heavy, like he’s peeling your thoughts open, reading them line by line.
You don’t look at him. Not when Jeno brings out the hot chocolate. Not during the gift exchange. Not even when Mark ushers everyone out into the cold and you follow Jaemin toward his car.
You keep your eyes anywhere but on your boyfriend.
Jaemin unlocks the car with a quick tap, headlights blinking awake in the snowy December night. You slide into the passenger seat. He starts the engine. You buckle your seatbelt. You’re both clearly going through the motions. The motions where neither of you says anything.
Which would normally be fine—the two of you have never been afraid of silence—but this isn’t comfortable silence. This is… pregnant silence.
Great. Even your adjectives are betraying you.
The car rolls down Mark’s street, and you’re too busy pretending streetlights are fascinating to notice Jaemin’s hand until it’s already there. Resting on your thigh the same way it always does when he drives.
Your breath catches—not because it’s unusual, but because it isn’t. Because this is autopilot affection with Jaemin. Muscle memory, if you will. Something he does without thinking.
Which means…
Either he doesn’t know you want him to get you pregnant. Or he does, and he’s pretending he doesn’t. You’re somehow not sure which option is worse.
You sneak a glance at him. Just a small one. It’s enough to read the outline of his profile in the passing lights. Jaw tight. Mouth set. Eyes straight ahead. He’s not avoiding you. He’s just… not looking at you. And that distinction is driving you insane. Life of an overthinker, you suppose.
You swallow and turn back to the window, watching your reflection blur in the glass. You look a little wild. But who could blame you? Tonight you anonymously admitted you wanted your boyfriend to put a baby in you. To your entire friend group.
He’s either figured it out.
Or he’s about to.
The drive is only fifteen minutes, but it feels like crossing counties.
By the time Jaemin pulls into your apartment building’s lot, you’re already unbuckling. You’re out of the car before he even cuts the engine, breath puffing white in the cold as you fumble with your keys at the door. His footsteps follow.
Inside, you kick off your boots and fling your scarf onto the rack. Your coat joins it a second later. Jaemin mirrors you, still quiet, making his silence somehow feel louder now you’re indoors.
You’re both still not talking. You hate it. You need normalcy. You need something familiar. Something routine. Something to drown out the echo of that wish still ringing in your ears.
So you inhale and force your voice into something casual.
“Do you think Chenle wrote the Real Madrid wish?”
Yes, it’s probably stupid to bring up the very thing you’re desperately trying to avoid—but not bringing it up would be worse. Suspicious, in fact. Because this is another tradition. Every year, after the Wish List Pot gathering, you and Jaemin come home, peel off your winter layers, and spend the night figuring out which wish belongs to who. Even the absurd ones. Especially the absurd ones.
If you pretend that doesn’t matter tonight, he’ll notice.
He’ll know.
“Real Madrid?” Jaemin repeats, rolling the words around his tongue. “No. Chenle’s not a soccer man. Basketball, maybe.”
He toes off his shoes, hangs his coat beside yours, then steps further into the apartment—toward you. Slowly. Like he’s approaching a skittish animal that might bolt.
“And besides,” he adds, hands sliding into his pockets, “that handwriting wasn’t his.”
You freeze. Because that means he was paying attention. Closely.
You swallow. “So… who do you think wrote it?”
He studies your face a beat too long. “I don’t know.” Then, quieter: “Was it yours?”
You bark out a laugh. It's one part nerves, the other half relief. Because this could be it. Your chance. Your out.
“Yes,” you say quickly. “Actually. I got this insane Jude Bellingham edit on my For You Page the other day. Guess I was feeling… inspired.”
He hums. “Right.”
“Yep.”
Silence drops again. Except it’s different this time. Thicker. Denser. Pressing. You have to break it. “So,” you murmur, “want to guess the rest of them?”
Jaemin tilts his head, then steps closer, stopping just short of your space. “Fine,” he says. “You go first.”
You hesitate. Then: “The Oscar one. That was yours.”
His jaw tightens. “No.”
You blink. “Jaemin.”
“I said no.”
You fold your arms. “Jaem. Come on. Everyone was staring at you.”
“Because everyone always stares at me when anything acting related comes up,” he snaps, frustration finally bleeding through. “That doesn’t mean it was mine.”
You open your mouth, then close it. “You’re lying.”
His eyes flash. “That’s rich.”
You stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back. “You really don’t get to call me out for lying when you’re doing the exact same thing.”
“What… what are you talking about?”
He scoffs. “You must think I was born yesterday if you expect me to believe that Jude Bellingham shit.” A beat. “You hate soccer, Y/N.”
You wince.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The hum of the heater fills your apartment. Jaemin stares at the floor like he’s arguing with himself. Then he exhales—slow. “Fine,” he mutters. “It was mine. The Oscar one.”
Your chest tightens. “How–why?”
He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes still down. “I don’t know. It was stupid. I just—” He huffs a humourless laugh. “It feels like this acting thing is leading nowhere lately.”
Your heart cracks a little.
“I didn’t want to talk to you about it,” he continues quietly. “Because you’re my biggest supporter. You’d tell me I’m being ridiculous. That I’m talented. That I’ll get there.” He finally looks at you. “And I guess,” he sighs, “I wanted someone to validate the bad thoughts I have about myself.”
The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s fragile. You want to shake him because you don’t know how else to make him understand how wrong he is. How deeply, painfully wrong. There isn’t a single person on this planet who would validate those bad thoughts he has about himself. Not one. And the fact that he thinks there might be says more about how cruel he is to himself than anything else.
Jaemin is good at everything.
It’s actually kind of infuriating.
That realisation hits you so hard it spills straight out of your mouth.
“Jaem, you’re kidding me, right?”
He blinks. “What?”
“You’re the best at what you do,” you say, voice rising despite yourself. “And I’m not just saying that because I love you. I’d say it even if I didn’t.”
His head lifts at that. Big puppy brown eyes—soft, attentive, a little wounded—lock onto yours.
“You know that role you did a couple months ago?” you continue. “The one where you played the single dad?”
His shoulders tense, but he hums in acknowledgement.
“You were so natural,” you say immediately. “Like—scarily natural. It didn’t feel like acting. It felt like you were just… meant to be a parent.”
Jaemin’s mouth parts slightly. He’s listening, really listening, and he doesn’t interrupt.
“I mean, I can’t even tell you the thoughts I was having watching you,” you add, waving a hand, flustered. “Which is exactly why I wrote it as my wish—”
You stop.
The room freezes with you.
Oh.
Oh no.
Slowly, you look up.
Jaemin isn’t staring at the floor anymore. He’s looking directly at you. And he’s smiling. A slow, knowing smile that spreads across his face, like he’s just connected a very important dot.
“Wrote it as your wish?” He repeats calmly, tilting his head. “That’s interesting.”
Your blood turns to ice.
“I—” You scramble. “I meant—”
“Because,” he continues, stepping closer, “last time I checked, you wanted a contract with Real Madrid.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. But it’s fine, because Jaemin doesn’t rush you to say anything. (Honestly, that should have been the first sign you were done for.)
He closes the distance between you, hands brushing the air beside you before his fingers finally make contact, ghosting along the outside of your arms. His fingertips settle at your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to claim your attention.
“Ready to tell me your real wish, baby?” he murmurs.
The word baby lands heavily. Intentional. His voice is low, a little smug around the edges—it’s cocky in that way that says he absolutely knows what he’s doing. Like this was always the plan. Like opening up about his insecurities was never about his weakness, but a strategy to get you talking about your own.
And God, it’s working.
You quiver beneath his touch, breath catching as he leans down with his pretty pink mouth hovering just beside your ear.
“I…” Your voice comes out throaty, barely there. You swallow and try again. “I wanted to get pregnant.”
“Oh yeah?” Jaemin echoes, just as soft. Just as needy. His hands tighten at your hips. “Seeing me play dad on screen got you all hot and bothered with baby fever, honey?”
You nod, weak and unashamed, forehead tipping forward until it nearly rests against his shoulder.
He tuts quietly. A teasing little sound. “But the Wish List Pot is supposed to be unattainable.” His thumb swipes across your bottom lip, tugging it down before asking: “You really think I wouldn’t give you a baby if you asked me to?”
You exhale shakily. “No. I know you would.” Your hands come up to fist lightly in his shirt. “That’s the problem.”
His brow creases. “What?”
“It’s not the right time,” you say, rushing the words out before you lose the nerve. “You’re so busy. You’re finally getting traction. You’re always auditioning, always working—”
“Yeah, fuck that,” he cuts in immediately.
You blink.
“I would change jobs in a heartbeat to give you what you want, Y/N.”
“I know,” you say softly. “But you shouldn’t have to. You’re too early in your acting career to miss work for a baby. Your agent—”
“Baby,” he interrupts, leaning down until his forehead presses to yours, voice deadly calm, “respectfully shut the fuck up.”
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself.
“I want you,” he continues. “The world, my agent, my schedule—they can all get fucked. If my girl wants to have a baby, we’re fucking making a baby.”
You laugh again, breathless this time, poking a finger into his chest. “Stop.”
“I’m not joking.” His hand covers yours, pinning it against where you poked him. “Not even a little.”
Your smile softens, chest aching. “You’re insane.”
“For you?” His mouth curves. “Always.”
The room goes quiet again. Jaemin dips his head, brushing his nose against yours.
“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says quietly. “Or tomorrow. Or next year.” He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, thumb brushing along your jaw. “But don’t ever think wanting a future with me is something unattainable,” he adds. A pause. “At least it’s not from my side.”
Your chest tightens.
“What about your Oscar?”
“It can wait,” he says easily, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “because it all pales in comparison to having you. And a couple of our kids.”
Something intense flickers behind his eyes. Possessive. The way he says our sends a shock of electricity through your spine. Frankly, it catches you completely off guard. He catches you off guard.
Because why does it sound like he likes the idea of having babies even more than you do?
Your pulse stutters. You chew on your lip, nerves and adrenaline tangling together.
“What if…” You hesitate, then force the words out before you can overthink them. “What if I wanted to do it tonight?”
His reaction is immediate. Jaemin’s pupils blow wide before he closes the distance. His lips crash into yours, sudden and sure, like he’s been holding back this entire time, and you just cut the last thread keeping him sane.
Your back hits the living room wall with a soft thud, the impact rattling framed family photos as his hands brace on either side of you. He kisses you like a man starved. It’s a hunger you didn’t even know he possessed. When he finally pulls back, breath uneven, his forehead drops to yours again.
“Baby,” he says, voice rough now. “If you say the word…”
“I want to,” you cut in, heartbeat roaring in your ears. “I want to have a baby. With you, Jaemin."
“Fuck,” Jaemin groans, the sound torn from his chest like it’s been waiting there all night. His mouth crashes into yours again, deeper this time, messier—like restraint was a courtesy he’s officially done offering.
His hands are everywhere, greedy and roaming and doting all at once. Fabric disappears in clumsy, impatient motions, discarded somewhere between the couch and the hallway. You’re laughing into his mouth one second, gasping the next, dizzy with the sudden shift from talking to this.
When your back hits the bedroom doorway, he doesn’t slow down. He scoops you up like it’s nothing—like you don’t weigh anything at all—and the smoothness of it sends an excited thrill through you.
“Jaemin,” you breathe, fingers digging into his shoulders.
He hums, pleased. “I know, baby.”
The bed dips beneath you as he lays you down, eyes dark, expression unguarded in a way you don’t get to see often. Then his mouth traces a path down your body until his head is between your legs.
Your laughter bubbles out of you when his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and tug them down.
“That’s not how you make babies,” you tease, breathless.
He glances up at you, mouth curved. “It’s how I make them.”
You snort. “Oh, so you’ve got experience doing this?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “But I’ve got to learn. Trial and error, babe.” His smile turns wicked. “I’ve got big plans. Whole neighbourhood’s gonna wonder why everyone looks suspiciously like us.”
“Jaem,” you warn, laughing, “if you’re serious about this whole thing, you’re gonna need to focus.”
His eyebrows lift as he straightens, hands bracketing your thighs, eyes bright with challenge. “You telling me how to do my job now?”
“Yes,” you shoot back. “Because if you think you’re getting a football team of kids out of me by eating me out, you’re wrong. Your cock needs to be in me.”
He looks up at you then, eyebrows raised, whilst a smile—pearls of white teeth—spreads across his face. “You that desperate for me to be inside you, baby?” His voice dips. “Want my cum that badly?”
You shiver at the thought because yes. Oh God, yes. You need his cum inside you that badly. Isn’t that the whole reason you’ve ended up here, tangled up and gasping beneath him?
Jaemin’s breath ghosts over your pussy, teasing, brushing, and it’s enough to have you soaked already. He grins, low and wicked, his hand pressing between your thighs to ground you.
“Need you ready before you take all of me, baby,” he murmurs. “Don’t wanna hurt you, because once I’m inside of you, bare, I don’t think I can be gentle.”
“Jaem,” you whine, and that sound alone is enough to make him smirk.
His mouth snaps onto your clit, sucking and licking with a need that makes your toes curl. You arch against him, hips lifting on instinct, desperate for more even as he teases, tortures, and drags out your pleasure until it’s sharp, burning, electric.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groans, voice vibrating low in his chest whilst his fingers spread you wider, giving himself better access to press and curl his tongue in all the spots that make you squirm. “So wet for me, baby… gonna make me lose it before I even get inside you?”
“No!” you gasp, fingers clutching at his hair. “Please, Jaem… can’t waste any.”
He growls at that, teeth grazing, pulling a moan straight from your chest. “You don’t want to waste any of my cum, huh? You want all of me for your pretty little cunt?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes!” you cry, nails digging into his shoulders. Every trace of his tongue, every press of his fingers has you melting, trembling, so ready it hurts.
“You better hurry up and cum then, because you’re too fucking hot like this, Y/N. I can’t help myself,” he chuckles darkly, and the tremor of it presses into you and makes your core clench around nothing.
“Jaem… oh God… fuck!” You shiver, body writhing as every one of your nerve endings comes alive. Your body collapses around him, shaking and quivering, your cry of his name lost in the throes of your orgasm.
He hums, satisfied, and wastes no time moving his mouth up and along your body, kissing you gently, claiming every inch, until his lips connect back on yours. It’s purposeful. It’s his favourite thing to do. He’s making you taste yourself on him. And you love it.
When he pulls away, your breath skips as you look down. The bare sight of him—harder than you’ve ever seen him, veins straining, tip leaking—is enough to make your pulse hammer faster. Every inch of him wants you, every movement, every groan, tells you he’s all in about this.
“You’re sure, yeah?” he asks, running the naked tip of his cock along your slit, not daring to push in just yet. “You can say no, Y/N, and I’ll grab a condom right now and fuck you just as good as I usually do.”
“No!” You shiver at his words, wetness pooling slickly around him. “I want you like this… please.”
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, pushing just the tip inside. His hands cradle your hips, holding you still as he slides completely inside you. The stretch, the warmth, the way your body moulds around him, it’s all perfect. “Fuck… you’re so tight,” he groans, burying himself slowly. “Feels like you were made for me. Gonna fill you up, all of me… can you take it?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes! Please, Jaem…” you beg, hips jerking, desperate for him to move.
Once you’re adjusted (and he takes a moment to think about his elderly co-worker so he doesn’t instantly blow his load), he starts to move. And, as he warned, he isn’t gentle. Not at all. The bareness of it all, the rawness, flips something primal in him. His thrusts are feral, needy, hungry.
This isn’t the usual gentle lovemaking. This is fucking. Point blank. One goal in his mind. Get. You. Pregnant.
“Gonna breed you, baby,” he murmurs, teeth scraping your shoulder. “Make you mine… let everyone know who you come home to. Feel me stretching you… filling you… dripping inside you.”
You gasp, nails raking down his back. “Jaem… yes… fuck… fill me…”
He grins against you. “Fuck, you take me so well. So wet… so perfect… feel yourself clench around me? Want my cum, don’t you?”
“Yes! Oh God… yes!” You moan, arching into him.
“Every drop, baby. Every single drop that leaks out, I’ll push back in,” he growls, thrusts snapping harder, making you cry out.
He starts pounding into you then. So hard your pussy has no choice but to clench around him. That has him lulling, cock still buried to the hilt, as his hands gripping your hips to calm himself. His chest is heaving. His voice is ragged as he says:
“You feel so perfect… my dream girl… I’ve dreamed of this, Y/N. Wanted this… wanted you… bare… mine… all mine. Now… fuck… now I’m getting my future. My girl…”
He’s rambling, and the neediness of it makes you tremble. Your legs lock around him, fingers digging into his shoulders to coax him along. “Yes, Jaem, all yours.”
He groans, teeth nipping your neck before his lips press hard against it. Only then does he drive all the way inside of you, letting you feel every inch of his hard cock. “Mine, you’re mine… taking all of me, just me… gonna fill you so full…”
Your vision whites, your nerves screaming, as your walls flutter around him for the first time, completely bare. He doesn’t hold back—slamming into you, thrust after thrust—until he can’t anymore.
He lands a final thrust, then feels himself spill inside of you, groaning your name over and over as he fills you up. It’s warm. It’s intimate. And once he stills, his forehead nuzzles against yours, along with his nose. His chest rises and falls over you, as the two of you melt together, bare, joined, and utterly each others.
After a moment, he pulls out, and the sudden emptiness makes you cry out. You’re oversensitive and wrecked, thighs trembling as white warmth spills down between you. You can feel it—feel him leaking out of you, thick and hot.
Jaemin groans at the sight. “Fuck… look at you,” he murmurs, thumb tracing where you’re still slick and sensitive. “You feel that? That’s me. That’s all for you.”
You whine, hips twitching helplessly. “Jaem—too much—”
“I know,” he says softly. “Just let me—”
He presses back in with one slow push, reclaiming what spilt, making you gasp. The sensation is so intimate it borders on obscene. “Told you I’d push it back in,” he says. “Not wasting a single drop.”
A broken sound leaves your throat. After a moment, he eases out again—gentler this time—and gathers you against him. You’re still pulsing from the overstimulation, but now you’re pressed chest to chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. And that makes you relax.
He presses a kiss to the side of your head.
“Do you really want a football team of us?” You ask quietly, voice hazy now.
He laughs. “I told you, baby. Whole block’s gonna look like you and me.”
You poke his side. “How come you never told me you wanted kids with me before today?”
His smile softens. Then he exhales. “You’re the one carrying them,” he says gently. “And as much as you say I’d do anything for you… I know you’d do the same for me. If I’d said it out loud, you would’ve said yes just for me.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want that pressure on you. Or your body.”
You tilt your head, listening.
“So, hearing you say you wanted to get pregnant this Christmas?” He continues quietly. “That felt like the green light to lay my cards out too.”
Your chest tightens. You smile, kissing his chest, right over his heart. “Well,” you say, “in that case… I hope we both get what we want.”
“Yeah.” His arm tightens around you. “Me too, baby.”
