sakamoto_hey

multi stan for life♡

[dreamersparacosm]

under the mistletoe ᯓ★ jeon jungkook

a dreamersparacosm holiday special .ᐟ.ᐟ

SUMMARY. Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. But when you were fifteen, you were replaced by a revolving door of girlfriends. Thus began your decade-long aversion to the holiday—this year, however, you’ve been tasked with hosting the annual Christmas soirée, and there’s no telling what might be waiting for you under the mistletoe this time around.

pairing. jeon jungkook x reader

word count. 23.8k

warnings/genre. childhood best friends to lovers (aka idiots to lovers if you squint!!!), slight angst, fluff, reader is the grinch reincarnated, jungkook is oblivious, alcohol consumption, smut, oral and fingering (f receiving), multiple orgasms, big dick jungkook bc what else, unprotected sex sorry she’s on the pill, crying during sex (but in a cute way), it’s all just really cute i kinda hate them

note. welcome to the dreamersparacosm golden era… two one-shots over 15k words in one month. my fingers are tired. but it’s all fine n dandy bc it’s the HOLIDAYS!!! and what better way to celebrate than with a friends to lovers fic? believe it or not, this was originally going to be enemies with lovers, but i had a long talk with myself and realized that theres no way in hell i could ever do justice to a e2l in under 304949k words, but rest assured there is enough pining and angst to keep you well-fed 🥰 oc is yearning final boss, jungkook is a slowburner who’s also an idiot. my favorite kind of couple! i hope you all had a wonderful holiday! p.s: stay tuned for an extra special treat from these two later today :)

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| last christmas by wham

banner creds | masterlist | epilogue blurb

The Grinch has always been your favorite Christmas movie. 

Not because it’s particularly funny or thrilling, but because you can relate to that pessimistic green ball of fur. He despises the holiday just as much as you do—and that’s generous, considering your animosity towards the day has reached unfeasible levels. You might be worse than the aforementioned ball of fur. 

There’s really no one else to blame for your aversion to the holiday… besides Jeon Jungkook. 

Jeon Jungkook has been your best friend since cradle. Your mother and his shared a room at the hospital, and since then, have kept a tight-knit relationship. Growing up, you and Jungkook shared more life experiences than siblings would. Conjoined birthdays, first day of school, puberty, heartbreak. It was hard not to imagine him in your life, when he had already invaded every part of it with his infectious smile and doe-like eyes.

Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. It started innocently enough, with your parents cooing sweetly as he pressed his little lips to your warm cheek. Your face burnt like a volcano shortly after, your hand pressing up to touch the spot where his lips met your skin every few minutes. 

When you were nine, he upped the ante. He grabbed your face with his grubby hands, and smushed his lips onto yours with a peck. It was precisely three seconds and two milliseconds long (you know because you held your breath). When he pulled away, he smiled that big bunny smile and ran off to play with your toys. Life continued on as such, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of everything you thought you knew. 

At the age of fifteen, he got his first girlfriend, Haeun. They met in Science class, paired up by accident, but the crush he had on her was with such certainty it took you by storm. That Christmas, he didn’t give you a peck on the lips or the cheek. That year, your body felt empty. That fateful holiday, you watched as Jeon Jungkook gave Park Haeun a big, sloppy, romantic kiss under the mistletoe, one that rivaled any one he ever gave you. 

And so, Christmas went from your favorite day of the year, to your nightmare. 

Even when his and Haeun’s puppy love died out by high school graduation, she was swiftly replaced by Eunji. And then Chaeyoung. And then Sana…and the list went on, and on, and on. 

So, yeah. Christmas. Not your best day. In fact, it’s pretty low on the totem pole, right next to the anniversary of your grandfather’s death. 

All this to say—this is why you’ve been ignoring your best friend’s pleas for the past thirty minutes on hosting the annual Christmas soiree at your apartment. Your humble abode. Your sanctuary. There’s no way in hell you’ll be stringing red and green lights from your ceiling, singing ‘ho, ho, ho’ and passing around jell-o shots that were crafted by the devil himself. And you most definitely, certainly, will not hang up a mistletoe. 

“But why not?” Jungkook whines again, bouncing up and down on your couch cushion like a puppy. His bottom lip juts out slightly, which would be endearing if he was a teenager and not a 28-year old man. 

“Because I don’t want to. I don’t like Christmas.” You ignore him as best as you can, thumbing through your Instagram feed. Engagement posts, pregnancy announcements… god, the holidays are the worst. No, you won’t be blowing ‘baby dust’ to your friends trying to get pregnant. 

“Since when?” He gawks, pausing his movements to stare at your side profile intently. 

“Since forever. You know this,” you say calmly. “The Grinch is my favorite movie.”

He scoffs. “So? It’s mine too. That doesn’t mean I hate Christmas.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that your abhorrence for the holiday stems from his inability to give you a kiss since the age of fifteen. Thirteen years later, you can’t help but want one still. 

You roll your eyes. “You don’t hate Christmas because you like giving gifts and receiving them.”

“That’s not true,” he argues, snatching your phone out of your hand and tossing it on the coffee table. You finally turn to look at him, and he’s all red cheeks and wide eyes, and it makes you want to die. “You have the nicest apartment out of all of us. We can’t do Namjoon’s because they just had the baby, we can’t do Jisoo’s because Tae is allergic to dogs, and we can’t do mine because I’m renovating. Yours is the best option.”

All true points, but none that you want to confront head-on. “Might it also be that you don’t want to do yours because then people will know you haven’t moved on from Hana?” 

Jungkook’s face contorts, and for a split second, you feel guilty for sinking that low. You didn’t mean to, but it’s true. His most recent ex-girlfriend, Hana, doesn’t live in that apartment anymore, but it almost feels like she does with the amount of her stuff lingering around. They were together for a year, but mysteriously broke up after Christmas last year. 

“Not cool,” he mumbles, playing with his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I just really don’t wanna host, Koo.” 

“C’mon, do it for me,” he pouts, and it becomes even harder to say no to him. You’re putty in his reliable hands. 

“What will I get out of hosting?” You cross your arms over your chest. A hint of a smile creeps onto his face as he realizes you’re slowly beginning to cave. You always do when you start asking questions. 

“Namjoon and Dahyun will cook. Taehyung will make the drinks. And I, your trusty best friend, will task myself with decorating the entire place,” he says proudly, chest puffed out like he’s the Superman of Christmas or something equally as idiotic.

“Jeon Jungkook is going to decorate my apartment?” you question, dumbfounded. “The one who put the star on upside down last year?” 

The memory plays as vivid as ever, a reel of images flashing through your mind of Jungkook proudly grinning at the miniscule tree he helped construct in your living room. The lights barely worked, the ornaments were hanging on by a thread, and the star was upside down, but he swore Michaelangelo would’ve thought it was abstract art.

He rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you let anything go?” 

“And tangled the lights so bad Namjoon had to come over and cut them with scissors?”

Jungkook pouts the same way he used to when he was three. “But—”

“And ate the gingerbread house before we could even display it?”

Jungkook’s mouth opens to defy you, but decides it’s best not to go up against your vicious truths. “I was hungry and you had nothing but expired Chinese food in your fridge,” he grumbles. It’s annoying how easily he can disarm you when he’s boyishly upset at the world. 

In the grand scheme of things, hosting the Christmas soiree at your house is nothing. Nada. Zilch. A blip on your radar. It’s not like he’s asking you to loan him a million won, or donate a kidney to his brother (albeit those are all things you would do for him). He’s simply asking you to open your home to your closest friends to spread holiday cheer. 

Somehow, some way, it feels like the hardest thing you have to do.

Maybe because in the grand scheme of things, you’re also hopelessly, relentlessly, disgustingly in love with Jeon Jungkook, and the word no is not one that leaves your lips often when he’s around. 

“Fine,” you relent. His entire face lights up, and your heart does the same dance it always does. “I have conditions, though.”

“Anything you want.” He scoots closer. You can smell his cologne, a pine and bergamot scent he wears for the holidays. “I’m at your service.”

“We’re gonna do classy Christmas. I’m talking silver decorations, maybe some gold. None of that tacky red and green shit from the dollar store.”

“Uhu.” He nods. “Aligned, captain.”

“All the food will be catered. I’m not making poor Dahyun cook. She has enough on her plate already.” 

He salutes you, which makes you snort. 

“Lastly, and most importantly, no mistletoe.”

His smile falters. Tips downward so that it’s almost unrecognizable. The light in his eyes dims, and now you almost feel guilty. “Wha—why not?”

See, if this were a Christmas romcom broadcasting on Hallmark, this is the pivotal moment where you’d confess everything. How you’ve been in love with him since you were old enough to feel that feeling of warmth in your chest, how watching him kiss other girls made all your kisses seem foolish, how every Christmas without his lips on yours (even platonically) makes you want to move to a foreign country. He’d probably gasp, pull you close, and kiss you right there on your sofa while snow fell cinematically outside your window. Credits would roll over a montage of you two ice skating and baking holiday cookies, all set to some Kelly Clarkson cover of “Last Christmas.”

But this isn’t a Hallmark movie, and you’re not that brave. 

So, instead, you say, “It’s tacky and overdone. I don’t want it in my apartment.”

Jungkook seems genuinely concerned, as though you just informed him you have four days to live and your final wish is to jump out of a plane. “But it’s tradition. Every year, there’s a mistletoe.”

You huff, hugging the blanket wrapped over your legs tighter to you. “Well, I don’t care. That’s my conditions. Take it or leave it.”

He watches quietly for a moment as you inspect the fibers of the blanket. He knows you well enough to not pry further, but he also knows that he’s the only one you’ll talk to if he does decide to investigate. There’s no sound except the rattling of your heater and the sound of cars honking past your window. The television screen remains paused on a scene from The Grinch you could probably recite by heart. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “No mistletoe.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled.” You stand up, desperate for distance. “Now get out. I have work to do.”

“First of all, it’s Sunday. Second of all, we’re watching the Grinch. That’s not work,” he points out.

“I’m sure I could find something to do. I’ve been meaning to dust my bookshelf,” you counter. 

“Oh, really? You walking your squirrel after that?” he teases, smirking. 

“I am actually.” You cross your hands over your chest, the signal you make when it’s time for him to exit your apartment. 

He stands, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of toned stomach, and you have to look away. You’ve been down this road too many times.

“I’ll text you tomorrow about picking up supplies,” he yawns, heading for the door. “We’ll need to grab stuff from my place anyway. I’ve got extra string lights in storage.”

You trail behind him. “Fine.” 

He pauses at the threshold, turning back to look at you. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your favorite thing.”

Oh, If only he knew it was his fault. “Yeah, well. You owe me.”

“I always do,” he grins, and then he’s bounding down your staircase, leaving you alone with the Grinch and the hollowed feeling in your chest that never really goes away.

When you’re certain he’s finally gone, you lock the door and sink back into the couch, pressing play on the remote. On screen, the Grinch is plotting to ruin Christmas, and you can’t help but think to yourself, same, buddy. Same.

He’s probably got the right idea. If you steal all the decorations before he can hang them, accidentally forget to buy eggnog, or come down with the Black Plague on the day of the party, you could ruin the whole thing. 

But you won’t. Despite everything, you can’t actually hurt him. You’d host a thousand Christmas parties, hang a million strands of lights, bake cookies until your hands cramped, if it meant making Jeon Jungkook happy. That’s the real bittersweet tragedy of your situation. Not that he doesn’t love you back, but that you love him enough to pretend you don’t.

Jungkook likes to call his apartment his ‘modest mancave.’

He’s called his bedroom that since you two were old enough to be in school. However, one spring day during Sophomore year, you’d barged in unannounced and found him scrambling to hide a bottle of lotion and suspiciously large pile of tissues. He came up with some daft excuse about allergies, but you knew what the option meant. He knew that you knew. It became just another shared moment in the encyclopedia of your friendship, because that’s what you two always did. You witnessed each other’s embarrassing moments and life continued on.

Which is why his apartment’s state right now doesn't deter you. It's a little messy (okay, a lot messy) with random moving boxes he’s never unpacked stacked haphazardly in corners and furniture pushed against walls at odd angles. There’s a pile of paint swatches on the coffee table, each one a slightly different shade of beige that all look identical to your untrained eye. 

He had texted you earlier in the day to get started on Operation: Un-Grinchify Christmas, as he referred to it. You weren’t really up for it, but he sent you three crying emoji’s and then you were halfway out the door with mismatched socks on. 

Jungkook swears he has a box of light-up reindeer somewhere when you first arrive to his home. Something about them looking like they’re having a seizure when they’re plugged in. He's so entranced in his search he’s completely forgotten about your own holiday dilemma. 

“Koo?” you yell down his hallway. You venture down, stepping over a stack of books and what appears to be a broken lamp, following the sound of muffled cursing.

You find him in his bedroom, halfway inside the closet, ass up in the air. Boxes and random junk are scattered around him—old magazines, a deflated basketball, what looks like his matching Halloween costume with Hana from two years ago.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” he mutters, voice echoing from deep within the closet. Leaning against the doorframe, you cross your arms over your chest, utterly amused by his same old childish ways. 

“Need help, or should I just enjoy the view?” 

“Shut up,” he says, but you can hear the smile in his tone. “I’m finding an ancient artifact.”

“How ancient is it? We talking middle school? Elementary?”

“I don’t know, all I know is—aha!” He backs out, brown hair flopping around, and cracks his head on the closet rod with a thunk. “Fucking fuck—ow—”

You can’t stop the giggle that falls from your lips, and it turns into full-blown laughter when you catch wind of his appearance. He’s rubbing his head, hair sticking up in five different directions. 

But then you see what’s in his hands, and all laughter ceases with a wheeze. It’s the most hideous collection of green and red tinsel garland you’ve ever witnessed. It looks like it’s gonna shed all over your home, and there’s no way you’ll let your cat named Ginger anywhere near that. 

“Ta-da!” He holds it up proudly, grinning brightly. 

“Are you insane?”

“What?” he gawks, inspecting it for himself. “This is the epitome of Christmas.”

“Jungkook, I said classy Christmas. Elegant. That looks like a drunk elf threw up.” You gesture at the…thing, deeply perturbed at the fact he would even show it to you. 

He shakes the garland at you like it might change your mind. “But Christmas needs a little green and red! That’s literally the symbolic colors of the holiday.”

“I don’t care if it was sent down by Santa himself. It’s not going in my home,” you argue. 

“But why?” he pouts, and you can already tell which direction this conversation is going. But you’re standing your ground this time, because if you don’t you’ll fold like papier mache. 

“It looks like it has dust mites from 2014,” you grimace. 

He moves closer, forcing you to look at the grimy strings. “C’mon, just one strand? For your old pal?”

“No.”

“Please?” 

“I will leave, Jungkook.”

He sighs, defeated, and holds the garland out to you anyway. “Fine. But you have to be the one to throw it away. I can’t bear to part ways with her.”

Rolling your eyes, you take it from him, and your fingers brush his. Softly, gently, barely even there to the naked eye. You doubt he even notices it. But heat crawls up your spine and nestles a home in your chest. 

You snap out of it, tossing the garland in the trash in his bedroom. “Why do you even have that anyway?” 

“It was Hana’s.” 

You freeze in your tracks, hand hovering over the trash bin. When you look back at him, his ears are pink, eyes trained on some shadow on the wall behind you. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. One of his nervous tics from childhood. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of her stuff. What you said yesterday... it kind of stuck with me.”

Guilt settles in your bones. “Koo, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right.” He finally catches your gaze. “I’ve been holding onto things I shouldn’t. Not even because I miss her, really. It’s just—I don’t know. Easier to keep it than deal with it, y’know?

You do know. You know all too well. You’ve been keeping your feelings in a box for years for the exact same reason. 

“But I’m trying now,” he continues. “To move on. Actually move on, not just say I am. It still feels weird, throwing away a part of my life. Even if I know it’s the right thing to do.”

Throughout your life, you have continuously kept a square of people in your life that you care about. It mostly consists of your parents, Jungkook, his parents, and your friends. You don’t ever really rearrange it to make space for others, because you already have the ones that matter. You hope that when Jungkook rearranges his square, maybe removes Hana, you take up a bigger chunk of it. 

“I’m proud of you,” you smile. Even if the selfish part of you has been waiting for this moment since last Christmas.

He returns your smile with a feeble one of his own. “Thanks.”

For a moment, you two stand there, soaking in the silence. But just like that, it always falls back into place the way it’s meant to be. “I need your silverware for my kitchen, by the way. I’m not using mine for this party.”

“What? Why not?” He furrows his brows. 

“Because I don’t want Taehyung's drunk ass dropping my good forks down the garbage disposal like last New Years.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “He apologized and paid for new ones.”

“But it wasn’t the same exclusive ones I had,” you sing-song, leading him back down the hallway to his kitchen. “Show me what you’ve got, mister.”

For the next hour, you two bicker over everything. He wants to bring the fork set with wooden handles, but you object with the fact that they look like they belong in a cabin in the forest. 

Then it’s the string lights. He’s insistent on multicolored ones, big bulbs of green, yellow, and red that would look outdated against the rest of your apartment. You opt for the warm white ones, and he sticks his tongue out at you and says you’re boring. 

He’s a child. You make sure to tell him that about five separate times. On the sixth time, however, he retorts, “You take that back.”

“Make me.”

He waves a serving spoon at you. “I’m not playing with you, young lady.”

“Oh, please,” you wave him off. “You’re the one who begged me to host.”

It’s comfortable, the way it always is. The bickering, the back-and-forth, the way you can read each other’s expressions before the words even come out.

At some point, while you’re debating whether his punch bowl is too tacky (it is), he wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “You should check the closet in case you see anything else you wanna take.”

“The old shit in there?” 

He smacks you with the towel. You yelp, leaping back a few inches. “There’s goodies in there too, I’ll have you know.”

“Sure, Koo. Goodies, otherwise known as old shit.” But you’re already laughing, walking back into his room and diving into the closet.

You push back the ugly garland’s former neighbors. There’s a box of tangled charging cables, some old textbooks from college, a pair of busted headphones. It’s very standard Jungkook chaos. His mind is also disorganized, so it’s no wonder he has the room to match. 

You rummage around a bit more, sighing as you wave the dust from your face. 

On the top shelf, shoved way back in the top corner, you come across a box. 

Small, cardboard, duct-taped on the bottom half into oblivion. There’s a piece of paper taped to the front, and even in the dim closet light, you can make out your name written in his messy handwriting. [Y/N].

For a moment, you blink at the box, heart pounding, and then realize you have no idea what to do. 

If you open it, maybe he’ll know. Then you’ll look like a stalker. On the other hand, he’s been your best friend since birth, so finding out you have stalker tendencies might not be a dealbreaker. 

You stretch up on your toes, tugging the box toward you just enough to peek inside. A flash of worn brown fur catches your eyes, and then you see the teddy bear ear flopping out. Your teddy bear. You lost it in middle school, and you assumed it was gone forever, donated or thrown away during one of your mom’s delirious cleaning sprees. 

He kept it. 

“Find anything good?” Jungkook’s voice migrates from the kitchen. You jolt, almost dropping the box. Your hands shake as you shove it back into place, blood whooshing through your eardrums. 

“Nah,” you call back. Your voice sounds a bit shaky, but you hide it behind several coughs. “I was right. Old shit.”

You back out of the closet, closing the door carefully. What else is in there?

Later that night, when sleep proves itself to be unfeasible, and you’re tossing and turning underneath your comforter, you ponder what else might be in the box, and if he keeps it for the same reason you’ve kept every birthday card he’s ever written you. Tucked away in your own closet, in your own box, with his name on it. 

Apparently, hosting a Christmas soiree is not as straightforward as you’d hoped it would be.

First, there’s Jisoo, who texts a novel about how she’s trying this new clean eating thing and can there please be gluten free and dairy free options? You respond with a thumbs up, and then run to text Jennie to see if she’s actually serious. She sends back a skull emoji, which 1) you’re not sure what that implies and 2) you guess it’s confirmation that yes, she’s serious, but also yes, she’ll quit and eat regular food after two glasses of wine. 

Then Taehyung calls to inform you he’s trying to maintain a vegetarian lifestyle, and not the kind that occasionally eats fish, but the kind that will know if you used chicken stock in any recipe. You add “vegetable stock” to your growing shopping list, since catering cost more than your rent, and resist the urge to bang your head against the counter.

Namjoon sends his regrets that he and Dahyun can’t stay long because baby Haewon is ‘in turmoil right now,’ which translates to ‘we’ll be there for an hour max.’ You’re not even annoyed about that one—you’ve seen the bags under Namjoon’s eyes, and honestly, you’re impressed he’s coming at all.

The point is, you’ve given up. By Wednesday, your Notes app looks like a grocery list written by someone having a mental breakdown, and you’re seriously reconsidering this whole thing.

To his credit, Jungkook tries to help as much as possible. Inevitably, this means dragging him to your apartment on weekends, even though you do that often enough already. Saturday morning, he shows up with boxes, four different sets of more lights, some ornaments, all of them white, all of them looking functionally identical.

“Okay,” he says, holding up the first strand. “Which one screams ‘this is a classy Christmas’?”

You squint at it from the couch, hugging your mug of hot chocolate. “Hmm. I don’t know. That one kinda screams dollar store.”

“Cut.” He drops it and holds up the second. “This one?”

“Hmm, uglier than the first.”

“How can someone be so picky?” He holds up the third, and you can see him struggle to hold a straight face. “Fine. This one. Final answer.”

Tilting your head, you study it. It has a warm hue, the bulbs delicate and tiny. It’s kind of pretty, sans the scratches on some of the bulbs. “I think we have ourselves a winner.” 

“Sold.” He drops the others in the pile he’s been gathering. The ones on the right are the takers, the ones on the left are getting deposited in your dumpster at 5PM sharp. “See? This is why we make a good team.”

You have to fight not to let your mind wander off when he says things like that. “Barely. When we were five, we were on the same team for kickball and you nearly broke my ankle.”

He frowns, “Okay, but then I patched you up good as new with a Hello Kitty bandaid. That shit wasn’t easy to find.”

It was over two decades ago, but still remains a permanent fixture in your brain. You were sprawled on the playground, crying so hard you’d given yourself hiccups, convinced your ankle was shattered and your legs would be cut off. Jungkook had run to get the teacher, but came back before she did, sliding on his knees beside you like some action hero. He’d pulled a crumpled Hello Kitty bandaid from his pocket (you have no idea why he had it, he’d never explained) and stuck it on your ankle with the utmost seriousness, tongue poking out in concentration. “All better,” he had promised. Miraculously, you’d stopped crying. It wasn’t because the bandaid helped, but because Jungkook looked so proud of himself, you didn’t have the heart to tell him your ankle still hurt. 

“You’re still a pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, but who’s doing this home renovation for free? Me.”

You can’t argue with that. 

He continues pulling things from the boxes. More tinsel, garlands, ornaments in muted golds and silvers. Each item gets held up for your approval, and you find yourself less focused on the decorations and more on him. His cheeks flush crimson when you compliment one of his choices. A bright smile overtakes his features when you agree to something halfheartedly just because it makes the smile grow tenfold. 

You’d fallen for him a long time ago, but even now you realize how far down you’ve already gone. 

“Oh shit,” he exhales, freezing midway through a box. “No way.”

“What?” You shift excitedly on the couch, trying to peer into the box.

He pulls out a photo album, the edges frayed and the cover dusty. You recognize it as soon as you see it. It was one of the many your moms had compiled over the years, chronicling every significant (and insignificant) moment of your joint childhood.”

“I forgot I even had this,” he says incredulously, flipping it open. He moves to the couch, dropping down beside you, and his knee brushes yours.

Your body knows to jerk back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat. He doesn't notice, too absorbed in the photos, but your knee burns where it touched him.

“God, look at us,” he laughs, pointing to a picture of you both at around 7 years old, covered head to toe in mud. “Your mom was pissed at us.”

“Yeah, she was pissed because you pushed me into the puddle,” you remind him.

“And then I got you out of it.” 

“You said ‘watch this’ and then did it. I don’t think you really won brownie points with Mom,” you laugh at the memory. 

He flips through the book, oohing and aahing everytime you stumble across a cute picture. They’re reminiscent of a time when everything was easy, when you didn’t have to worry about adult things like taxes and bills and groceries. It was just you and Jungkook, conquering the world one playdate at a time. 

Jungkook flips to the next page. There’s a photo taped to the page, with your mom’s handwriting underneath. “Christmas, 9 years old, Busan.”

You're both standing under a mistletoe that looks comically large above your small heads. His lips are pressed to yours in that brief, earth-shattering peck you still think about once in a while (or more precisely, when it’s late at night and you’re missing his presence).

You take a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, like someone’s tugging on it by the ends of a string. 

Jungkook stares at the photo for what feels like forever, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “I remember this,” he quietly says. 

You can’t speak. Your tongue feels like deadweight. 

“You held your breath and everything,” he reminisces, and you suddenly feel breathless. Like you’re drowning and gasping for air, but even when you hit the surface, it’s not enough. 

He flips the page again, and there's another one. Age 10. Same mistletoe, different living room. It was the year your parents moved homes, but remained down the street from Jungkook’s. You’re wearing a red dress your mom made you wear, and he’s in a sweater that's too big. His hand is on your cheek, and you can see, even in the photo, how red your face was.

“We did this every year,” he notes, and there’s a nostalgic edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. 

“Yeah.” The word comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. And then the words are out before you can stop them, tinged with wistfulness, "Until we didn’t.”

Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge that. Just flips again. Through age 11, age 12, age 13, age 14. Each photo is a documentation of a tradition that meant everything to you. 

Then he turns the page, and the mistletoe is gone. Age 15.  You’re standing stiffly next to Haeun, who’s tucked under his arm, beaming at the camera. You look like you want to disappear.

“Hm,” he hums, frowning. “I guess we stopped here.”

It’s so juvenile, so high school it’s almost embarrassing. He hadn’t cared for the absence of your kiss. For him, it was a silly thing your families let you partake in. “You had Haeun. The mistletoe thing was for kids anyway”

“Was it though?” He studies the photo, and you wish he would stop, wish he would close the album and move on to anything else. The question isn’t meant to be flirtatious but a selfish part of you wishes it was. “I always thought it was fun.”

“Our parents got so excited over it.” He flips back to the earlier photos, running his finger over the vintage picture. “We’d be right under the mistletoe and she’d count down with her camera ready like it was the New Years countdown.”

“She was probably hoping to plaster us on some kids’ Christmas ad.”

“It was cute.” He lands on the photo from when you were six—the very first one. His tiny self kissing your cheek, your hand frozen mid-reach to touch the spot. “Look how tiny we were. Little babies.”

He says it so innocently that something inside you stumbles. 

You cover your face with your hands, as if he could see the adoration written all over your face. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t say anything “I’m mortified. I didn’t realize my mom took so many pictures of us kissing as kids.” 

He scrunches his brows, looking over at you. “Was it really that bad?” 

Yes. No. It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. “Kinda. I mean, I survived, didn’t I?”

“Barely, from the looks of it.” He taps the photo, where baby you looks seconds away from a panic attack. “It’s not like I had cooties.”

You smile. “Oh, yes you did. If anyone had cooties, it was definitely you. You ran that playground like it was your personal dating pool.”

“Rude.” He bumps your shoulder, turning the page slowly, lingering on each mistletoe photo. “I can’t believe we did this for almost a decade.”

“Used me for practice?” It doesn’t feel like there’s enough air in your apartment, even with the window cracked open. It’s taking tremendous effort to breathe.

“Worked well for us, I think.”

“Why’d you stop?” 

Oh god, you’ve really done it now.  

Surprisingly enough, the embarrassment comes belatedly, but it settles in your stomach all the stronger. 

Surprise flashes across his face. “What?”

“After Haeun. I guess… I don’t know. You never—” You wish you could say the words, wish you could be brave, wish you could be six years old again with Jeon Jungkook’s lips on your cheek. “Why’d it just… end?”

He’s quiet. The sound of your space heater rattling and Ginger purring fills the room, but not enough to quell the anxiety that’s rumbling in your stomach. He’s going to let you down gently, you hope. Quick and painless, like a bullet to the head.

“I don’t know. I guess I thought you didn’t want to anymore. We were older. I thought it would feel weird to you.”

Weird. 

And this whole time, for you, his kiss was nothing short of ethereal. 

“Plus,” he continues, oblivious to the way your heart is splintering, “I figured it’d be uncomfortable doing it once I had girlfriends. Like it would be... I don't know. Inappropriate or something.”

He was being considerate. Somehow, and you know you’re being irrational, that makes it worse.

“It makes sense.” You force a smile. “Relax, Koo. I’m not writing sonnets about your lips every night.”

He snorts. “Oh, please, you wish you could have lips as luscious as mine.”

You push his shoulder, and then it’s just you and Jungkook again. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He flips through a few more pages, ogling at pictures even you’d never seen before. He points to one where you're both wearing matching reindeer antlers. “Now, this should be on a Christmas card.”

“I’m shocked my mom didn’t have cards made. I would’ve burned them”

“You’re such a Grinch.” He closes the album but keeps it in his lap, fingers tracing the worn cover. Jungkook is quiet for another moment, and you catch the look on his face, the one he makes when he’s struggling to choose his words correctly. Decisively, he says, “Did you really hate it? The mistletoe thing?”

Your heart hammers. This is it, you think. This is where you could tell him. Where you could say actually, I loved it, I lived for it, I died a little every year you stopped.

But he’s looking at you with curiosity, as if he’s pondering what your favorite color is or what you had for breakfast. As if the answer doesn’t matter beyond satisfying his momentary interest.

You lie. “It was fine. Just a stupid kid thing.”

He sets the album aside, wiping his dusty palms on the front of his pants. “Yeah. Totally.” 

Jungkook moves back to the decoration boxes, and you remain frozen on the couch. You grip your safety blanket as tight as you can, until you think you feel your blood flow cutting off. You just want to feel numb. 

“You know what is crazy, though?” He pulls out a string of garland, examining it for tangled bits. “You used to be obsessed with Christmas.”

Your stomach does a somersault. “I was not.”

“Yeah, you kinda were.” His eyes linger on the garland, although you’re certain it’s in perfect condition. “You made us watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman on repeat. You also made us build snowmen every single time it snowed, even when it was like, two inches.”

“Everyone loves those things when you’re a kid.”

“Yeah, I guess.” he sighs. “But I don’t know. You had a countdown, you’d call me everyday in December to tell me how many days were left. That was your favorite holiday, and now I’m the only one who likes it.” 

You shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant, but you know he can read your face like an open book. “People change.”

“When did you even stop liking it?” He picks up a few string lights, untangling them as he’s doing to you currently. 

Your throat tightens. “High school, maybe?”

“Cause of stress or something? School shit?” 

“Sure.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“That’s the answer you’re getting.” You really, really wish there was a sinkhole that could swallow you entirely right now. 

He studies you, and you can see him thinking, piecing together something you don’t want him to figure out. But despite it all, he just shrugs, letting it go. “It's depressing. You used to light up the whole room when Christmas came around. Now you look like someone killed Ginger."

She purrs in the corner. 

“Sorry, Ging.” He throws the lights to the yes pile. It’s surprisingly larger than the no pile. “I just want you to be happy this Christmas. That’s all I care about.”

You half-smile at him, nodding. You don’t know how to tell him that you could be happy, could be ecstatic, if just this Christmas, you felt his lips on yours again.

Turns out, it’s a lot easier to throw yourself into party planning when you’re trying to distract yourself from something.

This whole debacle makes you realize you’ve never actually hosted a Christmas party. You actively avoid Christmas. What made you think you could pull this off? (Granted it’s all Jungkook’s fault, but that’s neither here nor there.)

The group chat you made for the attendees is already chaos—Jisoo asking about the playlist, Taehyung confirming he’s still vegetarian (yes, still, it's been four days), Dahyun asking if she can breastfeed in your bedroom. Your anxiety spikes with every notification.

So it’s no surprise that the day before the party, you wake up in a cold sweat at 6AM with the horrifying realization that you have no idea what you’re doing. By the time Jungkook arrives at noon, you’ve managed to rearrange your furniture three times and stress-clean your bathroom until it’s sterile enough to perform surgery in. 

“Wow,” He steps inside, taking in the boxes of decorations you’ve laid out for him to tackle. “Did you even sleep?” 

“I would, but Jisoo and Jennie are blowing up my phone like this is the fucking MET Gala or something.” You huff, not pausing your incessant scrubbing of your kitchen sink. 

“They know it’s just the annual Christmas party… right?”

You puff another exasperated breath. “Yes. But none of that matters to them because they’ve sent me 30 different outfit options like I’m going to be judging them personally or something.”

He bites back a smile. “It’s time to call in the big guns. Where can I get my hands dirty, sergeant?”

You really are grateful he’s here. And exists. And all those other sentimental things that your heart sings about constantly. 

You two go full decorator mode, moving through your apartment like a well-oiled machine. He hangs the garland while you untangle lights, arrange the ornaments while he figures out how to make your bookshelf look “festive but not icky.” His words, not yours.

It’s disgusting how much Christmas is invading your space. Your minimal, clean apartment now looks like Santa threw up in it. There are silver bells on your kitchen counter, a wreath on your door that's so aggressively pine-scented you can taste it. There are candles labeled things like “Winter Wonderland” and “Cinnamon Craze” that you know will take weeks to burn through after this is all said and done.

But you keep going, because if you stop, you’ll think. If you think, you’ll remember the photo album, the mistletoe pictures, the dumb kid thing.

“Alright, I need my harshest critic.” Jungkook motions to you to survey the living room. 

Standing beside him, you inspect the damage. Warm white lights are strung along your windows and wrapped around your bookshelf. A garland drapes elegantly across your mantle (you don't have a fireplace, but the decorative mantle suddenly feels worth it). There are small golden ornaments scattered tastefully on your side tables, and the wreath on the door is admittedly very pretty, even if it does smell like a forest. 

“Not too shabby, Jeon.”

He looks offended. “Yeah, no shit. I deserve better than that.”

“Subpar at best.”

“I’m gonna punt Ginger like a football.”

“I think the lights are nice,” you finally concede, because they are. They make your apartment look warm, cozy even.

“Told you I was good at this." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat, that proud, bunny-toothed smile that makes your chest hurt. “Admit it. I crushed this.”

You roll your eyes. “You did alright.”

He gapes, blinking frantically. “Okay? Okay? I turned your Grinch lair into a winter wonderland!”

“My abode is not a lair.”

“It was before I arrived.” He sticks his tongue out, and you shove his shoulder. 

“I think we're done,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “This is... yeah. This is enough.”

“Well… almost.” Jungkook looks like a kid who’s just been told he can’t have dessert before dinner but is already plotting how to sneak a cookie anyway.

Your stomach sinks. “What do you mean almost?” you ask, even though you think you already know. 

“I have a surprise.” 

You protest, “Jungkook—”

“Wait right here.” He holds up a hand, jogs back toward the entryway where he’d dropped his bag earlier. You stiffen like you’re made of ice, the only thing moving in your body being your heartbeat that thumps along the walls of your ribcage. 

Please don’t be what you think it is. Please don’t be what you think it is. 

He turns around, and your heart sinks lower than where your stomach sat.

In his hand, dangling from a red ribbon, is a mistletoe.

It’s small, crinkled, fake plastic leaves bent at weird angles like it was shoved in the back of his closet for years. It probably has been. 

“No,” you object immediately. 

“Come on—”

“No. This is a hard no, Jungkook.” And you know you’re being harsh, but it’s the only way you’ll get him to stop whatever efforts he’s decided are worth his time. 

“You said no mistletoe in the apartment,” he argues, walking toward you with that stupid sprig held up. “Technically, this is going above the doorway, which is a threshold. Not in the apartment.”

“That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“But it’s tradition!” You can see the hope in his eyes, the genuine excitement, and it makes you want to rip your hair out. “Every Christmas party needs a mistletoe.”

“Not this one.”

“Especially yours. Ours.” His voice softens, and that's worse somehow. “For old times’ sake?”

You hate the tone in his voice, the guilt-tripping, the pity. 

“I don’t want it,” you repeat. “I told you this already.”

His smile falters as he realizes you’re truly serious. “Why not?

“Because it’s stupid and outdated and I don’t want people making a big deal about it.”

“Why would any of our friends make a big deal—”

“Jungkook,” you plead, crossing your arms, putting a physical barrier between you and that mistletoe. “I said no.’

He just stares at you, confusion and hurt flickering across his face. “I don’t get it. It’s literally just a mistletoe. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Fun, weird… a list of words that describe the opposite of what mistletoe makes you feel.

“It’s not fun for me.” You burn holes into your floor, refusing to look at his puppy eyes that would make you feel more guilty than you already do. 

“Why not?”

Because everytime I look at it, I think about you kissing me when we were kids. Because it reminds me of when Christmas was my favorite day of the year. Because seeing it in my apartment, above my doorway, at my party, will make me think about all the Christmases you kissed other girls and not me.

“Because I don’t like it,” you decide upon, “Can’t you just respect that?”

An awkward silence spreads amongst you two, punctured only by Ginger purring in the corner. Jungkook's hand drops to his side, mistletoe dangling limply from his fingers.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “No mistletoe.”

“Thank you,” you sigh in relief. 

He walks back to his bag and shoves it inside, and you should feel relieved. You should feel like you’ve won. But instead, you just feel like you’ve punched him square in the face.

“I should probably go,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Let you rest before the big day tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” You shift on your feet awkwardly. 

He gathers his things timidly, and you know he’s giving you time to take it back, to say you’re sorry, to explain, to undo the angst you’ve created. 

At the door, he pauses before reaching for the doorknob. Jungkook turns, clutching his bag strap so tightly his knuckles resemble those of a ghost. “I really don't understand what's going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you mutter. 

“That’s utter bullshit,” he snaps, and you raise your eyes to meet his. The usual warm chocolate shade of his orbs now shifts to onyx. “You’ve been weird about this whole Christmas party thing since day one.”

“I said, there’s nothing going on. I don’t want to talk about it,” you repeat, hoping it’ll stick.

“But I do!” His voice rises, and you flinch. Jungkook doesn’t yell. Not once in your lifelong friendship has he ever raised his voice or laid a finger on anyone. You were never involved in any of his relationship arguments, but you imagine he never argued with them like this. You suddenly feel dizzy, like the world is spinning too quickly for you to catch your breath. “I’ve known you forever. You’re my best fucking friend, and something is clearly wrong, so just tell me.”

Frustration coils in your stomach. Why can’t he ever leave anything alone? “Stop it. Please, just stop. Why can’t you just respect my boundaries? I said no mistletoe. I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why isn’t that enough for you?”

“This obviously is not just about the fucking mistletoe, [Y/N].” He tugs at his hair, rage rolling off him in waves. “Since the moment I brought up you hosting, you acted like I was attacking you.”

“Because you are!” None of it makes sense, not one bit, but you can’t tell between anger and panic and all you can see is red. “Maybe because you just bulldoze through my life, rearranging things, making decisions, assuming you know what's best—”

“We’re best friends. We help each other with everything,” he grits through clenched teeth.

“I’m not Hana, Jungkook. I won’t just let you decorate my life and pretend everything's perfect.”

For a moment, Jungkook seems taken aback by your outburst, recoils a step, landing with his spine against the front door. His face goes pale. “Wow. That’s fucking low.”

“Is it?” You're on a roll now, unable to stop even though you can see you’re hurting him. Maybe you just want him to hurt the way you do. “Because when you kept all of Hana’s things, when your apartment was basically a shrine to her, I never said a fucking thing about it. I just let you deal with it however you needed to. So why can’t you give me the same courtesy? Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Hana and I broke up!” His voice cracks, eyes glassy, “That’s so different and you know it.”

“How is it different? Enlighten me.”

“She was my girlfriend. And it hurt, okay? It hurt to let her go. But I did it. I'm doing it because it’s over and I don’t miss her that way anymore. And you’re the one who pushed me to. So don’t—" He pauses, jaw clenched, and you can see he’s trying to swallow his tears. “Don’t throw that in my face like I’m some pathetic asshole who can't move on.”

Fuck. “Koo—”

“No.” He holds up a hand. It’s shaking. “You want boundaries? Fine. Here’s one: don’t call me until you figure out what the fuck is actually going on with you. Because this isn’t you. The you I know doesn’t make me feel like shit for trying to care about you.”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Jungkook, I’m so sorry—”

“Save it.” His voice is quieter, and you miss the yelling, because at least then he still cared about you. He’s given up. “I’ll still come to the party tomorrow because I told everyone I would. But after that… maybe we should take a break from each other or something.”

“Oh.”

Throughout the duration of your friendship, you and Jungkook have only ever fought once. It was known as The Great Argument of 11th Grade, and it was so juvenile that even your parents got involved. Now, you don’t really remember the specifics of what went down or who started it, but you do remember that it only lasted a day, because Jungkook said, “you know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”

The concept of space from him is one you’ve never considered. 

He leaves before you can say anything more, the door clicking shut with finality, echoing through your decorated apartment.

You stand there, frozen, staring at the space where he was. The mistletoe is still in his bag. He took it with him.

The rest of your unfortunate day is spent spiraling about your argument with Jungkook. You sit on the couch, crying to some stupid Hallmark movie where the girl gets the guy and everything works out perfectly. Then you cry in the shower, the water mixing with your tears until you can’t tell which is which. You go so far as to cry in your car on the way to the grocery store, because you two were supposed to go together to prepare for this stupid party.

Even the supermarket is taunting you. There’s couples everywhere walking around gleefully, hand-in-hand, debating between red or green napkins like it’s the most important decision of their lives. Meanwhile, you’re shuffling through the aisles in a massive oversized hoodie that’s doing nothing to hide your puffy eyes and red nose.

Sniffling, you round the corner to the next aisle, looking for Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth. Your cart collides with someone else’s with a loud clang, and you’re thrown, apologizing like crazy, “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—”

“[Y/N]?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hana. 

The last time you saw Hana was last January after the breakup. She was collecting her things at Jungkook’s apartment, and you’d shown up at the wrong moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, movements solemn as she shoved books and clothes into a duffel bag. She’d barely looked at you, just mumbled a quiet “hey” before brushing past you in the hallway. You had felt guilty then, even though you had no reason to be. 

At least now, she looks radiant. Her skin reflects off the luminescent overhead lights, cart stocked full of fancy cheeses and wine bottles and overpriced crackers. She looks like someone who has her shit together. Someone who’s moved on.

Unlike you, apparently, who looks like you’ve been crying in your car. Which, by all means, you absolutely were. 

“Hana,” you slap a smile onto your face, although you’re 99 percent certain it looks strained. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too!” She seems actually happy about the encounter. It’s not like you two ever had a bad relationship, but you weren’t besties by any means. “It’s been forever.”

“Yeah, almost a year.” You’re too hyperaware of your puffy eyes, your ratty hoodie, the fact that you probably look like you’ve been hit by a truck. But of course, she looks like she just stepped out of Vogue.

“How have you been?” she asks. 

“Good. Busy. You know, the holidays,” You nod at your cart, which contains three different types of cheeses, ten bags of chips, and a bag of chocolate chips for yourself because you need to eat your feelings when you get home. 

“I do,” she laughs. “Work has been insane lately. I barely have time to go outside.”

“Right, you’re at that new marketing agency now?” You remember Jungkook mentioning it once, back when talking about Hana was therapeutic for him.

“I do.” she nods. “It’s a lot but I love it. What about you? Still at the magazine?”

“I am. I actually just finished a pretty big piece, so that’s good.”

“That’s amazing,” she earnestly responds. You want to hate her—it would be easier if you could hate her—but she’s always been kind. Even when you wanted to despise her for being with Jungkook, she made it impossible.

There’s a lull in conversation, and you debate making a run for it until she asks, “How are you and Jungkook?”

You furrow your brows. She could just ask you about Jungkook. You wouldn’t judge her  for wondering. “What do you mean?”

“I just—” A crimson blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I mean, how are you guys doing?”

Why would she ask about you both together? Granted, it’s not that unreasonable. You and Jungkook are attached at the hip; everyone knows that. “We’re… good? He’s good.”

“Cool,” she says, but she doesn’t even look convinced by your answer. 

You don’t know why you feel the need to overshare, but it all comes tumbling out like word vomit. “Yeah, he’s actually been helping me plan this Christmas party. Total nightmare, honestly. He’s been at my place basically every day this week, decorating and—”

She cracks a smile. “That’s so cute you guys are still inseparable.”

“I mean… “ you trail off, slightly confused by her angle. “We’re best friends. So yeah.”

“Of course,” she rushes to say. “Duh. Silly me.”

“Is that... weird?” You clear your throat and shift on your feet. You don’t even know what she’s trying to get at anymore, and honestly, you really need to get as far away from this supermarket (or Seoul) as fast as you can. 

“No! No, not weird. I think it’s sweet, actually.” She pauses before adding, “I'm really happy for you guys”

Either you must be braindead, or she’s undergoing memory loss. “I’m sorry Hana, I don’t think I’m following.”

She laughs softly, but it’s not mocking. “Come on, [Y/N]. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Your stupid heart skips a beat, your brain struggling to make sense of her words. “Pretend about what?”

“That you and Jungkook aren’t together, obviously.” 

Have you entered an alternate universe? Did you accidentally drive into another dimension in all your sadness, missed the supermarket completely?

“What?” you sputter. “No, we’re not—oh my god, no. We would never, I mean—we’re best friends.”

She reaches out, placing a warm hand over your own. You’re going to die. It’ll be a painful death, but you’ll make it work. Anything to get out of this. “No, it’s okay. You can tell. Honest to god, I’m seeing someone now. I’m not like, jealous or anything.”

It’s confirmed. You’ve entered an alternate world where you’ll soon grow a second head and become the queen of a make-believe land. 

“Hana, I’m dead serious. Jungkook and I are not dating.” You need her to believe you. You need someone to believe you, because if Hana thinks there’s something there, what the fuck does that mean? “We’ve never dated. We’re just friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.”

She studies your face, searching for the lies. Confusion replaces her certainty. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“But you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Wow. Okay. I genuinely thought you guys had finally gotten together.”

Your throat constricts. “W-Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she stops, biting her lip. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

It gives you pause for a minute, and your heart—that idiotic organ of yours that can never let go of anything—trembles in your chest. 

“No, what were you going to say?” You’re not sure you want to know, but you can’t let it go now.

She casually flicks her hand. “It’s nothing, I swear.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Hana. Please.”  

She sighs, shifting on her feet. “It’s just... when Jungkook and I were together, it was always pretty clear that you were the most important person in his life. Which, like, I totally respected! I did, I get it. But it was also kind of hard sometimes, you know? Like I was always competing with this... ghost. This idea of what you two had.”

Ever since you were young, people had this tendency to group you and Jungkook into this category of fate, as if the universe had done you both a favor by placing you in adjacent hospital cribs. It was always “you’re lucky to have each other” and “what a gift to be so close,” that you had never stopped to consider that your luck, your fate, your happiness, your shining star, might cast shadows on the people who tried to love him.

“Hana, I never meant to—”

“No, no,” she rushes to say, “Trust me, it wasn’t you. You did nothing wrong. Neither did he, really. He tried his best. But I could always tell his heart wasn’t fully in it. At least, not in the way it should have been.”

Words fall short of what you want to say. Hana and Jungkook’s relationship had always felt like something out of reach to you. An enigma. The plot of some braindead romance novel. They met at a concert, an underground indie band that only the two of them liked.  He had stumbled home that night with a smile on his face that couldn’t be erased, eyes bright as exploding stars, talking so fast his words tripped over each other. You remember thinking this is it, the real thing, the love that rewrites him.  You had never imagined that magic would ever run dry. 

“Anyway,” Hana continues, “I just assumed that once we broke up, you two would figure it out. The way he talked about you, the way he’d light up when you texted... I don't know. I thought it was inevitable.”

“Well, it’s not.” The words prick your tongue like thorns. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh. Well, that’s still cool,” she offers, but her eyes have gone all soft. 

For a while, it’s quiet. She’s staring at you intently, chewing on her lip like she has more to say but needs to mash it down. But you really just want to grab Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth and get the fuck out of here. 

“It was great to see you, Hana. I need to go and—”

“[Y/N], wait.” She latches onto your arm before you get a chance to escape. 

You stare at her, wide-eyed, heart racing, mouth dry. 

“I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Maybe it should be him, I don’t fucking know," she says, rolling her eyes. "But clearly he hasn’t grown the balls yet. Well, that, or his peanut brain hasn’t pieced it together. But I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

Your hands grip the cart handle. “Tell me what?”

There’s a long pause, and you can feel her weighing her words. Until, finally, she admits, “Last Christmas, when we were under the mistletoe… when Jungkook kissed me.” She takes a deep breath. “He was looking at you.”

Your first reaction is to laugh. Which you do, actually, loud enough to bounce off the cans of corn on the shelves. At the sound, Hana raises an eyebrow. 

“What are you talking about?” you giggle. “No, he wasn’t.”

She’s watching you now with something that resembles pity.

“We were under the mistletoe at your friend Jisoo’s apartment. Everyone was there, all your friends. And he kissed me, but…” Hana swallows thickly. “When we pulled apart, his eyes were open, and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking across the room at you.”

You think you’re going to die in this godforsaken supermarket. 

“I didn’t say anything that night. I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but then it kept happening. He’d be with me, but he’d be watching you. Listening for you, waiting for you to text or call.” She laughs dryly, but you’re not sure either of you find this funny. “On New Years, I asked him about it. I asked him if he was in love with you.”

Bile rises up in your throat. You don’t even think you want to hear the rest of this. If she’s right, if it’s true, if you’ve missed this, if, if, if..

“What did he say, Hana?”

“Obviously, he lied and said no. He said you were just friends, and that I was being ridiculous. But then we broke up two weeks later. We both agreed we needed space, and I said that he wasn’t ready for something serious. And maybe that's true, maybe I was reading into things." She finally meets your eyes again. "But I don’t think I was.”

Last Christmas, you were so drunk on Jisoo’s eggnog that you hardly remember anything. You try to piece together the snippets of the night you have. There was dinner, which you scarfed down in under a millisecond. Then you all played pin the cock on the Santa (not suitable for kids, but luckily, baby Haewon only lived in Dahyun’s uterus at that point). You barely even remember the mistletoe portion of the night. That’s got to be some kind of trauma response to the stupid little leaf. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.

“Because," Hana’s lips curve upwards into a soft smile, “I spent a year loving someone who was in love with someone else, and it sucked, but you know what sucks more? Watching two people who are meant to be together waste time pretending they’re not.” 

She reaches out and squeezes your arm. “I’m not bitter about it anymore. I’m happy now. I want him to be happy too. I think... I think he could be very happy with you.”

You want to argue. You want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s misremembering, that she too was poisoned by Jisoo’s eggnog, that there's no way Jungkook feels that way about you.

But then you think about the box in his closet with your name on it. The teddy bear he kept. The way he’s been trying so hard to make you love Christmas again. The mistletoe he wanted to hang in your apartment.

No. It can’t fucking be. 

“I gotta go,” you say abruptly. 

“[Y/N]—”

But you’re already moving, abandoning your cart in the middle of the aisle, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. You make it to your car before the tears start again, but this time they’re different. This time, you don’t know if you’re crying because you’ve been in love with someone who doesn't love you back, or because you might've missed the entire thing completely. 

There’s not enough wine in this apartment, nor this world, that will get you through this Christmas party in one piece.

It feels like the world is moving around you but you’re just glued to your kitchen, gripping your glass of white wine so tightly you’re surprised the stem hasn’t snapped. Surprisingly enough, everyone arrived on time—even Namjoon and Dahyun, balancing poor baby Haewon on their hip, her tiny Santa hat slipping over one eye. There’s enough alcohol floating around to feed a bar, courtesy of Taehyung’s overenthusiastic mixology skills. 

It’s truly a splendid evening. A roaring success. Everything going exactly as planned. 

Except, there are two minor (major) insignificant, soul-crushing details that are fucking up your perfect evening: 

Hana’s words have been playing on loop in your brain all day. 

When Jungkook arrived, he looked at you for exactly 0.5 seconds, said absolutely nothing, and spent the last hour charming everyone else in the room.

Other than that, splendid evening. Gatsby would be seething with jealousy if he saw the kind of party you were throwing.

Jungkook had walked in, present in hand for Haewon (because he was her godfather and she practically got whatever she wanted when he was around), and he’d met your eyes before looking away. No smile. No “hey.” Not even a nod of acknowledgment. 

Naturally, since torturing you seems first on his agenda, he chooses this night to become the town jester. Jennie has been laughing at his jokes for what seems like ages, her hand on his arm, her head thrown back in delight. Taehyung keeps pulling him into conversations, clapping him on the shoulder. Even Dahyun, who normally has her hands full, is more entranced by Jungkook than her own daughter. 

Everyone loves Jungkook. Everyone always loves Jungkook.

Yet, he won’t even spare you a passing glance. 

It’s what you deserve, you know that, but your heart is cracking at the seams and your brain isn’t faring any better. 

You feel ill. Fucking ill.

Turning to the kitchen sink, you brace your hands on the counter. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re fine. You just need to get through the next few hours without having a complete breakdown in front of all your friends.

“You alright?”

You jump, releasing an exhale when you see it’s just Jisoo. She’s holding a glass of red wine, matching with her burgundy turtleneck, eyebrow raised in that knowing way of hers that says she sees right through all your bullshit.

“Oh, yeah,” you reply. “Just taking a quick breather.”

“Mhm.” she eyes you up and down, leaning against the counter. “You’re basically hiding at your own party.”

“Could’ve sworn you did this last year at your Christmas party when your lasagna came out burnt,” you point out. 

Jisoo deadpans. “This isn’t about me. We’re talking about you.”

Damnit. You were hoping she would let it go.

“I’m just here making sure everything’s to perfection. Y’know, Taehyung with his… vegetarianism..”

Jisoo takes a slow sip of her wine, “You wanna try that again, or should I just cut to the part where you tell me what’s actually wrong?”

Your heart falls to your ass. Jisoo is the one friend on this planet who has consistently read you down to the bone. She’s going to see right through any lie you try to feed her, so you’re wondering if it’s even worth it. 

It’s worth one last shot. 

“Nothing’s wrong—”

“Bitch just tell me.”

You close your eyes and try to imagine a beach, somewhere tropical with waves kissing your ankles and sand that burns your feet. Try to imagine a world where you don’t have to answer Jisoo's question, where Hana never ambushed you in the grocery store yesterday, where your feelings for Jungkook stayed frozen at age nine, still innocent and within reach.

Unfortunately, when you open your eyes again, you’re at a Christmas party—your Christmas party, in your annoyingly red sweater—and Jisoo is staring at you expectantly. 

“I fucked up.”

Jisoo doesn’t look surprised in the slightest, which, okay. Rude. “With Jungkook?”

You raise an eyebrow. “How did you know that?”

“I mean, you’re not having a fight with any of the girls, or I would’ve heard an earful. That and he won’t glance in your direction and you look like you’re about to throw up. Doesn’t take Einstein.” She places her wine down. “What happened?”

Keeping it bottled up has never done you any favors, so you steady your voice and explain everything.  How you didn’t want to host the party in the first place because Christmas makes you miserable. How Jungkook kept pushing about the mistletoe. How you snapped at him, brought up Hana, threw his grief in his face. How he left and told you he needed space and you haven’t spoken since.

You probably could’ve told her more, but you don’t want to tell her about the mistletoe tradition. You don’t tell her about being in love with him for thirteen years. Those truths feel like just yours. 

When you finish, Jisoo is quiet for a long moment. Then, she sighs, levels you with a look, and says,  “That was a low blow.”

“I know.”

“Like, really bad.”

“I know.”

“He was just trying to help, and you basically told him he’s pathetic for not being over his ex.”

“I know, Jisoo. Trust me, I know.” You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. “I feel like shit about it.”

“Have you apologized?”

“He said he needed space. Hence why he won’t look at me.”

“I mean, space doesn’t mean you can’t say sorry.” She picks up her wine again. “Look, I get it. You were overwhelmed. The party planning, the decorations, whatever else is going on in that head of yours. But Jungkook didn’t deserve that”.

“I know he didn’t.” you reply, now having trouble controlling your voice. “I just... I don’t know how to fix this.”

“The word you’re looking for, my dear, is sorry,” she smiles sympathetically. 

You nod, even though the thought of approaching him right now makes you want to crawl into a hole. 

The party outside seems to pick up in volume, and through the crack in the doorway, you see Jungkook holding baby Haewon, cradling her carefully against his chest like she’s made of glass. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, the color of mistletoe, and his skin looks golden under the string lights he helped set up. He’s cooing at the baby, making ridiculous faces, and Haewon is giggling, her tiny hand reaching up to grab his nose.

Dahyun is standing next to him, saying something that makes him laugh, and the light sound carries over the music and chatter. It’s his real laugh, the one that crinkles his nose and shows all his teeth, the one you thought you only got to see. 

And suddenly you can picture it with perfect clarity: Jungkook, a few years from now, holding his own baby. His and someone else’s, some girl who isn’t you, who doesn’t have years of baggage and unspoken feelings weighing her down. Someone who can give him the uncomplicated love he deserves.

You didn’t even realize Jisoo was talking until you feel her hand on your arm. 

Blinking out of your daze, you snap back to the kitchen, to the party, to reality. “Sorry, what?”

But it’s too late—Jisoo isn’t looking at you anymore. She’s following your gaze to the dining room, to Jungkook and the baby, and understanding dawns across her face.

“Oh,” she says. 

Who knew a single syllable could carry so much weight?

“How long?” Jisoo questions.

“How long what?”

“Do not play dumb with me, missy. How long have you been in love with him?”

You’ve been tiptoeing around the truth for a long time. But you’re so tired of pretending, and the wine has loosened your tongue, and Jisoo is looking at you with such gentle understanding that the truth just spills out.

“Since I was a kid.”

Jisoo's eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N].”

“Yeah,” is all you can offer.

“Does he know?” She lowers her voice, leans more into you like he might somehow hear across the room. 

“Absolutely not,” you retort. “He can’t, and he won’t. It would ruin our friendship.”

She opens her mouth to protest, to probably give you some grand speech on how love wins above all, but you hold your hand up to stop her. “I’m serious, Jisoo. You can’t tell him. Pinky promise me.”

She studies you for a long moment, and you can see her debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs and holds out her pinkie. “I promise. But for the record, I think you’re an idiot.”

“I get that a lot.”

From the dining room, you hear Jungkook laugh again, and it feels like someone’s wrapped barbed wire around your heart and pulled tight.

“You really should talk to him, though,” Jisoo repeats. “Like tonight, before it gets worse.” 

It’s already worse. 

“I can’t,” you disagree, taking a gulp of wine. “You saw him. The man won’t even look at me.”

“Because he’s pissed, not ‘cause he hates you.” She squeezes your arm. “This is Jungkook we’re talking about. Your Jungkook. He’s probably just as miserable as you are.”

The words your Jungkook make you shiver. He’s never actually been yours in any way that matters. But god, the way Jisoo says it makes you want to believe it. Makes you want to crawl inside those two words and live there, in a world where your Jungkook means he’s yours the way you’ve always been his. Completely, irrevocably, in every way a person can belong to another.

“I don’t know, he seems to be the fucking class clown tonight,” you mumble into your wine, and Jisoo snorts. 

“I promise you he’s waiting for you to make the first move. He said he needed space, but that doesn’t mean he wants the space. You know how he is—he’s a loverboy. Gets all up in his feelings and shit.”

You do know. You’ve known Jungkook long enough to recognize all his patterns.

Either way, you know just what to say to appease Jisoo. “Maybe later.”

“Later as in tonight, or later as in you’re going to avoid him until you two just forget about it and move on?” 

Yeah, exactly that. 

“We’ll see.”

Jisoo gives you a look that says she knows exactly what “we'll see” means in your vocabulary. “What’s your therapist’s name again? I want to give them a call.”

You hold up your middle finger. 

“It’s gonna be a loooong night,” she exhales a loud breath.

And truly, she must have magical powers or something, because it is nothing short of a treacherous evening for you. 

It all starts with Dahyun intercepting you, forcing you to hold Haewon. “Can you hold her for a sec? I need to use the bathroom and Joon’s three drinks deep trying to explain some conspiracy theory to Taehyung.” 

You’re halfway through your protest when she just plops Haewon into your arms. She settles against your chest with a little coo, her Santa hat askew. She smells like powder, milk, and Dahyun’s perfume. Her tiny fist curls into your sweater, and despite the trainwreck that is your life, you smile brightly. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” you murmur, adjusting her weight. “I bet you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. Because everyone loves you, since you’re perfect.”

Bouncing her gently, you two sway in place, and she makes a happy gurgling sound as if to say “yes, I know I’m perfect.” Someone has put on Nat King Cole, and the crooning voice of “The Christmas Song” fills your apartment with a nostalgic warmth you’ve been trying to avoid all month.

Haewon has the cutest little fingers and even tinier toes, and it amazes you how someone so utterly perfect could exit your friend Dahyun’s body. Before she met Namjoon, she was nothing short of a party girl, but now, her days are filled with Mommy & Me yoga classes and supermarket runs. 

It’s your dream life, you think. One that you would give anything to live with Jungkook. 

You’re so focused on this fantasy, the one you’ve conjured up in your head and dreams for years, that you don’t even realize Jungkook is blatantly staring at you. 

He’s standing near the drinks table, a bottle of beer frozen halfway to his lips. You meet his eyes, and it’s just you and Jungkook (and Haewon). 

Haewon squirms in your arms, breaking your gaze. You look down at her, adjusting her hat, heart hammering against your ribcage. When you look back up, Jungkook has turned away, saying something to Taehyung that you can’t hear over the blood whooshing in your ears.

But his knuckles are white around his beer bottle. 

Later on in the night, after you’ve tended to Taehyung’s vegetarian needs and listened to Jisoo rant about how clean eating relates to consumerism, you retreat to the kitchen under the guise of refilling the snack bowls. No one needs more chips—there are three unopened bags on the counter—but you need a moment of reprieve. 

You rip open a bag of pretzels, and a few go flying everywhere, but you manage to catch them in your hand. 

“Need any help?”

Your body goes rigid. You’re certain even your heart has stopped its beat. 

Jungkook is standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you. The green sweater really is unfair. The golden undertone of his skin shimmers under your fluorescent light, makes his eyes look lustrous. 

“All good here,” you retort. “I’m just restocking.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgment, shuffling closer toward you. 

You pour pretzels into a bowl with more force than necessary, and several bounce onto the counter.

“The party’s a hit,” he offers. 

“Yeah. Everyone seems happy.” 

“The food’s really good too.”

“It was all Namjoon and Dahyun,” you snort. Your dream of getting food catered pretty much died immediately. Then you tried cracking open a recipe book and nearly fainted. 

This is excruciating. You’ve never done small talk with Jungkook. Never needed to. 

“Listen—”

“Jungkook,” you say in unison. 

Words cease to exist. You both stop. A dreadful, awkward silence fills the kitchen.

He clears his throat. “I want us to talk later after everyone leaves. If that’s okay with you?”

Where the idea of talking to him used to excite you, is now replaced by a pit in your stomach that won’t budge. 

Hana’s words crash back into your consciousness. He was looking at you.

But what if she was wrong? What if she saw something that wasn’t there because she was hurt and wanted an explanation that made sense? What if you let yourself hope and it destroys you?

“Maybe, Jungkook.”

Disappointment flashes across his face. He nods slowly. “Cool, yeah, uh, just let me know.”

He turns to leave, and you want to say more, want to stop him from leaving.

Your mind runs back to the grocery store, Hana’s words. 

You open your mouth—to say what, you don't know. Sorry. Wait. I need to tell you something.

“Jungkook.”

Jennie pokes her head into the kitchen, oblivious to everything. “There you are! Tae’s trying to make everyone play some weird drinking game. You have to come referee before I murder him.”

Jungkook looks back at you, a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” you smile. “I’ll join in a sec.”

He hesitates for just a second, then follows Jennie to the party.

By the time you make it back to the living room, Taehyung has indeed corralled everyone into some drinking game involving Christmas trivia. You slide into an empty spot on the couch next to Jisoo, who gives you a pointed look that you ignore. 

“Is this a joke?” you ask. 

“Tis not, Christmas hater,” Taehyung jokes. He explains the rules of the game, most of which you spend picking at your fingernails. The game begins with Jennie getting a question wrong about Rudolph and has to take a shot of tequila. Dahyun argues that her answer about Home Alone is technically correct. Jungkook keeps score attentively, tongue poking through his teeth. 

You're almost starting to relax when Namjoon, flushed from wine and dad-exhaustion, looks around your apartment with squinted eyes.

“Wait,” he says loud enough to make Taehyung’s and Jisoo’s current feud halt. “Where’s the mistletoe?” 

Last Christmas by Wham is blaring from your speakers, and you can hear traffic from the street below, but a barrage of red alerts blasts through your brain. 

Shit. 

Your throat goes dry.

“Yeah!” Dahyun laughs, adjusting Haewon on her lap. “Where is it? I thought mistletoe was like, mandatory at Christmas parties.”

“Maybe she forgot,” Jennie offers, and you could kiss her on the lips. 

“Feels like a crazy thing to forget,” Jisoo chimes in, and you shush her with a glare. 

“I didn’t forget.” You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at him. “I just didn’t put one up.” 

“Why not?” Taehyung interrogates, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s tradition.”

Tradition. That stupid fucking word. 

“It’s not really my thing.” You shrug. 

“Since when?” Jennie arches a brow. “In college, you made us all kiss under the mistletoe in Jihyo’s dorm.”

You were obliterated and desperately trying to create some scenario where kissing Jungkook would happen again, even as a joke. It hadn’t worked. He’d kissed Jisoo on the cheek and you’d kissed Namjoon and everyone had laughed and moved on and you’d gone home and cried into your pillow.

“I was drunk,” you argue. 

Jisoo is studying her drink intensely, and by the sheer force of mind reading, you beg her not to say something.

“I think it's nice,” Dahyun says, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “More elegant without it, you know? Like out of an Ikea catalogue!”

You throw her a grateful look. 

“It does save people from those awkward forced kisses with people they don’t want to kiss,” she adds, and multiple other people nod in agreement.

“Exactly! That’s exactly it.” You practically leap out of your seat. 

But you can still feel Jungkook looking at you. You chance a glance in his direction and immediately regret it. He’s not trying to hide his expression anymore. He looks visibly hurt, with his jaw tight and lips twitching. 

“Should we keep playing?” Jennie asks, and bless her for it.

“Yeah,” Taehyung shuffles his trivia cards. “Alright, next question is for Jungkook.”

The game resumes, clockwise around the room, but even then, neither you or Jungkook care about anything else but each other. 

Jungkook’s not sure when it happened.

There wasn’t a single moment, no dramatic revelation where the clouds parted and you were all grown up. It was more like watching a sunrise, so gradual that he didn’t even notice it was happening until the entire sky was painted in vivid bright colors. One day you were his best friend, the girl who knew all his secrets and laughed at his dumb jokes and fell asleep during movie nights with your head on his shoulder. Then, somewhere along the way, you became something more—flourished into a beautiful flower. 

He thinks it might have started in high school, when you showed up to junior prom in that light blue dress that complemented your eyes. Your mother spent thirty minutes poking and prodding at your dress, noting that you were ‘filling out nicely,’ and it had taken all of Jungkook’s might not to ogle at your growing chest. 

It could’ve also been in college, after you went through your first breakup and decided the proper next step was to cut your hair short, revealing the curve of your neck. He had stared for the better half of a week, and luckily, it went away once winter rolled around and you wore turtlenecks. 

It could have been last year, when you laughed so hard at one of his stories that you snorted wine out of your nose, and instead of being grossed out, he’d thought it was the most endearing thing he’d ever witnessed.

Maybe it’s always been there, lurking underneath your friendship. 

The thing is, Jungkook has always been sure he’s not in love with you. He’s never let himself think about it in those terms, never let the thought fully form before shoving it back down where it belongs. You are his best friend, have been since before he understood what friendship meant. You’re the person who knows him better than anyone, who’s seen him at his worst and somehow still shows up. You’re the constant in his life, the thing he’s never had to question.

But in the quiet of his own mind, he can acknowledge that you are utterly and thoroughly beautiful. 

You’re brilliant too, in ways that constantly surprise him even after knowing you for years. Sharp and funny and creative, with this ability to see people that makes everyone feel understood. You remember things, stupid little details about people’s lives that they mentioned once in passing. You’re the kind of person who makes playlists for your friends based on their moods. 

You made one for him last month. Called it ‘when koo is in his feelings.’ 

He listened to it on the way to the Christmas party.

And yeah, okay, maybe he thinks about you more than a best friend probably should. Like when he’s dating someone, there’s always this small part of his brain remembering things to tell you later, moments you’d find funny or interesting. Sometimes, he compares every girl he dates to you without meaning to… it’s just the way they laugh never quite measures up, their sense of humor is always slightly off, their understanding of him remains surface-level.

But that’s all normal friend stuff, he thinks. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Namjoon sidles up beside Jungkook, hugging a beer bottle tight to his chest. It’s the first time he’s drank in a while, and Jungkook resists the urge to laugh at just how drunk he looks. 

Jungkook takes a long sip of his beer, watching you over the rim of the bottle. You’re laughing at something Jisoo said, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Shut up.”  Namjoon leans against the wall for stability. “Tell me what’s up.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there, making my wife laugh harder than I have?” 

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“You have the energy of a bunny, so I doubt that,” Namjoon snickers. “C’mon, fess up. I never get involved with drama anymore after Haewon. Enlighten me.”

Jungkook considers deflecting again, but what's the point? Namjoon's going to stand here until he cracks. “We got in a fight. Me and [Y/N].”

“Oh shit, for real?” When Jungkook meekly nods, Namjoon takes another swig of beer. “What about?”

“I wanted to hang up a mistletoe for the party and she said no.” God, saying it out loud seems so stupid. “I pushed it and then she…”

“She what?” 

“She said some mean things, then I said some things. It got messy.”

“This sounds kinda dumb,” Namjoon jokes, and Jungkook levels him with a piercing glare. He knows it’s dumb, knows this whole thing is stupid, but he can;t shake the feeling that there’s something unresolved lingering underneath. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.”

“That was not a confident yeah.”

“I mean, I told her we should talk after the party. She said maybe,” Jungkook laughs dryly. “Chances of us talking are looking pretty low right now.”

“Dude,” Namjoon exhales a breath. “She’s not going to stay away from you. That girl loves you.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know where she lives. You have a key, for god’s sake.”

Jungkook does have a key. In his defense, you have one to his place too. It’s never not been a thing—you’ve been trading apartment keys since college, back when you lived in that shitty studio with the broken heater and he needed to water your plants when you went home for your mom’s birthday.

“I think she really wants space this time, though,” he frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of it, but it’s part of his fault you’re even in this predicament right now. 

“You guys are idiots.” Namjoon stares at him. “Why do you look so sad about this? It’s just a little fight, right?”

Jungkook opens his mouth to agree, but he chokes on the words forming in his throat. His eyes find you across the room again. You’re holding Haewon, swaying gently, and the baby's grabbing at your hair with her tiny fists. You smile down at her, and even from here, he can see the softness in your expression, and how you’ve adjusted your hold to support her head.

He doesn’t really know why, but his heart seizes.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Namjoon hums. “It’s not like, …anything more, right?”

Jungkook furrows his brows, tearing his gaze away from you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Y’know what I mean…” Namjoon starts doing some weird vague gestures with his hand, and Jungkook’s beer-soaked brain struggles to keep up. “It’s not like that with you two?”

Oh. 

“No, no. It’s not like that with us,” Jungkook denies quickly, almost too quickly. He knows it’s not impractical for someone to suggest. Ever since he was a young boy, he’s been curbing questions regarding your relationship status. It never annoyed him; in fact, it filled him with pride knowing people thought he was worthy of what sunshine you had to offer. “She’s my best friend.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Excuse me?”

Jungkook’s chest feels tight. 

But Namjoon doesn’t note the way his face goes pale, or the way his fingers flex around his bottle. He continues on, “Bro, I’m not trying to start anything. But I’ve known you since college, and I’ve watched you do this thing where you date someone, it gets serious, and then somehow it always ends. And you know what the common denominator is?”

He really doesn’t want Namjoon to say anymore. Doesn’t want him to vocalize what might actually be true, but has been something Jungkook has been mashing down for decades of his life. Naked, unmistakable fear courses through him. 

“Her.” Namjoon points with his beer bottle. “Every single time, you come back to her. You text her more than your girlfriend, or you cancel dates if she needs you. You measure everyone against her without even realizing you’re doing it.”

Jungkook can’t speak, because it’s true. He knows it’s true. He’s done it countless times, like when it was he and Sana’s one-year anniversary, but you had the flu, so he dropped everything to take care of you. Or when Chaeyoung got upset with him because he had responded to your text before even giving hers a second glance. 

He can’t help it. 

“You’ve been dragging her through your relationships for years,” Namjoon says, “At some point, you need to ask yourself why you keep coming back to her.”

“But she’s my best friend!” Jungkook protests petulantly. “We always show up for each other.”

“Yeah, but do best friends look at each other the way you’re looking at her right now?’

Jungkook hadn’t even realized he’d been staring again. You’ve handed Haewon back to Dahyun and you’re laughing at something, a hand flying up to cover your mouth in that way you do when you think your laugh is too loud. It’s not, Jungkook thinks, It’s never too loud.

“What do you want me to say?” Jungkook mumbles, averting his eyes to his scuffed-up shoes. 

“I feel like you should just be honest with yourself, Kook.” Namjoon claps him on the shoulder. “I’m willing to bet money on the fact that your fight wasn’t really about the mistletoe.”

“I don’t think so,” Jungkook scoffs. He hopes he looks nonchalant, but his hands are trembling.

Namjoon doesn’t utter another word, and for a moment, Jungkook thinks it’s over. Namjoon will let it go and they’ll move on. He shifts weight onto his other foot, taking a swig from his beer.

“Jungkook.”  Fuck, if the way Namjoon’s looking at him right now is any indication of what’s to come, he’s so fucked. “You know she’s in love with you, right?”

It’s out in the open, and he can’t believe Namjoon just said it, doesn’t know where he even got that idea, but he does know that it must be the truth. It has to be, because he would never suggest otherwise. And the notion should be earth-shattering, world-tilting, but it’s not. 

Maybe Jungkook knew this whole time. 

“No-No, she’s not—we’re not—”

But the more he ruminates on it, he realizes: you can’t be. You’ve never—there’s never been any indication—you’ve never said anything or done anything or—

In all the years he’s known you, you’ve never dated someone seriously. Like living together, talk of engagement. Sure, there were a few guys here and there in college, but nothing that stuck. Nothing that lasted more than a month or two. He’d always figured you were just picky, focused on your career, not interested in settling down.

Was there more to that? Jungkook’s heart jolts in his chest. 

Oh god. Oh fuck.

How long? How long have you been carrying this? Since you were kids? Since high school? College? How many years has he been obliviously parading girlfriends in front of you, kissing them under mistletoe, talking about his relationships, asking for your advice about girls who weren’t you?

His hands are shaking. He sets his beer down on the nearest surface before he drops it.

“I think, maybe, you’ve always known.” Namjoon’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. 

All those times he came back to you after dates that didn’t go well. All those nights you stayed up listening to him talk about his problems with whatever girl he was seeing. All those moments he chose you over them without even thinking about it because being with you was easy and comfortable and right in a way nothing else ever was.

He can never remember half of those girls’ names. Can’t remember what he saw in them or why he thought any of them were worth it. 

But he remembers every Christmas with you.

He remembers all of it. 

Jungkook looks up, searching for you in the crowd, and finds you emerging from the kitchen with Jisoo. 

Panic claws up his throat. “But she’s never said anything—like, we never—”

“If I were her, I wouldn’t say anything.” Namjoon shrugs. 

Jungkook feels like he can't breathe. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just—you’re guessing—”

“I am assuming, but I know enough. Dahyun has me watching a ton of kdramas, so I know when someone’s pining.”

His credentials are questionable. 

“That's—” Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “Fuck. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Probably because you introduce her to new girlfriends everyday.” Namjoon’s words are blunt, but his expression is sympathetic. “Think about it. When has she ever had the space to tell you?”

Never. The answer is never. Because he’s always been with someone or getting over someone or talking about someone, and even when he wasn’t, he was busy treating your friendship like it was sacred. 

Jungkook was so busy protecting what you had that he never stopped to think about what you could be. 

“I didn’t know,” Jungkook admits weakly. 

“It’s fine. You do now.” Namjoon takes a massive gulp of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the nearby table. “By the way, why did you care so much if she hosted? Why did it matter if it was at her place? You knew Dahyun and I didn’t mind.”

Jungkook’s guilt wraps around him like a hug. He does feel guilty about lying, he truly does, but he doesn’t have a good answer. Namjoon’s place would have worked fine, baby or not. Jisoo’s apartment was an option despite Taehyung's dog allergy. They could have figured something out.

But he had told everyone secretly that you needed to host this year. 

For a long, long moment, Jungkook is silent. He pushes through the fear, the nerves, the voices in his head telling him otherwise. He tells Namjoon, “Because Christmas is ours.”

To no one’s surprise, Namjoon and Dahyun are the first to make their exit. Haewon is already fast asleep on her father’s shoulder, snoring peacefully. Then Jisoo leaves, who gives you a long, meaningful look and a whisper of “text me later” that you have no intention of following through on. Taehyung and Jennie linger for a little before they realize they have more pressing matters to attend to (read: their new vibrator they ordered).

You’re certain Jungkook slipped out sometime in the middle of the exodus. You don’t see him leave, but you hear the door close a final time and feel the absence of him.

Wonderful. You can clean up in peace and spend the rest of the night spiraling about Hana’s words, the talk you never had with Jungkook, and how quickly you’ll be able to move countries and change names.

You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a wine glass aggressively, when you hear footsteps behind you.

What the fuck. Did you leave your door unlocked?

It’s definitely Taehyung. With a gulp, you crane your neck to see behind the doorway. 

And then you scream. 

You drop the glass into the sink, whirling around with your wet hands up like you’re going to fight off an intruder with dish soap.

Jungkook jumps, hands flying up in surrender. “Oh my god, sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Fucking hell, Jungkook!” Your heart tries to escape from your body. “I thought you left!”

“I was in the bathroom.” His eyes are wide, looking genuinely distressed at having scared you. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you knew I was still here?”

Soap suds drip down your arms. He’s pressed against your bookshelf, trying to camouflage into your books. It’s ridiculous, but it’s so like you both that it makes you giggle. 

It’s a soft one, but he notices it and snorts in response. And then you two erupt into endless laughter, your heart soaring at the familiar sound of his timbre. His chest shakes with each laugh, and tears fall from your eyes.

But after a few seconds, the laughter finally fades, and you two stand there, sizing the other up. 

“What are you still doing here?” you ask, reaching for a dish towel to dry your hands. 

“I wanted to see if you were open to talking.”

You turn off the running water, pivoting to face him fully.

“I am.”

He takes a deep breath, swallowing thickly. Jungkook does this thing where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek when he’s struggling to find the right words. You’ve seen him do it countless times.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Jungkook says. “About the fight…about pushing you to host…and the, uh, the mistletoe thing.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—Christmas has always been our thing since we were kids. It was always ours, and I don’t know… I guess I didn’t want that to change.” 

With him, things are always stagnant. They’re stable, trustworthy, and you know they’ll always be there. You’re not sure where his childlike wonder went—all those times he would drag you to unknown places to explore, or made you try new foods even if you knew you’d hate it. 

But maybe you’re not worth the risk for him. 

“Me neither,” you agree quietly. 

You swivel back to face the sink, tears brimming your eyes. Reaching for another glass, you flick on the water, dousing your hands in soap. The water is frigid but you plunge your hands in anyway. 

“Hey,” comes Jungkook’s calm voice. 

You keep scrubbing. 

“Hey.”

His fingers wrap around your arm, and you let out a sigh. 

“That’s it? That’s all?” 

You can’t look at him. If you look at him, you’ll break. “What else do you want me to say? I forgive you? I do. Jungkook, this is stupid.”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.” His hand lingers on your bare skin. “Don’t shut me out. We had one fight and for some reason, it feels like I’m losing you and I don’t—” He stops, takes a breath. “Talk to me.”

There’s so much you could say. You could tell him about the mistletoe tradition and how it’s haunted you. You could tell him about watching him fall in love over and over with people who aren’t you. You could tell him about Hana and the grocery store and how you haven’t been able to think about anything else since.

But most importantly, you could tell him the truth: you’ve been in love with him since you were a child, and every Christmas since you were 15 years old felt like getting stabbed repeatedly.

Jungkook’s eyes are red-rimmed, lips quivering. He’s still tethered to your arm, unable to let go as if you’ll disappear. You’re disgustingly terrified of this moment, not of losing him, but because he’s never even been yours to lose. Everything could change. You could say the words and watch your friendship shatter. You could tell the truth and have him look at you with pity, or worse, he’ll look at you and apologize, say he doesn’t feel the same towards you. 

What if what you need to move on isn’t to ignore it, but accept the rejection?

You can do that, you think. 

You swallow, “Jungkook—”

“Please,” he pleads, “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

You finally turn to face him, and his hand slides down from your arm but doesn’t let go completely. His fingers catch yours, wet and soapy as they are, and hold on.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you admit. 

“Start anywhere.” His thumb brushes against your knuckles, and you don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. “Maybe… start with why you don’t like Christmas anymore.”

That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thread that, if pulled, will unravel everything.

“Do you… remember our mistletoe tradition?”

He furrows his brows. You had just reminisced on it a few days ago, but somehow it feels like a lifetime. “Of course.”

“Do you remember when it all started?”

He looks at you like you’re an apparition. “Yeah.”

“We were just kids… but you kissed my cheek and I thought it was the most magical thing in the world. We did it every year, every year until you finally kissed me on the lips.”

Jungkook inhales audibly, nods once, and squeezes your hands tighter. 

“It became my favorite day of the year,” you continue, and you sound out of breath. “It wasn’t because of the presents, or the food, or Santa. It was those three seconds under the mistletoe with you. I lived for it. Counted down the days to it. And when we were 15, you got your first girlfriend.”

Understanding starts to dawn on his face, and it’s almost worse than if he didn’t get it.

“You kissed her under the mistletoe that year.” You swallow back the sob that climbs up your throat. “I watched and I stood there and you gave her this real kiss, this romantic kiss, and I realized that all those years… they were just a game to you. A tradition.”

He opens his mouth, most likely to object, but you speak over him. 

“It just kept happening. There was always someone there, someone who wasn’t me. I smiled and pretended I was happy for you while I was watching you fall in love with people who… who…” Now or never, you think. “....who got to have what I wanted.”

Tears begin to blur your vision, muddling Jungkook’s features. 

“I’ve been in love with you for god knows how long, Jungkook. And every Christmas since I was 15 is just a constant, giant, unavoidable reminder that you don’t love me the way I love you.”

The tears are falling freely, hot and fast, painting your cheeks. 

“That’s why I didn’t want to host. That’s why I didn’t want the mistletoe. Because I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t watch you kiss someone else under it again. I can’t do it anymore. It’s killing me.”

You remove your hands from his, wiping furiously away at the wetness on your face. When you blink, you notice Jungkook’s also crying. Cheeks ruddy and chest heaving, lips trembling. “[Y/N]. I-I… how come you never said anything?”

“You’re my best friend, Koo.” You wrap your arms around yourself, self-soothing the ache that’s built in your chest. “If you don’t love me like that, I completely understand. I do. You’ve never given me any indication that you feel the same way and that’s okay, that’s fine, I’ll get over it eventually—”

Jungkook’s face falls, softening. “[Y/N]-”

“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re the most important person in my life and if telling you this means you’re going to look at me differently or feel weird around me or—”

“Stop.” he firmly says, and his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs wipe at your tears and you know you look like a wreck, but he’s looking at you as though you were sent from the heavens above. “Just stop for a second.”

You hiccup, trying to catch your breath. 

“Can we stand in the doorway?” he asks. 

You deadpan. “What?” 

“The doorway,” he repeats like that’s supposed to clarify anything for you. He takes one of your hands in his, peeling you away from the counter. “Can we stand in the doorway?”

“I–what? Why?” 

You blindly follow him, like you always do. Let him lead you out of your kitchen. Your living room is a mess—empty glasses and crumpled napkins, remnants of your Christmas party.

Jungkook positions you in the doorway between your living room and hallway. His green sweater brings out his sparkling eyes, and your heart flutters in your chest. 

“Jungkook, can you just reject me quickly so we can move on—”

“Look up.” He smiles. 

With shaky breath, you crane your neck. 

Hanging from your doorway is a mistletoe. There’s a red ribbon tied around it, dangling back and forth to the tune of your oscillating fan. 

You snort out a snot bubble, but neither you nor him seem to care too much. “When did that even get there?”

“Well, I had to wait till the end of the night,” he remarks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck that iss now flushed crimson. “I thought you might rip my dick off or something if I did it earlier.”

You sink your fingernails into your palms to keep yourself grounded, to keep yourself from leaping paces ahead. Behind your ribcage, your heart stumbles. 

He’s the first to laugh—it’s wet and graceless, body shaking in tandem. You’re laughing too, but also crying. 

Your heart soars like it’s trying to escape your chest and fly around the room. 

Jungkook settles down, and something softer crosses his expression. When he speaks next, his voice is steady, sure of himself. 

“You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice breaks. “You think—Jesus Christ, [Y/N], you’re all I think about. You’re all I ever thought about.”

“Really?” you whisper, voice so feeble you think he can’t possibly have heard it. 

But he nods. 

“I wake up, and the first thing I do is check my phone to see if you’ve texted me. I go through my entire day remembering things to tell you later—stupid shit, important shit, all the stuff in between. When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. When something bad happens, you'’re the only person I want to see.” He wipes a stray tear that’s made its way down his cheek. “You’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of before I fall asleep, and most nights I dream about you too.”

“You…” you trail off, shake your head. There’s no words to describe how you feel, no proper sentence to show how your entire body feels like it’s on fire. 

“Let me say this because I should have said it years ago. A decade ago. I should have said it every single Christmas instead of being with people who weren’t you and pretending that was enough.”

Jungkook takes a step forward. His scent envelops you, makes you feel at home. Like you’re six years old again and anything is possible. 

“I kissed you under that mistletoe when we were kids because if anyone was going to be my first kiss, it was going to be you. I didn’t even really understand what kissing meant. But I knew I wanted it to be you.”

He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh. And it feels like you’re kids again, standing under the mistletoe, pulling into each other like magnets. 

“I kept doing it every year because—because those three seconds were mine. They were ours. It didn’t matter that I was too young to understand what it meant or why it made my stomach feel weird or why I’d think about it for weeks afterwards. I just knew that kissing you under the mistletoe was the best part of Christmas… the best part of my whole year.”

“You know, I was never able to understand why my relationships never seemed to work. Why no one ever wanted to stay with me for the long run. And it took me a long time, but I’ve got it all figured out now.” He has to stop to clear his throat, and it’s then, and only then, that you see the tears glistening in his eyes again. “I think… I think I’ve been looking for pieces of you in every girl I meet.”  

Your feet remain frozen to your floor. If you pinch yourself, you’ll wake up from this dream, and you want to live in it as long as life will allow. 

“I’d find a girl who had your hair color, or a similar sense of humor, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking, and I’d think ‘this is it, this is the one.’ But it never was, because they weren’t you,” he says. “I would be on dates, and think about what you’d say about the restaurant, or the movie, or the conversation. I could be kissing someone and wonder why it didn’t feel the way it felt when I kissed you when we were children.”

He takes another step, hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight. 

He’s so close you can almost taste his woodsy scent. 

“I’m a coward, [Y/N]. I kept dating people, kept trying to make it work with someone else, because I thought if I could just find the right person, I’d stop being in love with you.”

“Koo,” is all you can manage.

“But there is no right person for me. There’s just you, there’s only ever been you. You’re not a piece of the puzzle, [Y/N]. You are the whole fucking puzzle. Every piece, every corner, every goddamn edge. And I’ve been trying to force other pieces to fit for years, but they don’t. They can’t.” His tears are moving faster than he can stop them, and he lets them pour out of his eyes onto his sweater. 

“The only reason I stopped kissing you under the mistletoe was because I was falling in love with you.” He’s grinning through his tears. The kind of grin you’ve been the only person to extract out of him. “I was a stupid kid who was falling in love with their best friend and the first thought I had was: what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if I told you and you laughed in my face? And I know I’m stupid, but I stopped because I needed to tell myself I was over it, that it was a phase, that we were just friends.”

Jungkook takes one final step forward until you’re practically nose-to-nose. 

His voice is no higher than a whisper. “I never got over it, though. I never stopped loving you.”

Your head is spinning. Jeon Jungkook. Your best friend, your platonic soulmate, your everything…

“You… you love me?”

“I love you so fucking much,” he confirms. “I love the way you sing off-key during all our car rides together, and the way you cry during commercials with pets. The way you remember everyone’s birthdays, even if they don’t remember yours. I love how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating and how you chew your lip when you’re nervous. I love your terrible jokes and your beautiful laugh and how magical everything suddenly feels when you’re around.”

Inevitably, you’re sobbing too. Not in a pretty way, but you don’t think it matters anymore. Nothing matters but this. 

“I love that I was lucky enough to be born the same day as you, that the universe knew before we knew that there was no me without you. I love that I know everything about you—your favorite color, your biggest fears, how you like your tea. I love that you know me better than anyone else in the world.” 

His hands go to cup your face. “So, yeah, I do love you. And I know I wasted time, but I am telling you now with utmost certainty. If you'll let me, I want to make up for all the time I wasted being too scared to love you the way you deserve.”

Your hands come up to cover his, pressing them harder against your face. 

“I want you to be mine and I want to be yours, in every way possible, [Y/N].”

And you really, really need to stop crying, but it’s impossible. They well up, like all those emotions you’ve been mashing down for decades, ballooning into something too large for your body to handle. 

“Those are happy tears… right?” he chuckles. 

“Yes,” you sob. God, he’s never going to let you live this down. “I love you. I love you so much—”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm going to make sure you never doubt that again.”

You laugh, a watery bubbling sound. 

You look up at the mistletoe hanging between you two. It’s a small piece of plastic and ribbon, but somehow it represents years of longing and heartbreak and fear that just needed time to blossom into something ethereal.

“You still remember the tradition?” Jungkook tucks a stand of hair behind your ear. 

You couldn’t forget even if you tried. “When you’re under the mistletoe…”

“You must kiss the person you’re with,” he finishes. 

His thumbs linger over your cheekbones, gazing into your eyes. They’re still the same from when he was little. Wide-eyed, full of childlike wonder and innocence. His pupils are blown. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You stupidly smile. You nod just as he gets the last syllable out. Nodding so hard and so frantically it’s almost manic, tears streaming down your face, your hands coming up to grip the collar of his green sweater—that goddamn green sweater the color of mistletoe.

“Yes,” you breathe, “Yes, please, yes—”

He kisses you. 

And oh.

Oh. 

You hold your breath, counting the seconds in your head. It’s longer than three seconds and two milliseconds. 

Your knees buckle under the weight of his kiss, with his hands cradling your face gently. Your fingers twist tighter in his collar, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.

The salt of both your tears mixes on your lips, can feel the way his breath stumbles against your mouth. One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, and you make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. You’re pliable in his arms. 

His tongue outlines your bottom lip, and you grant him access immediately, needing to feel more of him, any part you can grasp to know this is real. You’re both still crying—you can feel fresh tears sliding down your cheeks—but you’re also smiling, laughing into the kiss like idiots because this is insane.

Jungkook’s tattooed hands slide down to your waist, pulling you close to him until there’s not an inch to spare between your bodies. Your apartment, the mess of cups and plates scattered around, the snazzy Christmas decorations you’ll throw away tomorrow—it all fades away until there’s just this. Just him.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you again before you can say it back. “Love you so much, I’m a fucking loser, I—”

“Shut up,” you giggle. “Shut up and kiss me.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, kissing under the mistletoe like teenagers who just discovered what kissing is. It could be seconds or hours—time feels irrelevant when his mouth is on yours, when his hands are holding you.

At some point, you know it’s not enough. You want more. 

Finally, you think to yourself. 

You’ve never wanted someone this bad. Never craved someone’s brain, heart, and soul like this. 

He’s possibly thinking the same thing as you, and if the way he holds you is any indication, you’re the luckiest girl in the world. His hands travel over your waist, until they reach your thighs. In one smooth motion, he picks you up, and your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.

Jungkook is stronger than you though, even though you know he goes to the gym everyday, even though you’ve watched him rearrange the furniture in your apartment on a random Tuesday after work. But feeling him hold you up effortlessly while kissing… your panties might drop before you even reach the bedroom. 

You kiss him as he tries to navigate with his eyes closed, stumbling slightly down the hallway, both of you giggling between kisses like drunk teenagers. He nearly crashes into the wall, overcorrecting and spinning you both around.

“Smooth operator, hm?” you tease. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “I swear to god you switched where your bedroom was.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you forget about his horrible navigation skills. 

Miraculously, you make it to your bedroom. Lays you down on your bed, following you down until he’s hovering over you, weight balanced on his forearms on either side of your head. The lamp on your nightstand casts soft shadows across his features. He chews his lip anxiously. 

“Do you, um—” He stops, tries again. “Do you wanna maybe—”

You can’t help but giggle. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth when you see the way his face falls. “Koo. I know you’re not a virgin.”

“Oh my god.” He drops his forehead to your neck with a groan, and his face is burning hot against your skin. “I know. I know I’m not. But it’s you, it’s so different. I’m nervous.”

Jungkook is experienced—far more than you, that’s for certain. You were never bothered by the difference. You had lost your virginity solely as a means to an end, to just say you did the damn thing so you weren’t a complete and total loser. But Jungkook has plenty of notches on his belt, and your heart melts at the thought of you being the one to dismantle him completely. 

You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging until he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are dark and vulnerable, full of love it makes you want to cry all over again.

“Hey. It’s just me, Koo.”

“Well, that’s kinda the problem,” he gruffs, playing with the necklace around your neck. “It is you. It matters a lot.”

“It matters to me too,” you rush to agree, cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his scarlet cheeks. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just—we can just lie here. We can talk. We can—”

He kisses you, cutting off your rambling. Slower, assured. “I want to. I really, really want to. I just… I want it to be good for you.”

Your fingers trace the constellation of moles on his face, and there’s just so much of him you want to uncover, so much golden skin and muscle. “It will be.”

This time, when his lips meet yours, he relaxes into it, earlier nervousness melting away. Your hands slide up under his sweater, feeling the bare skin, the sculpted abdomen you’ve sparingly seen. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands there, and he makes a sound—half-sigh, half-groan—that strikes straight through you. His hips shift slightly, pressing against yours, and now it’s your turn to gasp into his mouth.

“Still nervous?” you mutter. 

“A little,” he says through a moan as you roll your hips to press against his growing length. “What if you think I-I’m, fuck, bad in bed?”

“You won’t be.” You kiss down his sharp jawline, down the vein that protrudes from the side of his neck. 

“You don’t know that. I could be really bad at this.”

You laugh, tugging him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Jungkook, you’re not going to be bad at sex.”

He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of gingerbread cookies that still lingers on you even after hours of burning them. “But what if I am?”

“Koo. I love you. I wouldn’t care even if your dick was 2 inches.”

He lifts his head from your neck. “Okay, don’t push it.”

Jungkook kisses you, warm tongue swiping against your bottom lip. His calloused hands slide up your red sweater, feeling the black lace bra underneath. His breath stutters at the realization, fondling your breasts in the way he’s always dreamed of. 

Messily, hungrily, your sweater comes off first, then his, a tangle of fabric and laughter as he fumbles with the back of your bra. Jungkook apologizes against your lips, but you don’t care in the slightest, just want more and more and more. He flings your bra across your bedroom, greedily taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking the hardened nub. And you’re so wet, can feel it pooling in your panties, soaking through the fabric. Every roll of his hips, every flick of his tongue sends shocks of lightning through you. 

“So fucking pretty,” Jungkook groans, readjusting your body higher on the bed until your head reaches the pillow. He unclasps your legs from around his waist, making room for himself to wiggle down in between them.

You can’t stop the familiar swell of nerves racing through your body, even as he kisses down the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach, past your navel. His lips hover over the button of your jeans, delicately undoing. Taking his time as though not to miss a single moment. 

You weirdly get the urge to cover yourself, to hide under the strength of his burning gaze. What if he compares me to all the other girls? you think. What if I’m not as beautiful as Sana or Eunji or Hana?

And then Jungkook says, “You’re so beautiful, baby. Most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”

Tears threaten to appear again. 

He tugs your jeans off, his hair tickling your inner thigh as he goes. His lips follow, pressing chaste kisses along your naked skin. The mattress dips as he adjusts himself, wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs your clothed, soaking cunt to his face. You gasp, your walls clenching around nothing. “Relax, baby,” Jungkook bites your inner thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna take care of you.”

“Please,” you beg, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for, but when you meet his eyes you know exactly what. More of him, more of his mouth, his tongue, his lips. 

He pushes your panties to the side, and without preamble, you’re spreading your legs further.

Immediately, Jungkook’s eyes go to what lies between them. 

“So wet, baby,” He lets his pointer finger gather your arousal. “You always get this wet for your best friend?”

You gasp, eyes trained on his. His voice has gone husky, eyes hooded and dark. He presses into your sensitive nub, and you jolt forward, hands tightly gripping the sheets underneath. “Answer me.”

“Y-yes, Koo. Always wet for you, just for you.”

That seems to be enough for him. He leans forward, dragging your underwear down your legs until they’re no longer his concern, and then his mouth is on you. 

“Fuck!” You practically scream, body lurching forward, humming violently underneath him. It’s been a while—maybe more than a while, possibly years—since you’ve had someone willingly eat you out, and by the way Jungkook does so, he seems enthralled to get a chance to enjoy the taste of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, wet and wide, working its own rhythm that has you withering underneath his grasp. His hands press into your hip bones, stabilizing your movements. He buries his whole face in it, lets himself soak up every last bit of arousal you’ve produced. Two minutes of this and you’ll be a goner, but you don’t want this to end, not now, not ever. 

“Tastes so sweet, baby,” Jungkook moans into your wetness, licking a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Been hiding this from me, hm?”

“I-It’s yours, Koo. Always has been,” You squeeze your eyes as tight as you can, stars blooming in your vision. He taps your thigh, and you know he wants you to look at him, but you can hardly breathe or think or speak. 

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, and your fingers fly to his unkempt hair, tugging and pulling until you’re certain it’ll come off his scalp. Without warning, he pushes one finger into you, testing you. He watches as you keen, profanities falling off your lips. Jungkook’s finger crooks into you at an angle you thought only you could reach, and you’re putty in his unrelenting hands. “Fuck—oh my god, yes, right there Koo, oh, yes—”

“Feel good, baby?” He gathers his saliva, spitting onto your clit and letting it drip down to his fingers, a second digit entering you. “Talk to me.”

He’s gentle about it, tentative, as though he’s trying to learn you, teach himself the new side of you he’s unlocked. 

“M-more,” you keen. “Faster, please.”

And he’s so willing, so ready. It’s so wet, unlike anything that happens when you touch yourself. His tongue and fingers fuck you through it, squelching sounds echoing against the thin walls of your bedroom, sweat slicking down the valley of your breasts. You feel your walls clench around him once, twice, and your legs tremble in his hold. You can feel it dripping down your inner thigh, onto your sheets, onto his chin. 

“So tight around my fingers,” he groans, and you watch as his other hand travels down to his belt buckle, furiously trying to undo it. “So hard just thinking about bein’ inside you.”

“I-I want that,” you reply breathlessly. “I want you inside me.”

“Fuck,” he grunts, working his nimble fingers quicker, tongue vacuum-sealed around your clit, milking you entirely. “I want to feel you cum for me. I want to taste it.”

You nod, bunching your bedsheets into little fists of agony. When you look up, you can see Jungkook’s hair spread across your lower stomach, tattooed biceps straining. His free hand strokes his cock, and a swarm of butterflies release in your stomach at the sight. You’ve made him so desperate that he has to touch himself. You have. 

And the sight is just too much for you to handle. “Aghh–Koo, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum.”

He doesn’t say anything, just lets his tongue continue at the same pressure, same speed, until you’re coming undone all over him. You feel it everywhere, in your chest, in your core, in your toes. You arch off your mattress, legs quivering and locking around his head. It feels like time is a myth, Jungkook fucking you through your orgasm until you almost collapse. 

You tap him on the head with your foot, falling back onto your pillows tiredly. 

Jungkook peers up at you, still the same wide-eyed expression on his face, except this time, your arousal is glistening on his face, scarlet lips swollen and wet. He presses a few kisses on your thighs, stomach, before dragging himself up on his biceps to hover you. He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth. It’s so dirty, so scandalous, sends a shock through your spine. 

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper between kisses. 

His cheeks turn red. 

“M-me too. I want to be inside you,” he stutters, kissing down your neck. “But I might need a second.”

You furrow your brows, suddenly self-conscious. “Why?” 

He kisses your jaw, avoiding eye contact. “BecauseIcamealready.”

“What, Koo?”

Jungkook sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Because I came already.”

Oh. 

Your heart won’t be able to handle this much affection tonight. You just know it. 

You giggle, unable to hide the smile on your lips. 

“Stop,” he groaned into your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m humiliated.”

“No, I’m not—” you laugh, “I’m not laughing at you. You’re so cute, Koo. I love you.”

He grins toothily. “I love you too.”

And then you laugh again, and he laughs with you, and it feels like your heart is blooming, petals unfurling in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him to you as close as humanly possible. You kiss him and try to make him understand—through the press of your lips, the desperate grip of your hands—just how completely he owns every part of you. 

You use your weight to roll him over, straddling his buff thighs, letting your soaked cunt linger over his growing length. 

“Hi,” he smiles big and wide, peering up at you like you hold the entire universe in your palms.

“Hi,” you repeat, kissing his cheeks, forehead, jawline. 

Behind you, you reach to grab his length in your hands, trace the veins that protrude. His mouth gapes open, watching as you realize… holy fuck. 

You’ve always been respectful of Jungkook’s boundaries. Never once peeped on him or seen him in his boxers. The farthest you ever got was a pair of grey sweatpants, and even then, it didn’t reveal much. There was no way to prepare yourself for this moment.

But as you stroke his cock languidly, you realise one thing for certain: that is not going to fucking fit inside you.

You don’t even need to vocalize it, because he’s already saying, “We’ll work with what we can. But I think you can take it, baby.”

Gulping, you nod. You want to take it. Want to feel every inch inside of your gummy walls, want to hear him wither underneath you. 

He’s hard again too, you note. You could cry, knowing just how bad he wants this. Wants you. 

You align his tip to your sopping hole, jaw slack as you gather the juices to hopefully make it easier. And then you’re sinking onto him, inch by inch, curses falling from his lips, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “O-oh fuck, Koo.”

“Keep going, baby,” he moans, guiding you onto him until your clit meets his pubic bone. “Just like that, all the way.”

A sound rips free from the very core of you, both hands landing on his stomach to steady yourself. For a moment, you just sit there, trying to accommodate his length inside you. Feels so painfully good, stings just right. 

“You okay?” He reaches to brush a strand of wet hair from your face. 

“Yeah,” you exhale, rocking your hips gently, back and forth, figure-eights. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge protruding from your body. His eyes lock onto it, bottom lip tucked behind his front teeth. “Feel so full, Koo. It’s so deep.”

“Fuck, baby.” His fingers dig deeper into your hips, directing your movements. A swell of confidence runs through you, and you brace yourself, lifting yourself off his cock to slam back down on it. He all but screams, thighs quaking beneath your weight.

“You’re a fucking goddess,” he moans, head lolling back against the pillow. “I love you so much, my sweet girl, my best girl, fuck.”

“I love you too, Koo.” Your fingernails scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in your wake. 

You can see his abdomen muscles rippling with effort as he tries not to come undone too fast, jaw clenched tightly. His tattoos are slick with sweat. 

Your orgasm sneaks up onto you, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to know the feeling of separation from him. Falling forward, you bury your face into his neck, and he wraps his arms around you, fucking up into you. 

His cock hits just where you need him, and your moans bounce off the walls, your headboard creaking with each thrust he makes to meet your movements. “I-I’m so close, Koo,” you moan.

“Me too, baby,” he says. His cock plunges greedily into your wetness, and you whimper. “I love you so so much, can’t live without you.”

You can’t help the tears that stream down your face. It’s too much—not just the sex, but that it’s sex with him. Jeon Jungkook, your best friend since birth, since before you knew anything else. You love him so much you don’t know how your heart will contain all this. It might burst any second. 

He feels the tears on his skin, and he’s slowing his thrusts, whispering, “Are you okay, baby? Did I go too fast? Want me to—”

“No, no. I want you to keep going.” You look into his eyes, and his expression softens. “I just—I love you. I can’t believe this is real.”

He kisses you, barely more than your mouths slotting together, and then his thrusts continue, more desperate and sloppy but still full of the same devotion. “I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I-I know I’ve said it so many times tonight, but I love you so fucking much.”

Your warm, wet heat clenches around him. Little moans and whimpers escape you, teetering on the brink of another orgasm. “I know,” he gasps, and he’s crying now too, his whole body shaking. “I know, baby. Me too. I’ve got you.”

You stop moving completely, letting him take over, and the sounds are filthy, but the love that runs between you both is anything but. “My baby. Mine, you’re mine,” His teeth sinks into your shoulder as he thrusts up into you, wetness dripping onto his cock and the sheets below. His hands cup your ass, slamming you up and down his girth.

“Yours,” you cry, clutching him. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is soaked with tears, eyes red and swollen and so full of love it physically hurts to witness. “I’m never letting you go,” he says, crying so hard he can barely get the words out.

“Me too,” you promise, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, [Y/N], I can’t—”

Your fingernails dig into his biceps, mouth ripping open to moan out his name along with i love you i love you jungkook please please, and you feel him release inside you, spurts of his cum painting your walls as you tighten around him. You milk him dry until he can’t take it anymore, until you feel so full you think your DNA has been adjusted to match his. 

You all but collapse onto him, staying like that with your hearts thrashing against your ribs, reaching for each other through flesh and bone.

You want to stay here. Right here, in this specific moment, where his arm is around you and his breathing is shallow and you feel like you’re at home.

It’s a ridiculous thought. Childish, even.

You’ll have to get up soon—your bladder is already making demands, and reality is waiting just outside this bed. But not yet. You’re not ready yet.

Jungkook sighs into your hair. “I don’t wanna move.”

“Me either.”

“Do you… do you want this with me?” His chest rumbles with the question. 

“What do you mean?”

“I just… this meant something to you, right? The fact that we had sex?”

“Of course it did.”

You prop yourself onto your shoulders, brushing the hair out of his eyes. They twinkle and glow underneath your low light. He gulps before speaking, “I want us to be together. Or, at least try. I want us to take the risk because you’re worth every goddamn risk.”

Every birthday candle since you were a child was dedicated to him. Every shooting star, every 11:11 on the clock, every stray eyelash, every penny thrown into a fountain. You wished for this—for him—so many times you lost count. Wished for him to look at you the way he’s looking at you now, like you hung the moon and painted the stars.

You almost want to pinch yourself. But his hand is warm on your waist, heartbeat steady under your palm, and when you dig your nails slightly into your thigh, you don’t wake up to your blaring alarm. This isn’t a dream.

“I want that too. I want to wake up next to you and fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes and learn all your weird habits I don’t know yet.”

“[Y/N],” He cups your face in his hands. “You literally know all my weird habits. Even the fact that I collect Captain Underpants original copies." 

“Well yeah but I want to learn the new ones,” you shrug. 

He chuckles. “I can’t wait.”

Jungkook kisses you again. When he pulls back, he’s smiling that bunny smile that’s been your undoing since childhood. “Your party tonight was awesome, by the way.”

“It was all you.”

He smiles. “We’re really doing this.”

You know he’s not talking about Christmas anymore. 

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Having second thoughts already?”

“Not even a little.” He pauses, then his eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Your Christmas gift!”

He shoots up, still naked, peppering your face with a hundred tiny kisses. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, eyelids, everywhere he can reach while you dissolve into giggles.

“Koo, what—”

But he’s already scrambling off the bed, running to where his bag is discarded by your front door. You hear his feet padding against your floor as he runs back, jumping onto the bed with enough force to make you bounce. He’s grinning so wide it must hurt, holding something behind his back.

“Close your eyes,” he demands. 

“Jungkook—”

“Close them,” he whines.

You do as he says, and you feel the bed shift as he settles in front of you, feel his warmth as he leans close.

“Okay,” he softly says. “Open.”

Timidly, you open them. 

He’s holding a teddy bear. Your teddy bear. The one he kept in a box with your name on it.

It’s exactly as you remember—worn brown fur, one ear more floppy than the other, the tiny red bow around its neck that you’d tied when you were 7. He even kept it clean, maintained.

“Oh my god,” you exhale. Tears form in your eyes until they’re streaming down your face as you stare at this piece of your childhood, this tangible proof that he’s been carrying you with him all along.

His face falls. “Oh crap, do you not like it? I thought—I mean, I kept it because I thought maybe one day I could give it back to you, but if it’s weird or—”

“No, no.” Shaking your head frantically, you reach for the bear with trembling hands. “I love it. I fucking love it, Jungkook.”

His smile returns, like’s 6 years old again and just kissed you for the first time under the mistletoe.

Jungkook nuzzles into your neck, and you both burrow under your comforter, teddy bear clutched between you. His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, and you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more loved. 

It’s quiet for what feels like eternity. His breath syncs with yours, fingers tracing illegible patterns on your hip. 

“What was in that box in your closet, by the way?” you quietly wonder aloud as you stroke the bear’s fur. 

He pauses. Goes completely still.

“You saw that?”

“It has my name on it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Everything I love about you. That’s what’s in there.” 

You hug him (and the bear) tighter to you. 

After about an hour or so of intertwined limbs and lazy kisses, his breathing begins to slow, face buried in your hair. Sleep always comes easy when he’s around, and your eyes hang heavily. 

“Can we watch the Grinch tomorrow?” The words come out slurred with exhaustion.

In the darkness, you smile, tangling your fingers with his over your stomach. 

You’d curled up with that green, bitter creature every year, finding solace in his hatred of the holiday because at least someone understood. At least someone else knew what it felt like to watch everyone around you celebrate something that only brought you pain. You’d watch him scheme and plot and try desperately to steal Christmas away, and you’d think yes, exactly, take it all. Because if you couldn't have the Christmas you wanted, the one where Jungkook kissed you under the mistletoe and meant it, then what was the point of any of it? 

The Grinch was safe. The Grinch was yours. The Grinch never asked you to be anything other than bitter and broken and sick of watching other people get their happy endings.

But that girl who needed the Grinch, she’s gone. She got her happy ending, her Christmas miracle. 

Plus, the Grinch is overrated. 

“Actually,” you whisper, “I’m thinking we watch Frosty the Snowman.”

perm taglist. @mimi1097 @AlmatiarAU @absolutelyjeons @Sabrinahiddig @yooniepot @ggukivrse @Deluluvalerie @Sugak00kie134340 @Angelxkoo @yange7l @mellyyyyyyx @Senaqsstuff @jjkkkk15 @likecrazy22 @impossiblecopoaffire @readingbee44 @EyesforJungkook @lvnderdreams @vintagemoonsstuff @mauveliz @allysh @jeontylv @neurospicynugget @jxniana @haniiii @bo-rimmy @j0cgr0c @roseda @ggukreqz @dltyum @xxxxx1415 @annyeongbitch7 @nesha227 @Cannotalwaysbenight @Satisfied18 @m4aimm @Bangtansfav-7 @secretspam699 @Seolhyuningg @ot7girl4l @writesvani @xsyruhh @songbyeonkim @jungkookisthetypeto @rustedaffections @rayyrayy10 @dollyunjinz @fancypeacepersona @bangtans-momma

[ggukkiereads]

🌷You’re disgustingly terrified of this moment, not of losing him, but because he’s never even been yours to lose.

I know, I know - so weird that I’m reading a Christmas fic in May. But honestly? This fic resurrected my dormant obsession with holiday romance fics so badly that it made me want to dig up all my old Christmas fic rec lists just to add this one (or start a new one in the middle of the year lol).

Because THIS is exactly the kind of Christmas fic I love: warm, Hallmark-ish coziness except underneath all of it is this awful, aching pining that makes your chest hurt. And making the mistletoe tradition itself into this symbol of exclusion and yearning??? Evil. Genuinely evil in the best way. Christmas is their thing, so watching it become a quiet source of pain over the years hurt SO good. The story really understands that the holidays can feel magical and devastating when you’re in love with someone who’s basically been your person your entire life, but was never actually yours in the way you wanted them to be. And the writing was so good at pulling all of those emotions out of me too (I was already sniffling during the supermarket scene 😭).

And I also loved how natural the emotional progression felt because I would’ve hated it if they suddenly just blurted out their feelings after years of repression 😭 but the transitions between Hana, Jisoo, and Namjoon’s conversations made everything feel so gradual and earned.

And honestly, thank you for making the smut feel emotionally necessary instead of just inserting it to hit a checkpoint in the fic. I usually struggle when smut feels disconnected from the emotional arc, but here it still carried that same clumsy tenderness that defines them as a pair. It wasn’t just “okay now they finally have sex” but it felt like an extension of all the yearning, hesitation, familiarity, and realization they’d been carrying around for yearsso yes, the crying-during-sex felt so right and fitting. Even in those scenes, they still felt completely like them. (Again, I just really loved how this was written.)

I can already tell this is going to be one of those couples I remember for years. Thank you, I really love this =).

[sakamoto-hey]

It’s so good. I cried happy tears sad tears heart boner wow ily ty

[minkieater]

COZY — jyh x fem!reader

it was supposed to be a cozy night spent between you and your fiancé, sitting on the couch together, reading your books. at least it was— until yunho got a little too curious about what exactly you were reading.

— smut minors dni, they're engaged and in love, reader is reading acomaf except i dont remember much of acomaf so dont look closely if u know it, if u don't know it it doesn't matter it's basically just dirty talk lol, fingering, overstim, soft dom!yun, one (1) clit spank, unprotected sex, oral fixation, degradation, yunho's a cocky fuck, creampie, hella dirty talk — wc 5.3k — happy almost february! this is my first installment for @everyonewooeverywhere 's fic exchange event, and also a gift for one of my favorite humans in the world, miss dj herself ᢉ𐭩 thank you so much for hosting this event and being such a genuine friend to me, i love you so dearly ⋆˙⟡

Seven-forty-two on a Thursday evening. 

Sepia curtains drawn, the sun had long gone to sleep, lamplight and the fireplace shrouding the living room in an amber hue. Warmth flowed through your space, beneath your blanket, between your fingers and the page of your open book. Yunho had one of his own, across the couch, a navy cover with stars and a name you couldn’t remember. 

Blanket large enough to share, your feet touched beneath the cover, both of your legs folded up on the couch, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire and uncoated pages turning by the grip of two fingers. You’ve been absorbed in the series you’ve been reading this month, in the second book out of five, the next conflict laid out for the characters to resolve. A fantasy series by an author you enjoy, you’ve come to love nights like these, across from your fiancé on the couch, silence in the room, minds escaping to another universe. 

You shifted, getting comfortable, Yunho eyed you from above the spine of his book, beneath his thin frames. An arm beneath your body, you curled into the couch, legs stretching to tangle with his, your bare skin against his clothed by cotton. 

“Do you want me to move?” He asked softly, “Or are you comfortable?”

“I’m comfortable, you’re fine,” you shake your head, barely shooting him a glance, nose in the pages before you.

He smiled to himself, not that you could see, because he loved these nights just as much as you did. It’s turned into every night these past few weeks, ending your long workdays on the couch, full stomachs and minds roaring to empty upon pages of someone else’s life. A shared hobby, one of many, how you both looked at reading the same way– an escape of your own busy routines, emptying out your thoughts, your worries, taking your consciousness and placing it into another realm. 

You slid your leg beneath one of his, letting the weight of him comfort you. Your head dug into the couch cushion along the back, book held up in front of you, brows subconsciously furrowing as the two main characters finally reached somewhere private. Excitement sits low in your belly, you know what’s coming, it only makes sense for their relationship to take the next step. 

A shared kiss, your lips curl, flipping the page. Your toes wiggle beneath Yunho’s leg, eyes scanning the page, smile growing as their clothes come off. He’s watching you now, as your hand lifts, fingernail between your teeth, biting onto your manicured hand like he didn’t pay for it yesterday. He knows that look, he can feel the tremor in your legs, he can see the arousal spreading through your body like the fire crackling across the room. 

Amused, his own lips twitch upward in a grin. You flip the page again, ignorant to his eyes, to how well he knows you. Finally, he asks, “How’s your book, baby?”

You don’t even look up, “So good.”

Still amused, grin still present, his eyes thin. “Should I read it next?”

“I don’t know if you’d like it,” you answer mindlessly, words breathy and casual like you didn’t know what you were saying, too focused on what you were reading. 

“Why not?” He pries further, closing his own book after bending the corner of a page, letting it fall into his lap. “It’s fantasy, no?” 

“I don’t know, maybe you will,” you flip the page, eyes glued to the top of the next page. You were brushing him off, he should leave you alone, let you at least finish the scene. His lips tighten, scrunching to one side as he opens his book back up again, eyes finding the last sentence he read, trying to pick up where he last left off. 

He gets all the way to the next page before he realizes he hasn’t actually read a single word. Eyes scanning the page, recognizing words, but the movie isn’t playing, he can’t see what’s happening. His mind drifts again, you’re reading smut, he knows you are, yet you pay no attention to him? Can he not do what your little characters in your book can? 

He gives his head, his shoulders a small shake, ridding himself of the thoughts. That’s not what reading is– he knows it in his soul, he reads, too. It’s a story, you’re watching a scene in your head of two other people, it had nothing to do with him. Yet his eyes flicker back up to you, your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes flying down the page like you couldn’t digest the words fast enough. His book lowers to his lap again subconsciously. 

At that, your eyes perk up, they’re on him and suddenly he feels bare. Caught red-handed. 

“You okay over there?” A smile tugs at your lips, and Yunho blinks in response.

“Fine,” he nods, slapping a smile on his lips, “just reaching a wall, my brain isn’t working anymore, I think.”

“Turn on the tv then,” you bring your eyes back down to your book, and Yunho doesn’t move an inch, not a single muscle. Now he just wants your attention, he thinks, he’s too curious about what you’re reading, what spicy shit is happening between those characters to get your legs twitching beneath his own. 

You chuckle, and Yunho realizes your eyes are on him again, analyzing, amused at what’s probably a dumbfounded look on his face. You fold the corner of your page, reaching sideways to place your book on the coffee table, no force to your actions, no sign of irritation. 

“Whatsup, baby?” You ask, voice light and playful, “Wanna watch our show instead?”

Ah, fuck, he loves you. He can’t fucking wait to marry you. 

“Want you to tell me what’s happening in your book,” he finds himself answering, maybe he’s the cat that’s grown too curious. 

“Feyre and Rhys,” you shrug, then you smile, “they’re fuckin’.”

Yunho’s brows raise, knowing a few details already from what you’ve shared over the month, “Finally.”

“I know,” you groan out, tipping your head back, “Rhys is so sexy.”

“Yeah?” Yunho’s voice dips, cresting something deeper, an idea that had been planted ten minutes ago finally taking shape. “What’s he doing?”

Your head straightens again, eyes thinning as you stare at Yunho across the couch, warm brown hair unstyled, air-dried, laying flat over his forehead. “Why are you asking, hm?”

He reaches sideways the same way you did, placing his book on the coffee table beside the couch, your eyes stay locked on his bicep that flexes as it sneaks out of his short sleeve tee. He croons, “Wanna know what’s got you so hot n’ bothered.”

You chuckle again, disbelief lining your tone, “I am not hot n’ bothered.”

He squints at you the same way, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “So you don’t want me to fuck you stupid on this couch?”

Smile gone, your eyes widen ever so slightly, bones going rigid. Then the heat sinks in, like a warm hand at the base of your spine, spreading through each limb until it reaches your throat, forcing an ‘I do’ out of your mouth. 

Yunho’s smile grows into something cocky, pushing himself up with his palms on the cushion beneath him, knees pressed to the couch as he crawls over you, so close your foreheads are touching. The heat of him is raw, it seeps into you, mixing with your own– your breath grows shallow, eyes widening as the full broad length of him looms over you. So threatening, he could be, he might be, you don’t know what mood he’s in yet. 

“You do?” He asks again, chocolate eyes boring into yours, circled with something brighter, an idea brewing. 

Your feet kick at the blanket still covering you, peeling it off your body, answering him with a breathy, “Yes.”

“That’s my girl,” he says with a knowing grin before he presses his lips to yours, one arm on the armrest behind you, the other pressed to the cushion beside you. Molding together like you always do, your head tilts to meet his guiding lips, hands coming up to his chest, feeling his cotton-covered skin before they trail up to his shoulders, his neck, letting the shape of him comfort you until your legs spread beneath him. 

They hook over his thighs as he slots himself between them, pinning you down to the couch, his tongue splitting your lips to taste you. You whimper into him as your hips buck, the strength of him still as you use his thighs to lift yourself up, hips grinding against his. He breaks the kiss, keeping his lips just grazing yours to taunt you, “Thought you said the book wasn’t making you horny.”

“It wasn’t,” you’re quick to respond, voice breathy, loaded by impatience, “it’s just you.”

He hums, smiling as he places another kiss on your lips, “She’s nice today, huh?” 

You smile, hooking your arms around his neck, grinding your hips into him again, “Want you, Yun.”

“How do you want me, baby?” He asks, dipping his head below your jaw, placing soft kisses along your skin, tongue poking out to leave a trail as he sinks down your neck. 

“Wanna ride you,” somewhere between a whine and a moan, your eyes flutter closed, using him to grind yourself up against him, his length beneath his sweats catching onto the slick beneath your sleepshorts, already sticky, already clinging to your core. 

He scoops an arm under your back, breaking from your neck to lift you upward in one quick motion, sitting up straight at the center of the couch. A move he’s done a thousand times, you barely react, using one foot planted on the floor beneath you to shimmy your shorts down your legs as he tugs his shirt off his head. You throw yourself against him, thighs bracketing his hips, core pressed flush to his. 

Skin creamy like the moon, it’s littered with splotches of cherry, flushed and needy, he was just as horny as you. It makes you smirk, arms laying over his shoulders to attach your lips again, heavier this time, quicker, your hunger grows as your hips grind into his still-clothed length, this angle better, harsher, it leaves you gasping into his mouth. 

“Take your pants off,” you whisper into his mouth, barely breaking the kiss, “need you inside me.”

“Not yet,” his hands find your hips, grinding you against his length, using more force than you were on your own, a broken moan forces its way out of your lips, head dipping down in pleasure. 

His lips find your jaw, sinking down to your neck as his fingers toy with the hem of your tee, pushing it upward, over your chest until he breaks away from your skin, pulling it over your head. Hands to your chest, you find his lips again, a mess of saliva and teeth, rushed as if you were running out of time. 

Thumbs brushing over your nipples, he hisses, “Fuck, you’re so sexy.”

“Don’t tease,” you whimper, hips rocking against him, voice breaking as you say, “I need you inside me, Yunho.”

“Patience, my love,” he whispers, the air cool against your nipple, making your back arch as your hands fall into his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp. “What were they doing in your book, hm?”

Your brows furrow, jaw already slack in pleasure, you search your mind, blinking, dumbfounded, trying to find words you just read. His eyes glance upward, lips around one of your nipples, the look of him does nothing to aid in finding the memory, it makes you groan out, body twitching. 

He chuckles, popping off of your chest, “What? Can’t remember?”

“Not when you’re doing that, fuck,” you huff out, “why do you care? Just fuck me.”

His brows furrow, disappointed, you don’t care. He tsks, taunting again, “Come on, smart girl, you just read it. Don’t tell me you weren’t paying attention.” 

“Ah, fuck–” you whine, “I was, it’s too much– I have to explain,” his lips wrap around your other nipple, teeth poking out to graze, “shit– the table, he ate her out on the table–”

His hands slide down to the plush of your ass, squeezing, shifting you backward on his thighs, spreading his knees to open yours wider. His lips breaking from yours again, his hands slide over your hips, squeezing your thighs as he leans back into the cushion of the couch, watching you with analyzing eyes. His voice is short, curt, ordering instead of encouraging as he says, “Keep going.”

Palm up, his hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your wetness along your folds and you suck in an exasperated breath, back arching, eyes fluttering closed. His fingers slap up against your core once, “Hey.”

“I’m sorry!” You hiss, shaking your head to collect your jumbled thoughts, rearranging your memories. His fingers slide up to your clit, keeping pressure there as you start again, “He ate her out on the table, m-made her cum twice– the sex was claiming, they kept saying ‘You’re mine.”

He hums, leaning forward as his fingers slide backward, the tips of two fingers catching on your entrance, “Made her cum twice, hmm?”

You choke out a moan, hips digging into his fingers, bottom lip trapped between your teeth in a fight to keep your composure as you nod, stuttering out, “T-twice.”

His fingers sank inside, “Then what?”

Your head falls forward, a lewd moan slipping out, his fingers are so long, they curled inside you perfectly, adding pressure where you needed it most. Hips already shaking, you ground them into him, his other hand thrown lazily over your thigh. 

You cursed, “They fucked again, she gave him head, fuck– and he flipped her on her front, fucked her stupid.”

His fingers picked up in speed, curling inside you with each thrust, hitting that spot each and every time like his fingers couldn’t go anywhere else. It’s engraved in him, you think, to make you cum with ease, to pull you to the edge as quickly as possible, because he knows exactly what to do and when to do it, and never fails. 

“That what you want?” Taunting, teasing, honest.

You shake your head, shoulders shaking in pleasure, “Wanna ride you.”

“Need you crying around my fingers first,” he hums, flattening the edge of his palm against your clit, making you cry out, fingers clawing at his shoulders for purchase, stability while you grind yourself into him. 

You pick your head up to see a ghost of a smile on his face, eyes locked on yours as he asks, “Should I make you cum twice, too? Hm?”

You nod, lips parting, breath catching in your throat as your clit glides against his palm just right, the sounds of his fingers filling you up obscene. “Please, Yun,” you cry out, trying so hard to keep your rhythm steady, to catch the high you were so desperately chasing.

“I’ll give you one,” he adds more pressure in his palm, fingers working you faster, the sounds of you gushing so loud, you couldn’t feel the flame of shame. “You’ll have to work for the second.”

You clench around him, pressure building with each curl of his fingers, it’s worse when they stay there, pressed up against your walls while you clench hard, clit grinding against his palm like a bitch in heat. You cry, “I’m gonna cum– I’m close, I’m gonna–”

“Give it to me,” he urges while his palm presses harder, almost bouncing against your clit, “Let me feel you cum around my fingers, c’mon, give it to me.”

“Kiss me,” you cry and he leans forward, a mess of teeth and tongue, your lips barely moving against him as your pleasure hits its peak, orgasm washing over you, hips jerking wildly against him as your nails claw hard enough into his skin to leave crescents in their wake. Yunho groans, working you through it, feeling the sting of your nails in his skin, loving it as much as you need it. 

“S’good,” there’s relief in your voice, hips slowing down into a dirty grind, chest heaving, breathing into his mouth that he keeps pressed to yours, top lips touching, bottom lips connected by a single string of spit. 

He gives you a moment to come down, to breathe, he waits for your core to stop clenching around him before he starts again, plunging his fingers deep inside of you instead of curling them around your walls. You gasp, eyes blowing wide, body locking up, bones made of stone, he smiles into your mouth. 

“Told you you’d work for it.”

A promise, one that went over your head, you quickly realized. Lifting your hips, you’re still, silent as he fucks his fingers into you, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

“Y-Yunho– fuck, Yunho!”

Your voice grew in pitch, high and whiney, surprised, still reeling off your last orgasm, body still shaking. Your toes curl, shins lifting off the couch cushion behind you, face scrunching into pleasure, into surprise, into overstimulation. 

“Breathe, baby, you can take it,” he encourages, swiping his tongue over his lips, “you can do it, my good girl, one more f’me. Just one.”

The sound that leaves you is between a scream and a squeal, eyes screwed shut– he curls his fingers and you fold, abdomen clenching, elbows pressing against his shoulders to keep yourself up. 

“Yunho, I can’t, I can’t–” you can’t breathe, you can’t feel anything other than blinding pleasure, it’s too much. 

“Just like the girl in your book, baby,” he says it like it’s easy, “just one more, don’t disappoint me. I’ll let you cum on my cock after, you want it, don’t you?”

You’re nodding before any words can leave you, they’ve all died in your throat that constricts around nothing, jaw dropping, tongue lolling out. A knowing, fond smile breaks out across Yunho’s face, “There she is, my good girl, needs something in her mouth, huh?” 

You’re stuck in a whirlwind of pleasure as his hand fucks you open, fucks you dumb– the other one travels up your waist, a thumb over your nipple as he crosses your chest, over the curvature of your shoulder. It lands on your jaw, forcing your eyes on him, his had deepened, seeming more charcoal than chocolate. “Say please,” he said simply, edged with dominance. 

“Please,” you whisper, voice shaky. 

Two fingers push past your lips, landing flat on your tongue. Your eyes fly back, immediately grinding into his fingers still working at your core, effectively restarting your nervous system. Your lips close around his fingers, tongue massaging against them, you can’t see the smile he wears, how proud it is, how loving it is. 

“Cum for me,” it’s nothing but an order, his voice harsh. His fingers press against the front side of your walls and you lose it, clit untouched, hips bucking against his fingers as your lips suck harder against the ones in your mouth.

Shaking, spent, your body crumbles, hands holding onto his wrist like it's your lifeline to keep his fingers in your mouth as your forehead hits his shoulder. His fingers slide out of you, pulling them up to his mouth, you can hear the sound as he licks them clean. Wet, sloppy, lewd– it makes you shiver.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” his wet hand finds your back, trailing fingers down your spine, “want you to ride my cock like you did on my fingers.”

You whine, letting go of his wrist, freeing his fingers. “Dunno if I can.”

“You wanted to,” wet fingers find your waist, lifting you to slip his sweatpants off his hips, lifting them to tug his pants down to his thighs so his cock can spring free. 

You shiver again as it slaps against the slick spread on your folds, the weight of it clear, fear sitting heavy in your spine at the length of him. “Yun,” you mumble, followed by a whimper. 

You break away from his chest to sit up, lifting your hips for his length to sit before you, tall, pink, leaking– your mouth waters like you didn’t just come twice. 

“Look at you,” he settles back in the cushions while you wrap your fingers around the base of him, “my cock-hungry slut, already wanting more. Thought you were too tired?”

You stare at him through your brows, gaze pointed, “Don’t be mean.”

“You’re wetter when I’m mean,” he laughs a little, and even that feels condescending. “We both know you like it. Ride my cock like you were begging to earlier.”

Cheeks inflamed, you obey, hips lifting to line him up with your entrance. “Deep breath,” he reminds you, like he does every time, as you start to sink down onto his length. 

It steals the breath from your lungs every time, you need the reminder. Mouth falling open, your brows furrow, a small squeak escapes from the tip of your throat as you pass the mushroom tip, slowly lowering yourself inch by inch, savoring the curve, every vein until you’re fully seated. A moan of relief escapes, breath entering your lungs again, mumbling out, “So fuckin’ big.”

“Never gets old, huh?” He’s smiling, it’s cocky, but you can see the furrow in his brow, the pleasure he was hiding. 

“Arrogant,” you mutter, but you clench around him, when he’s like this it never fails to edge you further. “Fuck,” you force out, it’s harsh, the stretch, the feeling of being so fucking full. 

His hands find your wrists, throwing them over his shoulders, bringing your chest close to his, pulling you into him. Your lips find his, not as messy, more controlled, his tongue slips into your mouth with purpose, tasting every inch of your mouth. 

His hands on your back, his nails graze your skin, making you shiver. “Move,” he says into your mouth and immediately you start grinding your hips, followed by a moan poured straight into his lips. It’s indescribable, how he can feel so fucking good, like you were molded for him, by him, how sex can feel so perfect. 

He leans backward, dipping his head to wrap his lips around one of your nipples as you start to move, hips grinding against him, bouncing when his teeth poke out to bite.

“Shit,” you curse, using your shins pressed to the couch for leverage, his hands hold you at your waist, sliding forward, thumbs sliding under your chest, holding up your tits for him to use. His tongue pokes out from between his lips, grazing your nipples as you bounce. “So good, Yunho, so good,” you cry, holding him by his hair, bouncing against him.

He pushes himself forward, reaching over you to get his sweatpants down to his ankles, never breaking his lips from your nipple as he kicks them off, bringing his ass to the edge of the couch, spreading his knees wide, trapping your calves between his knees and the couch.

Your hips switch to a nasty grind as his arms wrap around your back, cradling your body, you don’t break your rhythm as he leans forward, your body sliding backward. Your arms slide around his neck, keeping his head to your chest as gravity pulls your hips down, farther off his length, giving you more space to fuck onto him, to grind your hips steadily onto his length, all while pathetic, whiney moans leave you one after another, the pleasure too much to bear. 

“There you go,” he says into your skin, voice sounding choked, raw, “fuck, so fuckin’ good, my good girl, doing what I need her to do.”

“Big,” is all you can get out, repeating it like a mantra, his arms tighten around you harder, holding you closer. Your hips pick up speed, riding him faster, feeling him curve against your walls, the drag of the head of his cock against you. 

“So big, fillin’ you up,” he chokes out, “feel good? This what you wanted?”

You’re nodding, you loosen your arms as he pulls you backward, finding his lips again, pushing him back into the couch to bounce on him faster, the tops of your feet hooking over the tops of his thighs. 

“Needed this,” you whimper, steadily bouncing, “needed you to fill me up.”

“No one else can fuck you like this,” he reaches up to grab your jaw, pulling you down to whisper into your mouth, “you’re mine, this pussy is mine.”

You moan out, pressure building in your core all over again, “No one, Yunho, just you– fuck– this’s all I need– fuck!”

Your thighs burn, you don’t care, his lips are on yours again, messy and wild, so claiming it renders you brainless. You moan into his mouth, fingers curling into his hair, you need him to take over, to give him what he needs, you need to be full. “Flip me over.”

In one quick movement he turns the two of you over, you flip to your stomach on your own, pressing your face into the pillows, one knee bent up on the couch while the other lays dangling off of it, presenting yourself for him. He groans behind you, so low and dragged out it makes you arch further, one of his legs lifts onto the cushion beside you, a palm splayed over your ass while he lines himself up, sliding inside. 

Your face digs into the couch, a punched yelp escaping you, legs shaking, your fingers fist the cushions. “Yes, yes, Yunho!”

“Fuck,” it’s a low groan, an honest admission, he picks up speed immediately. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, the squelch of him sliding into you, the crackling of the fire silent by now. 

“I won’t last,” he leans over you, fingers rough at your spine, sliding up until they reach your hair, pulling you upward. 

You cry out, fingers reaching for the back of the couch, your other leg half on the couch, half dangling, letting him use you in whatever position he needs you in. One of his legs lifts yours onto the couch until you’re steadily positioned for him, stable, head pulled back into his chest, back arched, breath heaving as you look up at him– face red and splotchy, hair fucked up, features blown out and crazed, fuck, you couldn’t help the way you clenched around him. Even upside down he was beautiful, perfect, you couldn’t believe you got to marry him. 

“So pretty,” you say mindlessly, voice not your own anymore, something ruined, overwhelmed. 

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Not as pretty as you, baby. Rub your clit f’me, need you to cum around my cock.”

He lets go of your hair to wrap an arm over your chest, holding your back flush to him as he fucks into you all over again, “Fuck, baby, need you to cum.”

Your hand finds your clit, still buzzing from your previous orgasms, you use your middle finger to rub tight circles into the bundle of nerves as his hips pick up speed. He holds you steady as your moans grow in pitch, closer together, body bending at the hips as the pressure picks back up where it left off, getting too heavy too quick, at this angle his cock slides against the front of your walls, curving deliciously, adding pressure exactly where you need it. 

He holds you tighter, head dipping down to your ear, breath hot against your skin, “Come on, baby, one more, need to feel you cum around my cock. Need to feel you clenching around me.”

Your breath is thin, tight, cramped in your chest as your orgasm approaches, “Fingers, Yun, please–”

You barely get the beg out before his other hand is wrapping around you, fingers hooking into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue until you’re gagging around them– the loss of breath, of the intrusion, the weight on your tongue, the taste of his salty skin, you convulse around him, orgasm washing over you in a heavy wave, his other arm holds onto you tight as your hips stutter, jerking, bending against him. 

“Yes, my baby, fuck– so fuckin’ good, feels so good,” mindlessly babbling his praise, his hips fuck into you harder, faster as a nasty whine escapes him, “gonna fill this pussy up, yes, gonna cum inside.”

Your head falls limp against his shoulder while his hips snap against yours, riding out the end of your orgasm as his hips stutter, pushing into you as deep as he can until he empties himself inside you with a guttural moan, his teeth finding the shell of your ear, sinking into it as he fills you with warmth. 

You hiss, then moan, letting your body ease into him, letting him hold your weight. He lets go of your chest, pulling out of you slowly, his voice soft as he says, “Careful.”

Two hands find the back of the couch again as you kneel into the cushion, carefully sinking into the plush, chest still heaving, eyes half open. You felt… Open, used, loved, spent. 

Yunho’s at your side, sitting back on the couch, pulling him into you slowly, easing your head onto his chest, “You okay, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod, eyes closing, grounding yourself in his skin, in his warmth. His hands dance over your skin, your arms, your back, your thigh, your calf bent up on his lap, each one analyzing, searching for a reaction, disguised by careful, loving touches. 

 In a quiet, soft voice, he says, “I’ll give you five, then we’ll go clean you up, okay?” 

“Wanna sleep with you,” you mumble into his chest, “quick shower, kay?” 

“Want you to drink water before bed,” he says into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “maybe eat something if you’re up for it, hm? It’s still early, baby.”

Your head lifts, looking up at him, soft brown staring down at you, skin still splotchy, flushed. His eyes, filled with so much warmth, so much love, it makes you smile, craning your neck upward to press your lips to his. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he smiles against your lips, giving you another, “I really do want you to eat, though.”

He gives you five minutes on the couch, kisses you lazily for three of them, then he’s scooping you up bridal style, bringing you up the stairs to the second floor, into your bedroom, into the bathroom where he places you on the toilet to pee while he heats up the shower. All innocent, you wash each other’s bodies, giggling while you wash your hair, letting your bodies soak under the hot water, your muscles relaxing. 

In a robe, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter while he cooks you noodles, something quick and light to share, he forces three glasses of water in your system before he’s satisfied. Across the counter from each other, you’re silently eating, making eye contact after every few bites, the two of you erupting into giggles all over again. 

After cleaning up, shutting the lights off, you pause at the base of the stairs, “Hold on, forgot something.”

Running to the living room, you pick up your books from the coffee table, meeting him back at the stairs with a smile, “So we can read before bed.”

Yunho deadpans, eyes thinning, lips amused, “You want round two?”

“If you interrupt me again I will kill you,” you push a finger into his chest, stepping up onto the stairs, “We’re reading our books and then we’re going to bed.”

my masterlist 🧸 fic exchange masterlist

[sakamoto-hey]

[sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea]

raw tempo ~ choso.k

roommate drummer choso x reader 18+

wc: 14k || art creds: @/narutoss_ramen @/einjuji

summary! choso's always had strong feelings for you, his sweet, impossibly cute roommate. after dropping out of college and introducing you to his band mate suguru, things take a turn for the worst when the man starts to take an interest in you. drummer!choso becomes increasingly more jealous and agitated with each fucked up thing geto puts you through, and he finally snaps. his quiet jealousy turns dark, messy, and impossible to ignore. (jealousy, slight angst, messyyy, toxic relationships (suguru –> reader) comfort, fluff, smut.)

choso hated when geto was over.

“suguru! fuck! it’s too much, i can’t, i can’t!”

“shut up, god, and take it.”

your muffled moans and the creak of the bedposts drifted through the thin plastered wall of choso’s room. the one you’d shared since signing the lease over two years ago, back when you were just strangers hunting for a nice apartment during your freshman year.

back then, things had been smooth, easy.

you'd gotten close to the mysterious boy in only a few weeks. just you and choso, figuring out school and life together, finding comfort in each other’s company.

he had been one of the kindest, coolest people you’d ever met, someone who listened to your fucked-up problems without judgment, who cleaned up after himself, who held you on the couch when winter felt too crisp.

the perfect roommate, in every sense.

“you’d make a good boyfriend, cho,” you’d teased once, stroking his hair lightly.

“hmm, you think so?” he’d grinned, lazy and carefree.

but things were different now.

choso had dropped out to focus on his band, 'exorcize'—gojo on vocals, geto on guitar, toji on bass, and him on drums.

the band had taken off, and after being personally invited to one of their gigs, a small introduction from choso had suguru immediately hooked.

that had been the moment everything shifted.

quiet nights of spectated drum practice while you studied or long meaningful conversations were gone, replaced by surprise visits from geto and sleepless evenings that left choso restless and uneasy.

deep down, in that hazy, stoned part of his mind, he knew he felt something for you. something raw, unacknowledged, and unrelenting.

“god, sugu' i seriously can’t! oh my god!”

he heard your cries, felt his stomach twist with a mix of disgust, anger, and jealousy. he couldn’t endure another sober second of listening to you plead.

his hand found a pre-rolled blunt in his dresser, lighting it with a red lighter you'd gifted him months ago, the smoke curling around him like a protective shield.

“c’mon, you can do it, just a few more! fuck!seconds!”

he hated him. but more than that, he hated the way suguru spoke to you.

the subtle degradation, the possessive control masked by perfect composure. choso knew you noticed it too. the way your fingers curled around anything you could grab when suguru got too close, too possessive. the way you'd shy away from him rather than leaning into him lovingly. and yet, you stayed.

it tore something inside choso, some raw, unpolished piece of himself that had never stopped wanting you.

“just a little longer, y/n, fuck, you can do that for me, can’t you?”

he closed his eyes and inhaled, letting the smoke fill his lungs, the only thing that could dull the constant back-and-forth inside his head when it came to you. the only thing that dulled the voice in his head, from when you used to talk to him like he was the only man in the world. his addiction, his only vice.

~

morning

the brunette boy sat slumped on the couch, one leg folded under him, the other stretched across the coffee table. sunlight crept through the blinds, painting uneven lines across his face. his hoodie hung half-off his shoulder, hair tied back loosely, a blunt tucked behind his ear like muscle memory.

he looked fucking wrecked.

you padded out from the hallway, wrapped in a big t-shirt that definitely wasn’t yours. it hung too low on your thighs, smelled faintly like suguru’s cologne, and that made something twist in your stomach when you noticed choso glance at it once, then away with a twitch of his eye.

“good morninggg, cho” you said, trying to sound casual, cheerful, like nothing weird had happened last night.

he didn’t look at you right away. his thumb was tapping against the armrest, slow and rhythmic. “yo.”

you bit your lip, moving to the kitchen counter. the silence pressed between you like humidity. it felt different now, awkward, thick.

you’d never had awkward silence with him before.

“uh, you sleep okay?” you asked, trying to keep the mood somewhat lighthearted.

he finally turned to look at you. dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his tone came out flat. “yeah. where’s geto?”

your stomach fell to the floor. “huh?”

“suguru,” he said again, leaning back into the couch. “where’d he go?”

you blinked, your throat suddenly dry. “oh. um. he, uh, left early. he doesn't really stay the night...he sorta just comes whenever he wants and leaves when we're done.” you clear your trust trying so desperately to try and give this awfully awkward conversation some leeway.

choso didn’t say anything, he only nodded, eyes still lazy with the clear lack of rest. but you knew that look, his patience threatening to snap, the clear click of his neck.

“choso,” you said quietly, walking over a bit. “did you… uhm, hear us?”

his eyes found yours, staring right through your head. “mhm.”

you looked down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “oh my god. i thought you were asleep. i didn’t mean for you to...”

“s’alright,” he said, cutting you off, voice rough. “walls are thin, y’know, i get it, y/n.”

you winced. “was it... was it bad?”

he let out a low, humorless chuckle, the memory of his band mates grunts and your pretty gasps still fresh in his mind. “mhm. heard it all.”

you felt heat crawl up your neck, mortified. “shit, choso, i’m so sorry. i really didn’t think-”

“don’t worry 'bout it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “i’ll just sleep the morning away, got the gig tonight anyways, so it should be fine.”

you shied into yourself, wanting to say something to make it better, to make him better, but his tone a closed door.

so you offered the only thing that came to mind. “let me make you breakfast? as, like, an apology?”

he looked up, studying you for a second before nodding. “right... sure.”

you let go of a longgg breath and turned toward the kitchen, grabbing eggs and bread from the fridge.

you weren’t sure what he liked this early, he'll, he'd never really been up this early before, he usually slept until noon, leaving the scent of smoke and cereal bowls behind, but it felt like the right thing to do something. the clinking of pans filled the silence.

behind you, choso leaned his head back on the couch, eyes open, watching the sunlight catch beautifully in your hair as you moved. he wanted to stay annoyed, to keep that boundary up. but the sight of you, bare legs, hair messy, singing softly under your breath while cooking in the kitchen? that hit him in the dull, sore spot inside his chest.

“you should come to the gig tonight, if geto didn't already invite ya',” he said suddenly, voice low.

you glanced over your shoulder, surprised. “yeah, you want me to come?”

“i do.” he stretched, reaching for the blunt on the table but not lighting it yet. “you haven’t seen us play in a while.”

you smiled a little, flipping a piece of toast. “yeah, sure. i’ll come.”

he grunted something like approval, pretending not to notice how your eyes softened when you said it, the way your face lit up as you moved your hands.

you’d seen so many clips online, crowds packed like smelly sardines tight in dark centers, stage lights shining over exorcize as they played.

they weren’t just another college band anymore. they were it. the band everyone wanted to fuck, to be, to orbit around.

gojo with his wild white hair and stupidly perfect grin, toji’s quiet menace on bass, suguru’s calm confidence, and choso behind the drums, silent but magnetic, his hair sticking to his face, eyes half-lidded, lost in rhythm.

they all had that look, that raw, sexy allure that made people crave them like meth.

and you’d been there at the start of it. before the crowds, before the smoke machines and the afterparties. when it was just choso, hunched over a kit in the living room, half stoned, tapping out rhythms while you studied on the couch.

the smell of butter and coffee filled the apartment. you plated up the food, scrambled eggs, toast, a few slices of avocado, and brought it over to him.

“hereee you go,” you said in a sing song voice (trying your best to be not annoying but still welcoming), setting the plate in front of him. “a really shitty apology.”

he gave a small smile, lazy but real. “yum.”

you sat down next to him, tucking your legs under you. the couch dipped between you, and the silence that followed wasn’t as sharp this time. he picked at his food for a while, eating slow.

“seriously though, cho,” you said after a minute, eyes on your plate, “i’m really sorry about last night.”

he shrugged, chewing. “told you, s' fine.”

“it’s not fine,” you insisted, voice quiet. “that must’ve been… weird for you. i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

choso let out a low snort, setting his fork down. “y/n. you were horny. you got dicked down. shit happens.”

you froze, staring at him with wide eyes, face flushing deep. “ew,”

he smirked a little, leaning back. “what? just sayin’. it's no big deal.”

“yuck, don't talk to me like i'm one of your little junkie friends!”

“why not? we're not friends now?” he asked, in a tone that was so laid back and careless it made you anger, “what are we then? don’t get all shy now, i'm tryna lighten the shitty mood.”

you swatted his hand away, embarrassed but smiling despite yourself. “stop it, we're just friends... it's just, just shut up.”

“yeah,” he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “heard that before.”

you laughed under your breath, shaking your head. for a sec, it felt like the old nostalgic times again.

easy, careful comfort setting back between you. but under it, he felt that same ache still there, low and continuous.

the thought of geto touching you, of your voice on the other side of the wall, it looped in his head like a bad overplayed katy perry song he couldn’t skip.

he finished his plate, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

“thanks for breakfast, it was real good, y/n. you'd make a good housewife y'know,” he said.

“god just shut up,” you said with an all too dramatic eyeroll.

the quiet hung around again, except it felt more comfortable this time.

~

the studio reeked of ash and stale beer. gojo was already shirtless, sprawled across the leather couch, strumming suguru’s guitar with no real purpose.

“bro, put that down before you break a string,” suguru said, tone bored but edged.

“relax, i’m blessing it,” gojo said, flashing him a grin.

toji sat off to the side, bass in hand, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the day. he didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to, his presence was enough to keep the room balanced.

gojo noticed the slight tire in getos purple eyes and decided to pry. “so,” he said, spinning a drumstick between his fingers. “you look fucked, man. late night?”

suguru stretched his arms overhead, dark hair falling into his face. he smirked like he couldn’t help it. “mmm, something like that.”

“oh, come on,” gojo said, grinning. “you can’t just say ‘something like that.’ i need details, you fuck some chick, or?"

toji gave a quiet snort but didn’t look up from his tuning. “you gossip more than a fucking teenager, huh?”

“yeah, keeps me in shape.” gojo’s grin widened. “so? do tell.”

suguru’s smirk deepened, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “you know, just y/n.”

“shit,” gojo said, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “again? chosos little roommate? thought she was too sweet for you or whatever shitty excuse you made last time you slept with her and dipped.”

suguru shrugged. “sweet doesn’t mean boring.” he spoke like he was discussing a setlist, casual, detached. “can't stop going over to her place man. she's a great fuck, obedient, y'know? and tight as hell.”

gojo laughed under his breath. “oh yeah? she's sexy, sure, but i didn't know she had all of that going for her. you mind if i..."

“yeah, i do,” suguru said, unbothered. he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “she's only sucking my cock right now and i wanna keep it that way.”

gojo raised both hands in mock surrender. “fair enough. so does she know about all the other pussy you get or?..." he teases.

"no. and she's not gonna. thinks i'm some fucking saint."

the way he said it made the air go strange—like they were both too comfortable talking about someone so badly who wasn’t even there.

toji glanced at them, expression flat.

“so what’s the deal then?” gojo asked, voice dropping just slightly. “you two dating?”

suguru’s tone turned dry. “not exactly. it’s just casual, a bit messy.”

“that mean she thinks you are and you don’t?”

little did the guys know, choso was standing in the hallway outside the studio, leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, hoodie drawn over his head. the door was slightly ajar.

at first he just wanted to pass, maybe pop in later when they started playing. but then he heard it—

“she’s a little too attached. wants to talk about everything. i don’t do clingy bitches,” suguru said, voice casual, almost bored.

choso froze.

“it’s fine. she knows what this is, if she gets hurt, that’s not on me.”

choso’s jaw tightened under the hoodie. his hands curled into fists, then unclenched. the smoke haze that usually clouded his head felt sharper now, stinging like cold air.

"does choso care? i mean, he's pretty much always high off his face so i doubt he'd even notice, but still. you can't be quite even if you tried." gojo added.

"nah, choso doesn't give a fuck about anything, i'm sure he doesn't care."

gojo just rolled his eyes and nodded along, clearly geto didn't know shit about his supposed friend.

choso was classical stoned, sure, but he was a deep thinker. although the never really voiced his opinions doesn't mean he doesn't have any. and the assumption that he doesn't care about you, the one girl he can actually feel himself around, feel comfortable with? it's a punch to the gut.

“plus, maybe he’s some sick cuck, maybe i’m doing him a favor fucking y/n loud enough for him to hear,” suguru said next, the words like a punchline to the room.

gojo laughed, oblivious, egging him on. toji’s bass sat idle, a quiet observer.

choso’s stomach twisted, sour and heavy, but his face stayed blank. he’d heard enough. everything he’d felt last night, the jealousy, the heat, the ache, pulled into a tighter knot in his heart and mind.

and still. he didn’t react to any of it. didn’t slam the door open or yell, he was too level headed for that kind of shit. he just let the words steep there, let the laughter flush over him. the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat became his anchor.

then, like he always did, he slipped into his usual mask. the hoodie covered his eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his baggy sweatshirt.

he pushed the door open, just enough to enter, and let his presence announce him.

“’bout time,” gojo said, lounging back on the couch, grinning like nothing was off, like he wasn't just talking questionably about him. “thought you were skipping rehearsal.”

“nah,” choso said, voice low, clipped, casual. “traffic was slow.”

suguru glanced up, immediately switching to his usual calm, lazy composure. “afternoon,” he said evenly.

choso gave a small nod, dropped his bag, and moved to the drum kit, adjusting cymbals without looking at anyone else.

but under the surface, the coiled anger, hurt, and frustration hummed. every tap of the drumsticks later would carry some of that weight, silent, restrained, but there.

gojo, pretending to be oblivious, grinned at him. “you good, man? look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“didn’t,” choso said, tone clipped.

gojo whistled, dragging the notion. “what, neighbor’s dog barking again?”

“something like that.” choso gave suguru a quick side glance before settling in further.

suguru’s hand stilled for a second on the fretboard. he didn’t look up, but he could feel choso’s eyes flick toward him.

toji caught the tension first, his gaze shifting between them. “you two done?” he asked dryly. “we practicing or what?”

choso exhaled, sitting down behind the kit. “yeah. let’s get it.”

the first few hits were slow, a warm-up rhythm, but every strike landed with more force than usual. the echo bounced around the room, sharp and deliberate, filling the silence that had started to suffocate the space.

gojo laughed lightly, trying to shake it off. “guess that’s a yes.” he adjusted his mic stand. “alright boys, from the top.”

the noise erupted again, guitar, bass, drums, the controlled chaos of sound. it filled every corner of the studio, pushing back whatever words had hung there before.

suguru played clean, precise, every note in place, but his mind wasn’t entirely in it. he could feel the weight of choso’s rhythm behind him, each beat heavy, almost personal.

choso kept his head down, sticks moving fast, steady. he wasn’t thinking about the music. he was thinking about voices in thin-walled apartments, about laughter that sounded just like this. about how easily people could talk about something that still sat raw in his chest.

gojo sang through the chorus, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes half-closed. toji’s bass lines held everything together. and choso, he hit the drums like he was trying to keep from saying something out loud.

when the song ended, there was a moment of quiet, the kind that comes right after noise when everyone’s heart is still beating too fast.

“tight,” gojo said, wiping sweat off his face. “we’re gonna kill it tonight.”

“yeah,” toji said simply, setting his bass down.

choso nodded once, not looking at anyone.

suguru adjusted his guitar strap, clearing his throat. “we’ll meet back here at eight,” he said, tone easy. “venue’s expecting us by nine.”

choso started packing up his sticks. the others were still talking, voices fading into background noise. he kept his head low, eyes on the drum kit.

“yo, cho,” gojo said suddenly. “you bringing anyone tonight?”

choso hesitated. “y/n said she'd show.”

“ahh, she better,” gojo grinned. “need a familiar face in the crowd.”

suguru’s hand tightened imperceptibly on his strap.

choso zipped his bag and stood. “mhm. see you later.”

no one stopped him. the door shut quietly behind him, the sound echoing longer than it should have.

for a second, the three of them just stood there. gojo hummed, breaking the silence. “yeah, i think he heard you, and he definitely does care.”

suguru didn’t answer. he just stared at the door for a long moment before setting his guitar down, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something and thought better of it.

toji rolled his shoulders and muttered, “doesn’t matter now. just shut up and focus on tonight's gig."

~

choso pushes the door to your apartment at around 7.p.m, his skateboard bumping against the wall as he toes his sneakers off. he decided to hit the skate park after the studio, and was just getting back now.

the apartment’s dark. not quiet-dark, off dark. no wannabe niche indie playlist humming from your room, no yellow light spilling down the hallway, no half-finished tea on the counter. just the faint sound of the fridge and the hanging scent of your coconut shampoo that always stuck in the air.

he squints toward the living room. nothing.

“yo, y/n?” his voice echoes a little. it sounds lazy, but underneath it’s got that edge, confused, half-worried. “you home, babe?”

nothing.

he pauses, drumming his fingers against his thigh. normally he wouldn’t think much of it, you liked to take long showers, disappear for coffee runs, but the place feels weird tonight. the kind of quiet that sits heavy.

“yo, for real, where the fuck are you?” he calls again, walking toward the kitchen, his hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from washing it after practice. the smell of weed clings to him, mixed with cigarette smoke and a hint of cologne he must’ve borrowed from gojo.

he flicks on the hallway light, flinches a little at how harsh it is. the walls glow pale and flat. still no answer.

“y/n,” he mutters, a little louder now, “don’t fuckin’ do this horror movie shit. not in the mood."

he checks the balcony. empty. checks the bathroom, light off, door cracked. nothing. his chest tightens even though he keeps telling himself he doesn’t care, that you’re probably fine, that he’s overreacting like some clingy idiot.

then he hears faint music. a muffled bassline leaking through your bedroom door.

he exhales, tension leaving his shoulders all at once, muttering, “jesus, fuckin’. you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

he knocks lightly, then pushes the door open without waiting.

and freezes.

you’re standing in front of your mirror, airpods in, the faint shimmer of your lip gloss catching the lamplight. you’re half-dressed, black skirt, sheer tights, tiny top, and your hair sits perfectly like you didn’t even try. your room smells like warmth and perfume and clean skin.

for a second, choso forgets how to breathe.

“shit,” he says under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

you pull an airpod out and turn toward him, surprised. “oh my god, you scared me.”

he blinks slowly, eyes dragging up from your legs to your mouth, then back down again. “yeah, uh, my bad. place was dark. thought you got kidnapped or somethin’.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “kidnapped? really?”

he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “could happen. you never know. world’s fucked.”

you roll your eyes but smile. “well, i’m fine. just getting ready for the gig.”

“yeah, i can see that.” his voice dips lower without meaning to. “you look…” he pauses, tongue running over his teeth, trying to sound casual but it comes out rough. “fuck, you look hot as hell.”

you blink, heat crawling up your neck. “you think so?”

he nods, still rubbing his neck, eyes locked on you. “yeah. like, real talk, y/n, you’re gonna make it hard to focus tonight. literally everyone’s gonna be staring.”

you laugh, a little flustered. “you’re just saying that.”

“nah,” he says, finally walking into your room. “not just sayin’. like, you look fuckin’ insane. good insane, tho.”

you smile, looking back at your reflection, fixing your earring. “thanks, cho.”

he drops down onto your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “you mind if i chill here? watch the whole… transformation process?”

“be my guestt!” you say, turning back to your mirror.

he leans back on his hands, watching you move. your drawers open, mascara wand twirling between your fingers, your skirt swishing when you shift. the music in your airpods leaks just enough for him to catch the rhythm.

he tries to stay cool, keeps that lazy look on his face, but his heart’s still pounding from the moment he saw you. his head’s full of too many things, practice, suguru’s voice, your laugh, the sound of his name coming from you.

after a minute, he says, “we gotta leave in, like, an hour. gojo’s picking up suguru and toji, you wanna ride with me or get there yourself?”

you turn around, surprised. “oh, i can come with you?”

“course,” he says, shrugging. “beats paying for parking. you'll be abit early is all.”

you grin. “then yeah, i’ll come with you, doesn't matter to me, cho.”

“aight,” he says, stretching his legs out, smirking just a little. “sweet.”

he’s quiet for a while after that. you keep getting ready, music still faintly playing, the smell of your perfume thick in the air. he fiddles with the ring on his thumb, his mind replaying suguru’s words like static.

she’s a great fuck, obedient and tight as hell.

she thinks i’m some fuckin’ saint.

maybe he’s some sick cuck.

the words crawl under his skin. he can’t stop hearing them, can’t stop imagining the look on your face if you knew.

he shifts, sits up straighter. “hey,” he says suddenly.

you hum in response, focused on your eyeliner.

“can i ask you somethin’?”

“sure.”

“what’s the deal with you and geto?”

you pause mid-stroke. “what do you mean?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “just… what are you two, exactly? like, are you dating or is it just some hookup thing?”

you blink at his reflection in the mirror, half-smiling. “why, you gonna make fun of me again for last night?”

he shakes his head. “nah. i’m serious.”

something about his tone makes you turn fully, leaning against your dresser. “oh. um…” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “i don’t know. i mean, i like him a lot. we hang out, we… yeah. i guess we’re dating? hes never actually said it, but it sure feels like it.”

he stares at you for a long moment, his chest tightening.

“you guess?”

“yeah.” you laugh softly, awkward. “he’s not, like, big on labels, i think. but we spend time together. he’s nice to me. i like being with him.”

choso nods slowly, but his face doesn’t change. “right. 'nice to you.'”

you frown, studying him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he looks away, picking at a loose thread on your blanket. “nothin’. just… didn’t figure him for the relationship type.”

“why not?” you ask, voice soft but curious.

he shrugs again, lazy like always, though his voice is heavier now. “he’s just… not the kinda guy who stays still, y’know? always got somethin’ else goin’ on. kinda hard to picture him with one person.”

you tilt your head. “you sound like you know him better than i do.”

“maybe i do,” he mutters.

“then tell me,” you say quietly. “should i be worried?”

his jaw tightens. he doesn’t answer right away. he wants to tell you, wants to let it spill out, the whole disgusting thing he heard at practice, the way suguru laughed about you like you were nothing but a story to pass around. it’s right there, sitting heavy on his tongue.

but when he looks at you, soft eyes, hopeful little smile, the way you look at him like he’s safe, he feels sick.

you’re too good for it. too sweet. too fucking naive to see how much he’s playing you, and he can’t stand the idea of being the one to shatter it.

“cho?” you ask gently.

he blinks. “yeah.”

“what were you gonna say?”

he opens his mouth, ready to just do it, to tell you everything, to ruin whatever fantasy you’ve built around suguru, but then your phone lights up on the dresser.

suguru calling.

you both look at it.

your heart jumps a little, that reflexive smile pulling at your lips. you grab the phone, swiping to answer. “hey.”

choso watches you, expression unreadable. your voice softens instantly, your tone sweet and familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist.

“yeah, i’m just getting ready,” you say, turning slightly away from him. “mhm… yeah, i’ll see you there, choso's driving me.”

his fingers drum against his knee. your voice is quiet now, almost a whisper. he can’t hear the words, only the ton, light, careful, like you’re trying not to say the wrong thing.

you laugh at something he says, that little laugh that used to be his favorite sound in the world.

and something in choso deflates.

he stands slowly, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. your perfume still hangs in the air, heavy and warm.

“hey,” you say, glancing at him mid-call, mouthing, one sec, before turning back.

he nods, grabbing his keys from your desk where he’d dropped them.

you’re still talking, giggling now, saying something about how you’ll be there soon. he heads for the door.

“yeah,” you murmur into the phone. “love you too.”

his steps falter for half a second, then keep going.

the door clicks shut behind him, quiet.

you love him? god, how could he tell you after hearing that...

~

the venue’s already packed when you and choso pull up. neon bleeds across the cracked pavement, the sound of bass leaking through the concrete.

you can feel the pull of the crazy fans even from the street. drunk laughter, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke, someone yelling over someone else.

choso kills the engine and leans back in the driver’s seat for a second, watching people shuffle in through the side door. the light outside hits his face in flashes. pale, pink, blue, he’s fading between moods.

“you ready?” he asks, voice low, lazy, but you can hear something else under it.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your skirt, checking your lip gloss in the visor mirror.

he glances over, eyes flicking briefly down your legs before turning away again. “lookin’ like that, you’re gonna cause a fuckin’ riot, man.”

you laugh softly. “you said that earlier.”

“yeah, and i meant it both times.”

you shake your head, smilin despite yourself.

inside, it’s chaos. the place smells like sweat and beer, lights flashing in dizzy loops, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. gojo’s voice echoes somewhere backstage, already hyping people up. you follow choso through the narrow hallway, your hand brushing his arm as someone shoves past. since when was he so muscular?

“sorry,” you say automatically.

he glances back. “nah, you’re good.”

he holds the side door open, letting you through first.

the band’s gear is scattered everywhere. amps, cables, beer cans, half-empty water bottles. suguru’s there, tuning his guitar, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

when he looks up and sees you, his expression softens into that easy smile that always used to make your stomach twist.

“hey, pretty thing,” he says, walking over.

choso looks away, jaw tight.

“hey,” you say quietly, leaning up to kiss him. his hand slips to your waist, the kiss short but a little too public, a little too look-at-me.

“you made it,” he murmurs.

“told you i would.”

behind you, gojo’s laugh cuts through the noise. “yo, choso, you finally dragged n/n outta her cave!”

choso smirks. “yeah, figured she could use a little culture.”

“culture, huh?” gojo grins at you. “hope you’re ready for noise complaints and groupies.”

“i’ll manage,” you say, smiling.

toji doesn’t look up from his bass, just gives a small nod in greeting. the whole room buzzes with the kind of pre-show tension you can feel in your teeth.

everyone’s running on nerves and caffeine and whatever else they’ve put in their systems.

choso tosses his hoodie onto a crate, rolling up his sleeves. he looks good like that, focused, hair half-tied, a strand falling over his cheek. he’s calm but sharp now, a different kind of energy from the stoned version of him you’re used to. the one who drifts through mornings in smoke.

“five minutes,” someone calls out from the stage manager’s booth.

you hover near the wall, watching them all get into place. gojo bounces on his heels, suguru spins his pick between his fingers, toji stays silent. choso’s behind his kit, tapping his sticks against the snare like he’s talking to it.

the crowd roars as the lights dim.

you press closer to the side of the stage, the bass vibrating through your shoes.

gojo’s voice hits the mic, smooth and arrogant. “we’re exorcize. don’t fucking blink.”

the first chord screams through the room, and everything shifts.

the sound is huge. overwhelming. suguru’s guitar cuts clean through the noise, toji’s bass a low pulse under it all, and then choso, he owns that rhythm. every hit lands deep, every movement controlled but raw, like he’s drumming out something that’s been living under his skin for years.

you seriously can’t take your eyes off of him.

he’s sweat-slick already, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. the lights flash white, then red, then blue across his face. every motion is deliberate, steady, like he’s trying to stay anchored in something only he can hear.

and even though the crowd’s losing their minds, it feels like it’s just him and the sound.

you glance at suguru. he looks good too, cool, collected, confident. but next to choso, he feels out of place, like a performative douche you knew deep down he was.

your chest squeezes together. you look back at choso.

there’s something odd in the way he plays tonight. like he’s exorcising something, (no pun intended.) every strike on the snare is much louder, almost angry and harsh. you ponder if it’s just adrenaline or if something happened earlier?.

when the first song ends, the crowd screams. gojo throws his head back, grinning, shouting into the mic. “holy shit! you guys showed up tonight!”

choso stays quiet, twirling his sticks, taking a long drink of water. his eyes flick toward the side of the stage, toward you.

you smile.

he doesn’t. just nods once, small, subtle, before looking away. the next song starts before you can think about it too long.

you dance a little, lost in it, letting the music carry you. but somewhere in the back of your head, you can feel his stare again. quick glances between beats, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long before he looks back down.

and for the first time, you realize you’re not sure which one of you it’s harder for.

by the time the set ends, you’re breathless from the noise, your voice hoarse from shouting. the band leaves the stage to cheers, sweat-soaked and buzzing. gojo’s the first to collapse backstage, laughing.

“we killed that shit,” he says, half-yelling.

“yeah, not bad,” toji mutters, towel over his head.

suguru grins, walking straight toward you. “told you we’d put on a good show.”

you nod, heart still racing. “you were amazing.”

he leans in to kiss you again, and you let him, even though your eyes flick over his shoulder for a second, to choso. he’s wiping sweat from his forehead, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor.

suguru pulls back, arm still around your waist. “so, you coming to the afterparty?”

you hesitate. “uh, yeah, i think so.”

“good.” he kisses your temple, then turns toward gojo to talk about something.

you stand there for a second, unsure of what to do with your hands. the noise of the room fills the space between you and choso. he finally looks up, trying to push aside the guilt he still felt for not being able to man up and tell you about suguru.

you smile, small and tired. “you were insane up there.”

he laughs, strong yet humorless, the phrase 'love you too' still haunting his every thought. “yeah? thanks.”

“no, really. i couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but doesn’t trust himself to. “yeah, well… guess i did my job.”

you step closer, voice soft. “you okay?”

he nods, eyes flicking briefly toward suguru, then back at you. “yeah. just… beat.”

you nod too, not sure what else to say. gojo yells something about shots, suguru laughs, and the night keeps moving around you.

but in the middle of all of it, you and choso stand there for a second, caught between the noise and the silence. like the whole night’s holding its breath, waiting to see which one of you breaks first.

~

the afterparty’s at some half-finished warehouse space two blocks from the venue, the kind of place that smells like spilled beer, sweat, and old amps. led lights are strung along exposed pipes, blinking unevenly. someone’s blasting music from a bluetooth speaker that keeps cutting out.

you walk in first, suguru’s hand laced with yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. you look good under the dim light, like you belong there, like you’re glowing even in the noise and haze.

choso follows behind, slower, his hoodie unzipped and hair sticking slightly to his forehead. he already smells of weed; he’d lit up the second they left the venue.

people yell greetings, offer shots, hugs, congratulations. gojo’s already got his arm around two people he definitely doesn’t know, yelling about how they fucking killed it tonight. toji’s slouched near a speaker, scrolling through his phone like none of this matters.

suguru doesn’t let go of you. not once. he keeps you close, leaning down every so often to murmur something in your ear that makes you laugh. he’s magnetic in these settings. composed, charming, eyes sharp enough to make anyone feel seen.

choso sits on a couch near the edge of the room, elbow draped over the back, watching through half-lidded eyes.

you look happy.

and for a minute, that’s enough.

he takes a drag, holds it, exhales slow. watches the smoke drift toward the ceiling. you’re laughing at something suguru said, your head tipped back, eyes bright.

he can almost convince himself it’s fine.

you’re happy. maybe that’s all that matters.

but he can’t stop remembering the way suguru talked earlier at the studio, voice low, that half-smirk twisting his mouth as he said your name like it was something to toss away. you lean up and kiss suguru’s cheek, whisper something. he nods, still holding your waist.

“gonna go fix my makeup,” you say, smiling. “don’t move.”

he smirks. “not going anywhere, princess.”

you squeeze his hand and disappear down the hallway. choso takes another drag. exhales through his nose, slow. for a few seconds, suguru just stands there. then, like someone flipped a switch, his attention shifts.

choso notices it instantly, the way suguru’s gaze catches on someone across the room. tall girl. dark hair. red lipstick. she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to some guy with a drink in her hand.

choso knows her. everyone does. she used to hang around the studio all the time. suguru’s old fling. the one he’d bragged about, laughed about, talked about like she was a good story, just like you. his shoulders tense.

suguru drifts over. slowly. easy. one hand tucked in his pocket, the other reaching for a drink as he greets her.

she smiles like she’s been waiting.

he says something that makes her laugh, that same sexy smile sliding across his face, the same one he used when he looked at you five minutes ago. choso stares at them, heartbeat starting to pick up, jaw tightening around the joint.

he can’t hear what they’re saying, but he doesn’t need to. he can read the body language, the subtle lean, the flirtatious tilt of her head, suguru’s gross smile.

the same old shitty act.

he feels something stir in his chest, something dark and heavy. he looks toward the hallway, half expecting you to come back. you don’t.

he looks at suguru again, and his mouth moves before his brain can stop it. oh well.

“yo.”

his voice cuts through the music, quiet but sharp.

suguru glances over his shoulder. “hmm?”

choso’s still on the couch, but his tone’s much differnt, “you maybe wanna get your shit in order before y/n gets back?”

the girl looks baffled, stares between them, then takes a step back (yeah that's right).

suguru raises an eyebrow. “huh?”

choso leans forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling around his fingers. “you heard me.”

the room feels quieter even though the music’s still playing.

suguru laughs once, soft, incredulous. “you serious right now?”

“deadass.”

he looks away for a second, shakes his head like he’s amused. “you’re high, choso.”

“not that high.” choso stands up, slow and deliberate. “i just don’t like watching you act like a fuckin’ idiot when she’s not even gone five minutes.”

suguru’s jaw tightens, that calm exterior starting to crack just a little. “what’s it to you?”

“what’s it to me?” choso echoes, stepping closer. “she’s my roommate, dumbass. i actually give a shit if she gets hurt.”

“roommate,” suguru repeats, his smirk returning. “that what we’re calling it?”

“yeah,” choso says flatly. “that’s what we’re calling it.”

suguru laughs again, but it’s sharper this time. “come on, man. don’t tell me you’re getting protective. that’s cute.”

choso doesn’t smile. doesn’t scoff. “just don’t be the asshole i know you can be, yeah?”

for a second, something flickers behind suguru’s eyes. annoyance, maybe? guilt. or nothing at all. he looks away, taking a sip of his drink. “you don’t know what you think you know, choso.”

“nah,” choso says quietly. “i know exactly what i heard.”

suguru’s gaze snaps back to him. “what?”

“the studio,” choso says, voice steady. “you should watch you have to get more toilet paper what you say when you think nobody’s listening to you talk shit.”

suguru freezes, for a long moment, neither of them move.

then suguru laughs again softly, controlled. “you think you know what that was about.”

“don’t need to think,” choso says. “you said it clear as day.”

“she’s a big girl,” suguru says after a pause, voice low. “she can handle herself.”

choso’s eyes narrow. “you mean she trusts you. that’s not the same thing.” suguru doesn’t respond.

choso takes another step forward, close enough now that the smell of smoke and alcohol mixes between them. “if you don’t give a fuck about her, fine. just don’t stand here pretending you do.”

suguru finally looks up, eyes darker now. “you done?”

choso lets out a dry laugh. “mm. guess i am.”

he steps back, drops the joint into an empty cup, and turns toward the hallway, he almost bumps into you.

you’re back, smiling, oblivious, still glowing from the night. “hey, what’d i miss?”

both men go still.

suguru’s mask snaps back on instantly, smile smooth and easy. “nothing, babe. just talking band shit.” you nod, glancing between them. choso’s eyes are hard to read. too calm, too quiet. you loop your arm through suguru’s. “oh! okay. drinks?”

“yeah,” he says, kissing your temple. “let’s get you one.” he leads you toward the kitchen, the two of you slipping back into the party’s pulse.

choso stays where he is, arms crossed, jaw tight. from across the room, he watches as suguru hands you a drink, laughs at something you say, leans in close like nothing happened.

and for the first time in a long time, choso feels the kind of anger that doesn’t burn out, it just settles. slow, deep, and quiet.

he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his lighter, flicks it once, twice. the flame dances for a second before he shuts it off.

he takes a breath.

then another.

the music swells again, the noise swallowing everything.

and still, all he can hear is suguru’s laugh and the echo of his own restraint cracking, one hairline fracture at a time.

.

a few hours later

choso doesn’t mean to, really.

but the tight, burning knot in his chest, the one suguru’s smirk planted there, the one that grew watching him flirt with that old girl, the one that pulsed every time he saw your smile linger on suguru instead of him. fuck, it’s unbearable.

he’s been quiet, slow, keeping that lazy, half-asleep stoner mask on, puffing on his joint like everything’s fine. but it isn’t. it never has been.

he promised. always promised. no pills, no hardcore shit. just weed. the band worried enough about him already, addiction has always been a shadow he could never quite shake, and they knew if he went deeper, it’d swallow him.

but now, standing in the pulsing warehouse light, the noise vibrating up through his shoes, the alcohol and smoke thick in the air, he’s feeling something foreign. anger. jealousy. raw heat that makes his chest ache and stomach twist.

“yo, kamo,” he hears a guy drop down next to him, some old friend from college, he's leaning in. “nice to see you man. it's been ages."

choso just nods along, letting the guy talk about whatever he thinks is so important, his ears only really peeking up when the guy says, "you look like you need somethin’ a lil stronger.”

choso looks at him, slow. “mm, like what.”

the guy holds out a small baggie. pills, little white caps. “just some party shit. everyone here's doing it."

choso stares. his promise to the band, to you, floats somewhere in the back of his head , only weed, nothing heavier.

you'd all told him how addictive he could get, how dipping his feet into any sort of hardcore drugs wouldn't turn out great for him.

he takes the bag anyway. too pissed if to give a shit about anything other than numbing what he's feeling. "yeah, alright.”

“sweet,” the guy says, handing him a drink to wash it down.

the high hit him slow at first, a gentle fog wrapping itself around his chest, legs, fingers. choso felt the kind of calm that usually made him drift through a morning on the couch, hoodie loose, blunt tucked behind his ear.

but tonight, it was different. it hit like a wave he couldn’t ride without tumbling. and the warehouse, sticky, crowded, glowing in neon and sweat, was the perfect storm for it.

he wandered through the party, each step lazy, like he was moving through molasses, yet every sense screamed sharper than usual. the bassline rattled his chest, people’s voices blurred into a constant hum, the smell of booze, perfume, and sweat mixing into a heady cloud.

he took another long drag from his joint, holding the smoke, letting it curl around him, thinking it might shield him from the gnawing coil in his stomach, but it didn’t. not really.

“hey, choso,” a familiar voice broke through the haze. a fan, a girl maybe nineteen or twenty, pressed forward with wide eyes and a camera phone. “can we… like, take a pic? i love your band, dude, you’re insane on drums..

choso blinked slowly, the effects of the drug tangling with his words. “ahh, yeah… fuckin’ yeah, for sure.” he motioned lazily to the spot, half-smile tugging at his mouth. he let the girl snap a few pictures, asked her dumb little questions, about the band, gigs, where they got the idea for that last song, and he answered, voice drawling and thick, slurring words just slightly.

every few minutes, though, his gaze flicked back to you. and every time, there you were. pressed against suguru, who had that impossible grin plastered on his face, thumb brushing your hip while making conversation with someone else. choso’s stomach twisted. you weren’t tense. you laughed at something suguru said, head tilted back, but his ja tight.

and then he noticed it. suguru’s eyes, dark and dirty, sweeping across the room, lingering on every passing girl with a flash of that smug, possessive look. choso felt something sour bloom inside him, disgust. jealousy. something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something sharp and alien.

he sucked in a long drag of his joint, letting it burn down slowly, but the warmth didn’t soothe him. the high pressed against the raw edges of his chest, amplifying the foreign heat that bubbled with every glance suguru threw.

the way his lips curved slightly at you, and yet his eyes traveld over the figure of every passer by, made choso’s fingers itch to smash something, anything.

and then it happened. a girl, tall, laughing, hair loose over her shoulders, crossed the warehouse floor, and suguru’s gaze latched onto her, heavier than he had been doing.

just like that, he leaned down slightly to you, whispered something, and before choso could register it, suguru excused himself.

"gonna step out for a bit,” he said smoothly, voice low, eyes catching choso’s once before he disappeared through the side door.

you watched him go, smiling like it was nothing. like you didn’t notice the tension he left behind.

choso’s lips parted slightly, and for the first time tonight, he felt some clarity in the chaos, the haze, the crowd, the thrum of the bass, all of it funneled into one magnetic point: you.

he made his way through the crowd, knees a little wobbly, mind thick and messy with high thoughts, each step pulling him closer to you.

when he reached you, he leaned against the wall beside the couch, blinking slowly, trying to anchor himself despite his brain telling him to just spout nonsense.

“yo,” he said, voice low, a lazy drawl that was already fraying at the edges. “hey… hey you- you look… fuck, you look like, like somethin’ really fuckin’ hot. like, goddamn, don’t even, don’t even talk, just stand there, yeah?”

you looked at him, frowning slightly. his eyes were glassy, unfocused, but they held a sharp, almost wild intensity.

“cho… did you..? what did you take?” you asked carefully, voice low, hands resting lightly on the couch back. “you’re really high right now, aren’t you?”

he blinked slowly, shaking his head, hair falling into his face. “nah… nah, it’s… just… the whole place… it’s like, fuck, it’s like the world’s spinning.”

he ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting to you, then back toward the doorway where suguru had disappeared. “man, I swear, every time I look… he’s lookin’… like, fuck, like he’s owning somethin’ that’s mine. not yours, mine.”

you frowned, stepping closer. “cho… slow down. breathe. you’re not making sense.”

“sense? ha!” he laughed, sharp and hoarse. “fuck sense, you’re… you’re standin’ there, and I’m… I’m, shit, I’m like, all these fuckin’ feelings,” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you, voice cracking a little with the intensity.

“cho,” you said softly, moving to grab his arm, trying to steady him. “look at me. what did you take?”

he shook his head violently, sitting down on the edge of the couch, hands tugging at his hoodie strings. “nah… nah, can’t… fuck, can’t tell. you'll be mad at me. but you… you’re like… god, you’re fuckin’ everywhere in my head.”

you bit your lip, exhaling through your nose, letting a faint groan of frustration escape. “hey… listen to me. you’re too high. you’re spiraling. it’s not healthy. come on… we’re going home.”

he blinked up at you, expression softening slightly, but the haze still clouded his gaze. “home?” he muttered, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “fuck… home. yeah, yeah, you… you’re home.”

you knelt beside him, voice gentle but firm. “yeah. c’mon, we’re leaving, you're fucking soaring.”

he blinked at you, then laughed softly, a little shaky. “you… you’re fuckin’ bossy, y’know that? like… goddamn, bossy as hell… I fuckin' like it. I like it a lot.”

you shook your head, smirking despite yourself. “yeah, well, bossy is gonna save your ass tonight. now get up.” you extended a hand. he took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, gripping tightly for a moment.

as you led him through the crowd, you leaned slightly toward gojo, speaking over your shoulder. “hey, tell geto I’m leaving for the night. also tell him not to come over later.”

gojo’s grin faltered slightly, but he raised a hand in mock salute. “yeah, yeah. whatever.”

you didn’t answer, just kept walking, guiding choso toward the side door. the night air hit him like a splash, sharp and cold, clearing some of the fog from his mind. he shivered, pulling the hoodie tighter around himself, looking at you with wide, almost pleading eyes.

“fuck, it’s… it’s cold out here,” he muttered, voice rough. “but… yeah, fuck… you smell, like… everything good.”

you rolled your eyes, smiling, tugging gently on his arm. “c'mon, get in the car you big baby.”

he followed, shuffling along beside you, shoulders hunched, hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie. he let you guide him into the passenger seat of his sleek black mercedes, heat and regret and longing pressing together as you let go of his arm.

“yo… you know,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough, “I… I like you. fuckin’… like… goddamn, like really, really… yeah.”

you glanced at him, surprised, hand resting lightly on his arm. “cho… you don't know what you're saying,” you said softly, voice steady. “now let’s just get you home before you do anything stupid.”

he grinned, shaky but wide, and leaned slightly into you as you guided him along the sidewalk. “yeah… yeah, okay… home… yeah… but fuck, I swear… I swear, I’m like… all my feelings… all of ‘em… you’re fuckin’… yeah, you’re it.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. you were starting to get really anxious. he's ever like this, never so open, never so talkative. “you're high. i don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, okay?”

~

you open the door to your apartment with a slightly more sober choso trailing behind you. normally, it was warm here, soft, your little refuge from the chaos of the outside world. tonight it was cold, unfamiliar, as if every object, the counter, the fridge, the chipped mug in the sink, was holding its breath.

choso was already inside, leaning against the kitchen bench, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes.

normally, even high, he was lazy, drifting. tonight he was… heavier. darker. like every beat of his pulse carried some of the tension from the warehouse, every breath filled with something raw, sharp, desperate.

“cho?” your voice was soft, tentative, as you stepped closer. the door clicked shut behind you and the sound seemed louder than it should have been. he didn’t answer at first, just watched you, eyes glassy but unblinking, half-shadowed in the dim light.

then he moved. suddenly, decisively. one long step forward, and he was close enough that you felt the heat from him, smelled the faint mix of weed, sweat, and his cologne. before you could react, he caught your wrist and guided you toward the counter, pressing you lightly against it.

“hey,” he murmured, low, rough, voice shaking just slightly. “don’t… don’t move. just… just listen.”

you froze, pulse jumping. normally he was lazy, teasing, stoner-lazy. not like this, not intense, not… commanding in that way that made your lower stomach tighten.

“choso—” you started, but he silenced you with a sharp glance, his eyes flicking up to yours, desperate, pleading.

“i… i’ve been keeping something from you,” he said, voice tight. “something stupid. something i should’ve… fuck, should’ve told you about a long time ago.”

you swallowed, your heart picking up. “hmm?… what is it?”

he exhaled slowly, hands brushing against the edge of the counter near your hips, close but not overbearing, just there enough that you felt trapped in the tension he carried.

“it’s… it’s about… suguru,” he said, jaw tightening. his voice caught in his throat for a second, then he pushed through. “about all the… shit he’s said. about you, y/n.”

your stomach dropped. what the hell was he talking about? he was clearly fucked out of his mind, slurring his words as his jaw twitched. you wanted to put him to sleep, tell him to calm down, but he looked too controlling, like he'd explode if he didn't get this out.

“suguru, he… he talks about you like you’re nothing,” choso continued, hands tightening around the edge of the counter as if he needed the anchor. “like… like he’s the only one with a right to… to even fucking look at you. he… he laughed, y/n. we were at the studio, and... he said, he said such shitty things about you."

your breath caught as he leaned in closer. "l-like what?..."

"shit... he said that he likes you because you’re obedient, you're 'tight as hell', a good fuck, like you’re… like you’re just… I don’t even know, a thing for him to screw. and then—”

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, dark eyes flicking to yours. “—then, tonight, while you were in the bathroom, doing your makeup, he went straight to his old fling, the girl he used to bang and brag about, just… just to… to prove something. he looked me dead in the eye. like he was… like he’s proud of it.”

you felt your throat tighten. your hands gripped the counter instinctively. “oh choso... i'm sorry you had to hear all of that… i—”

“no, no,” he cut you off, urgency flashing. “don’t you fucking start apologizing. don’t. you didn’t do anything. it’s all him. it’s… it’s just… i hate him. i fucking hate him, y/n.”

his voice was raw, breaking a little on the last word.

the smoke curling around him made him look sharper somehow, the dim light accentuating the edges of his face, the dark lines under his eyes. you’d never seen him like this. vulnerable, angry, but also… unflinchingly honest.

“choso... he's your band mate, i know what he did to me was shitty, but don't let that ruin your relationship with him... cmon…” your voice was quiet, unsure. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to comfort him or run. your chest hurt at the honesty in his voice.

“no. i don't care, y/n... and that’s not the worst part,” he said, leaning just a little closer, hands still on the counter, gaze locked on yours.

“the worst part is… i can’t—i can’t stop thinking about it. about him touching you, talking about you, laughing at the way he’s—fuck, i don’t even know. it makes me… it makes me feel like i’m losing my mind. like my chest is… i don’t know, ripping in two.”

your lips parted slightly, unsure what to say. his usual lazy, stoner-laden grin was gone. this was… desperate. needy. almost like he couldn’t stand not saying it out loud.

he was slurring his words, looking frantic.

“and i… i want to—” he paused, swallowed, voice rough, low. “i want to tell you… that i’d never… i’d never do that. not to you. not like him. not even close. you… you’re too good, too… i don’t… fuck. you’re not like that. and i… i like you, y/n.”

the words hit harder than you expected. you’d thought he was joking before, rambling high, maybe even teasing. but this… this was different. he was standing close, breathing uneven, heart thudding in his chest, eyes pleading, and you realised, he meant it.

“choso…” you whispered. you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tight. “you… you mean that?”

“yeah,” he said, a harsh exhale of smoke escaping his lips. “i mean it. i’ve liked you for so long, and i… fuck, i just… kept it buried. kept it lazy, kept it… i don’t know, hidden. i didn’t wanna make it weird, or fuck things up. but tonight… tonight i saw everything. you with him. and i couldn’t hold it anymore.”

he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. his hand lingered, trembling slightly. “you're... you're really special to me, y’know? not like… possessive or some shit. just… like… i need you. i need you to know i don’t want anyone else doing what he did. talking about you like that. looking at you like that. not ever."

you bit your lip, heart racing, conflicted. the intensity of his confession, the anger at suguru, the neediness, it was… a lot.

you didn’t know how to feel. your body was leaning slightly into him, the pull of him against you magnetic, but your mind was spinning. suguru. choso. confusion and lust and relief all knotted together.

"why are you just telling me this now...?" you ask, shyly as he inches closer, grabbing your jaw and holding it loose.

"because i'm off my fucking face, y/n."

it was sudden, and you even giggled. because he was right. sober choso, stoned choso, he'd never been this open, never this vulnerable.

"... i don't know what to say, this is all so— fuck— it's so sudden. what am i supposed to do about suguru..." you ask, he closes his eyes and responds with his forehead pressed to yours.

"if i had it my way... you'd block his ass, never speak to the mother fucker again, and spend your nights wrapped up in my bed, instead of his. letting me take care of things, keeping you close so you'd know i was yours, asking you out like a proper fucking guy. not using you like some sort of pocket pussy."

that hit. because that's all you'd ever really wanted from someone. companionship, love, the kind of respect you just didn't feel from suguru no matter how many times you'd try make yourself think you did.

he finally let go of your face and stepped back, rubbing his hands down his own thighs like he needed the grounding. “c’mon,” he muttered, voice rough, low. “bed. i… i just wanna… be near you. just… lie down, okay?”

you nodded, still unsure, heart pounding, but the pull was magnetic. his bed was just down the hall, soft, slightly messy, with a blanket he probably hadn’t folded in days.

normally he was too stoner-lazy to care about anything resembling organization, but tonight the bed felt like a sanctuary. he moved ahead of you, swaying a little, still fumbling with his hoodie, and you followed, careful not to trip over the rug in the hallway.

once inside, he lowered himself onto the mattress with a groan that was half frustration, half relief. he patted the space beside him, a small, awkward gesture but charged with meaning. “get in here,” he said, voice soft now, almost pleading. “just… be here. with me.”

you perched at the edge for a moment, looking down at him. he looked vulnerable in the way you hadn’t seen before—high and open, yet completely raw. then, slowly, you slid in beside him.

he shifted slightly, making room, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. your head rested lightly against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the soft heat of his skin beneath your cheek.

“fuck… you feel good,” he murmured, voice thick and rough. “like… like everything i’ve been waiting for, all at once. i… i don’t want to move,"

you exhaled softly, heart hammering. “i’m here,” you whispered. “i won’t go anywhere.”

he pressed his face into your hair, a quiet groan escaping him, not sexual, not demanding, just… relief. he was holding onto you like no one's business, like proximity to you was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“i… i fucked up tonight,” he said, voice muffled against your hair. “i know… i was all over the place. off my face. but… you gotta know… i meant everything i said. every word. you’re the only one i want to be… like… close to. like this.”

you shifted a little, looking up at him. the sharp, high tension in his face had softened, replaced by a mixture of haze, exhaustion, and longing. “cho… i get it,” you murmured. “you don’t have to explain anymore. just… be here.”

you let yourself sink against him, chest pressed to his, but your mind was a storm. part of you was still sharp, aching with betrayal. the thought of suguru’s words, his casual cruelty, it stung, too fresh to be jumping into anything emotionally taxing as of now.

it left a sour taste, a tight knot in your stomach. you hated that you’d ever tried to make excuses for him, that you’d tried to convince yourself his calm exterior meant anything other than manipulation.

and yet, lying here with choso, pressed close to him, his warmth and his raw honesty wrapping around you, it felt like a shield. the tension, the anger, the hurt—they softened at the edges, dulled by the simple fact that he was here. that he wasn’t pretending. he wasn’t playing games. he didn’t want to own you—he just wanted you near, wanted to take care of you in the quietest, simplest way.

your chest warmed despite the lingering anger, the betrayal still gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. and yet, in this space, tangled together, pressed close in the dim glow of his bedroom, you could let yourself be content. content with the one person who’d always been honest with you, who’d finally shown you exactly how much he cared.

for now, that was all you needed.

~

the weeks had slipped past since you’d messaged geto to fuck off. you hadn’t spoken to him since that curt text, and honestly, it was quieter than you’d expected. no drama, no confrontations, just the dull ache of his absence.

the apartment felt calmer for it, too. you and choso hadn’t talked about that night, about the confession, the intensity, the things he’d admitted, but it hovered in the space between you like a low hum, unspoken but insistent.

and slowly, almost imperceptibly, a rhythm emerged. mornings were quiet, coffee mugs and peeling toast and sleepy smiles. afternoons slipped by on the couch, half-watching a show, half-dozing, your knees brushing against his.

evenings smelled like takeout and weed, music humming in the background as he sprawled lazily on the carpet, drumsticks idly tapping against his legs.

there were moments where it almost tipped, where the electricity between you made your fingers tremble and your stomach twist. a brush of hands in the kitchen, a shared laugh over something dumb on your phone, and for a heartbeat it felt like you could collapse into each other right then and there.

but choso was careful. patient. giving you space to breathe, letting the sting of geto fade, even as his gaze lingered longer than it probably should. he still wanted you close, but he held himself back, letting you set the pace. only on your own terms would he get close, letting you slip into his bed when you got lonely, letting him rub your back when things got stressful. the little things.

the band had its own tension.

practices had become sharper, more pointed, the edges of old frustrations showing. suguru’s sulking was more obvious these days, jaw tight, fingers always on his guitar strings like he was ready to snap at any moment.

he hadn’t forgiven you, or himself, for the way you’d just ended things. toji sighed more than usual, muttering about drama infecting the rhythm of the band.

gojo, predictably, had made it his life’s mission to tease both suguru and choso mercilessly. apparently, choso had spilled every detail from that night to him, and gojo’s sharp, smug grin had never left since.

“yo, cho,” gojo called during a rehearsal break, plopping onto the bass amp with a lazy flop. “have you swooped her up yet? any new updates on your little scheme to make her your play thing?"

choso’s eyes flicked up from the drumkit, one stick lazily twirling in his fingers. “shut the fuck up, gojo. that's not what i'm doing,” he said, voice flat but amused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

he was back to his usual rhythm now. easy, teasing, present, but the underlying tension in the studio hung there anyway, like the air before a storm.

suguru scowled from the corner, tuning his guitar obsessively. “idiots,” he muttered, voice sharp. “both of you.”

toji snorted. “cho’s chillin’, you're the only one sulkin' man.”

the drums hit again, slow and steady, choso’s stick tapping a rhythm into the carpeted floor.

back at the apartment, it was quieter. the city hummed outside the windows while you and choso settled into something gentle, unspoken, almost tender.

one night, he was sprawled on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent, and you were perched at the edge, flipping through a magazine. your hands brushed, his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary as he gazed into your eyes like a man starved, the pull was undeniable.

“choso… we shouldn't just…ignore it.” you started, heart hammering.

he cut you off with a soft hum, eyes still hidden beneath the hood. “i know. but i’m… i’m trying… letting you breathe. letting you… heal first.”

your chest tightened. “it’s… it’s still weird. still raw. geto… he—”

“fuck geto,” he interrupted softly, voice low but firm. “he’s out. he’s done. i’m… here. for you. not asking for more than you can give.”

and that was enough. the rest of the night passed in quiet, soft laughter over dumb shows, slow music, the faint drumbeat from his sticks echoing against the walls.

no confessions, no admissions, just presence and the weight of his calm, steady warmth.

practices were intense now. the band had a gig coming up, the biggest they’d ever do. every session was longer, every riff tighter, every cymbal crash deliberate.

choso’s drumming drove the rhythm, his usual lazy charisma replaced by a quiet focus, punctuated by moments of laziness where he’d just lean into the kick drum and let the beat flow through him.

and through it all, you were there with choso. kitchen chats between sessions, lounging on the couch while he absentmindedly tapped his sticks on your coffee table, brushing against your knees when you passed by.

the apartment was your sanctuary and your battlefield, tension and warmth coexisting, your bodies close but boundaries carefully observed as you'd talk about everything.

"so, will i see you at the gig?"

"duh. i'll be front row screaming your name."

god, he wishes you would scream his.

~

the venue pulsed with energy. bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and anticipation.

you could feel the bass thumping through the soles of your boots before the band even came on. a low chant started somewhere in the crowd—ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize—and spread fast, a heartbeat made of strangers.

you were front and center, caught in the current of people, hands gripping the barricade. your chest was tight, a knot of nerves and excitement wound together. this was their biggest gig yet—bigger venue, bigger crowd, the kind of show that could push them up a tier.

the lights went low. a hush fell. and then gojo’s voice hit the mic, clear and cocky, dripping with that smug grin you knew even without seeing it.

“alright, alright, you sexy motherfuckers,” he drawled, drawing out every syllable. “we’re exorcize, and we came to make your night filthy.”

the crowd erupted. lights flashed red, then white, smoke rolling over the stage. suguru stepped up first, guitar slung low, hair slicked back, jaw set tight.

toji followed, head down, fingers flexing around the neck of his bass.

choso came last, sliding onto the stool behind his drumkit, sticks already spinning between his fingers. the moment he sat, everything in the room seemed to lock into rhythm.

you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

the set kicked off hard; gojo’s voice raw and teasing, suguru’s guitar slicing through the noise, toji’s bass thick and grounding. but choso… god, choso was something else entirely.

his body moved with the rhythm like he was the rhythm. sweat already glistened at his temples, hair falling into his eyes as he leaned into each beat. his arms flexed with every strike, the muscles shifting beneath the fabric of his tee, drumsticks flashing in the lights.

it was hypnotic. enticing. you felt it low in your stomach, that steady pulse syncing with his.

geto was there, of course. you’d spotted him near the sound booth, head low, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. the sight of him twisted something sharp in you at first, but it faded fast, burned away by the heat rising from the stage.

because when choso hit that first solo, nothing else mattered. not the press of bodies, not the alcohol hiring your tounge, and definitely not suguru geto.

he tilted his head back slightly, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as his hands blurred.

you’d seen him play before, countless times —but this was different. this was him, stripped down, alive. raw talent and rhythm and restraint all breaking loose in front of a crowd that screamed his name.

and you were screaming it too.

every cymbal crash sent a jolt through you. every roll of his shoulders, every flick of his wrist made your breath hitch. your fingers gripped the barricade harder as heat coiled low in your belly. you couldn’t stop watching him. didn’t want to.

gojo grinned into the mic between songs, sweat dripping down his jaw. “give it up for the best damn drummer in tokyo—my guy choso!”

the crowd roared, and you swore you saw choso’s mouth twitch into the faintest, shyest grin. his gaze swept across the crowd for a fleeting second, and when it landed on you, your stomach dropped. he saw you. he felt you.

the rest of the set blurred together, grinding guitars, crashing percussion, gojo’s voice splitting the air like lightning. when they closed out with exile mind, their heaviest song, the crowd went feral.

choso drove the final beat like he was trying to break through the floor, and when the last note hit, he threw his sticks high into the crowd. one disappeared into the sea of hands; the other bounced off the barricade and landed right in front of you.

you picked it up, clutching it tight.

the lights faded. the crowd’s roar slowly dissolved into chatter and laughter, the sound of the night spilling back into the open air. the band vanished backstage, swallowed by cables.

you slipped through the press of bodies, heart still pounding, the drumstick warm in your hand. a couple of drinks from the merch table had loosened your nerves, and you could feel a confident heat rolling low in your belly, pressing against the restraint you’d been holding onto all night.

when you found him outside—behind the venue, near the alley where the smoke from the back door curled upward—he was leaning against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, head tipped back, still catching his breath.

“you were…” your voice caught, breath slightly slurred and warm from the drinks, “holy shit, choso, you were incredible.”

his lips quirked, soft and tired. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face, deliberately letting your hand linger a second longer on his chest. “i couldn’t look away. like… i don’t even have words. you sounded—” you lowered your voice, letting the warmth of the drinks give you boldness, “you sounded so good. so fucking good.”

his gaze flicked to yours, something dark and quiet sparking in it. the pull between you was immediate, electric, and you let your fingers brush his hoodie again, teasing, deliberate.

“you think so?” he asked softly, voice rougher, more ragged than usual.

you nodded, stepping closer until your body nearly pressed against his. “yeah. you made me feel it. every beat.” your lips curved into a half-smile, half-grin, letting the alcohol fuel a boldness you usually didn’t give yourself.

after weeks of pretending like there was nothing going on between you, this was definitely the breaking point.

"i couldn’t stop thinking about you, how i'm so lucky to have such a talented friend.”

he swallowed, shoulders rising, that lazy grin cracking just slightly as he stepped a fraction closer.

for a second, the air felt so thick you could barely breathe.

the back door swung open then, and gojo’s voice cut through the air.

“yo, you two!” he shouted, grinning under the streetlights. “afterparty at mine. everyone’s invited. you better show up, cho—you owe me a joint and a round of beer for that call out, man.”

choso didn’t even glance back. his gaze stayed on you, dark and intense.

you tilted your head, voice soft but teasing, letting the boldness roll over your words. “maybe skip it,” you said, hand still lightly resting against his chest. “the last afterparty didn’t go so well for you, remember?”

his laugh was low, slightly hungry, genuine. “yeah,” he murmured. “fair point.”

“come home,” you said, your body brushing against his side as you spoke, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “come home. with me.”

he hesitated a heartbeat, then exhaled, eyes softening, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“yeah. home sounds really good.”

.

as soon as the door clicked shut, the air between you ignited. his hand found the small of your back before you could even react, pulling you flush against him. your body pressed to his chest, heart hammering, pulse racing, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“fuck,” he breathed, forehead leaning to yours, voice low and rough, vibrating in your chest. “i can't take this anymore. i can't keep ignoring this.”

you swallowed, breath hitching, hands braced against his shoulders. “cho—”

he cut you off with a growl, lips brushing against your jaw as his hands slid down to grip your hips firmly, anchoring you to him. “no. fuck that. i mean it. i… i’ve been holding back everything. every word, every look, every feeling.”

your stomach fluttered, heat pooling between your thighs, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down your spine. he tilted your chin up, eyes dark, heavy with desire and something softer, something raw and unguarded. “i can’t… can’t stand it anymore, y/n. that night, everything i said… everything i’ve wanted… i need you so badly.”

“choso…” your voice was breathless, half warning, half pleading, but your body betrayed you, leaning in closer, the tension unbearable.

he laughed, low, rough, almost a growl. “jesus, look at you. you're so fucking beautiful… i want you all to myself, all of the time. i don't know how i control myself most of the time, y/n.” his hands roamed lower, teasing the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing against the soft line of your hips.

“i need you. i’ve wanted you… every lazy, fucking long day i’ve spent here in your vicinity, it's like i can't breathe properly without you.”

your chest tightened, mind spinning, everything he’d said that night pooling back into focus—his confession, the anger at suguru, the raw truth. you’d thought it was a high, a ramble, but now… seeing him, feeling him, you knew it was real.

“ i—” you started, voice trembling, then cut yourself off as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours.

the kiss hit first soft, lips delicately meeting for the first time, then it grew demanding. a low growl vibrating from his chest, hands gripping your hips tighter, rolling you against him like it was the only natural motion in the universe.

you gasped, fingers tangling in the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer, feeling the press of his hardness against you, the undeniable weight of him. your body arched instinctively, pressed to his, heart hammering, chest rising and falling in sync.

“tell me,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough, low. “tell me you want me… all of this… me.”

your eyes fluttered open, heart in your throat, and you met his gaze. you looked him up and down and pulled him in tight, letting your lips do the talking.

"does that answer your question?"

he groaned, a sharp, feral sound that made your stomach clench, and pressed harder, pinning you against the door like it was his god-given right. “good,” he breathed, tilting his head as his lips sought yours again, slower now, tasting, teasing, claiming. “i need to… i need to ask, too.”

“ask?” you whispered, breathless.

he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw. “be… mine, y/n. completely. no games, no half-assed shit. i want you. all of you.”

your chest tightened, eyes swimming with heat, desire, and relief. “yes,” you breathed, voice trembling, letting everything spill out.

that was all he needed. his grin cracked wide, teeth grazing your lips, and he dove back into your mouth, hands wandering over every inch he could reach, lips and tongue claiming, teeth grazing just enough to draw gasps from you.

you pressed into him, hands clawing at his back, hips grinding, the friction of his body against yours setting you alight. each kiss was sharper, heavier, demanding, full of need and want and something that had been simmering for years.

he backed you into the hallway, every step making the tension coil tighter, until finally he spun you gently, but with no less force, toward the bedroom. the air was thick, your breaths ragged, hands clutching at each other’s clothing, trying to close the distance you both had held back for too long.

“god, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you shivered violently. “i’ve needed this… wanted you… for so long.”

you couldn’t hold back anymore. “me too, cho. so badly.”

he groaned, a deep, rough sound vibrating through your chest, hands gripping your hips and pulling you closer as you crossed the threshold into the bedroom. the door shut behind you with a definitive click, muffling the city outside, leaving only the sound of your hearts, your breaths, and the magnetic pull between your bodies.

and then… he kissed you again, slow and searing, full of hunger and want and heat, pressing you onto the bed as your legs tangled together, bodies seeking, finding, consuming.

he’s all teeth and tongue, biting, sucking, nipping at your neck, shoulder, jaw, dragging low, urgent groans from deep in his chest that make you ache and melt at the same time.

your nails rake down his back, pulling him closer, and he leans in, grinding, pressing, heat and hunger radiating from him in waves that make your knees weak.

“fuck, choso—” you gasp, but he swats your hands away gently, lips still devouring yours, teeth grazing, tongue probing, tugging, tasting.

every touch, every snap of his hips as he grinds his clothed cock against you, makes your clit pulse with anticipation.

his fingers slip under your shirt, pressing and pinching at your hardened nipples, trailing down your sides slowly, dragging heat across your skin.

your hands clutch at him, tugging his hoodie off of his body, anything to get more of him, more contact, more friction. he responds with a low, guttural growl, teeth sinking into your shoulder, hips snapping hard, testing, teasing, driving you insane with want as he tears off his shirt.

you catch a glimpse of the body you'd see on the daily, a perfect chiseled masterpiece, only this time, it was all yours.

he doesn’t just kiss you, he devours you. hands roaming over your pretty body, he slips your skirt off next, and slides his big, veiny hand down, down, until the thick pads of his fingers tease and prod at your wet bundle of nerves. you hiss in reply.

"fuck! choso— that feels— so good!"

he smirks at your confession and slowly pushes his thick digits inside, scissoring them back and forth, driving you up the wall as you let out pretty, breathless moans.

"ch-choso!"

his mouth drifts lower, teasing the swell of your breasts, biting just enough to make you arch and cry out.

after working you open, he kisses your lips tenderly before pulling down his pants and underwear in one swift motion. his rock hard cock springs free, and, wow. just wow.

"th-that's not gonna fit..."

"we'll make it fit, baby."

and fit it did. he slowly pushed his fat tip past your puffy lips, whispering reassuring praise as you squeezed your eyes shut from the streeeetch.

"aww— you can do it, ma. you're doing so good for me. that's it, just keep breathing baby."

his hips jerked forward, letting the last few inches fully stretch you out, earning a porn star worthy moan rip from your throat.

"holy fuck— holly shit! choso, you're so big!"

he groaned in satisfaction, your cunt swallowing him whole as he slapped his hips back and forth over and over again, cursing and moaning deeply into your ear.

his pace turns brutal, like all of his emotions were being poured into fucking you nice and deep, the way you deserved.

he dips his face down impossibly close to your face to capture your quivering lips in a kiss. he smirks against your skin, letting lewd comments tumble out of his smirking lips.

"you moan so prettily for me baby— shit— nothing— hah— gets me harder than hearing you whine like a slut while i fuck you fast."

you arch, grinding against him without thinking, letting the friction and his raw heat take over, body trembling beneath him. he groans into your neck, claws digging into your thighs, holding you open, guiding, punishing, claiming.

he’s insatiable. every roll of his hips, every snap, every deep press of him against you makes your body combust, trembling, gasping, aching for more. your moans, ragged and loud, fuel him, and he leans in, tongue and teeth and lips all at once, relentless, like he’s trying to imprint himself into your skin.

you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t do anything but ride the fire, hips rolling into him, chest pressing into his, skin slick and shivering. he drives you higher, deeper, grinding with unrelenting intensity, low growls vibrating through his chest, vibrating through you.

"fuck! baby— gonna cum— gonna fill y' up, shit!"

you locked your legs around his torso as his thrusts become more and more feverish, the sheer pace making your face squeeze tight in ecstasy.

he's breathing heavy, holding your hips against him so hard you're sure his hands will leave bruises, your cunt being relentlessly pounded as he finally lets go.

"fuck— y/n! fuck i love you, i love you so much!"

you gasp at his words and blurt out a response like it was muscle memory, like it was the most perfect irrevocable truth.

"i love you too, choso— hah!—,"

when he finally drives the both of you over the edge, it’s explosive. he pants and collapses immediately, groaning into your chest as he caresses your hair, speaking soft praise into your ear.

"god, that was so good. you did so well f'me... holy shit, y/n. you're so perfect, so good... you took me like a fucking champ."

you were too busy coming down to fully comprehend, but you cradled his head against your chest all the same.

he doesn’t pull away. just holds you, chest pressed to yours, lips brushing your forehead, arms tight around you, skin slick and sticky, breaths mingling, pulse still wild. the tension hasn’t left, it’s just simmering now, a coiled heat between you two that promises this is only the beginning.

you’re still gasping, shivering, trembling in the aftermath, but it’s… thrilling, dark, messy, and perfect. he leans down, brushing his lips over yours once more, teeth grazing, murmuring something low and rough that makes your stomach knot again.

"i love you, y/n. you're mine. i don't fuck and dip, this is a forever thing now, okay? i promise, i'm never letting you get away from me."

the world outside is gone. it’s just the two of you, tangled, fevered, and utterly, terrifyingly alive.

you reply through breathless speech, looking deep into his beautiful, tired eyes.

"i know, cho. and that's all i've ever really needed."

m.list !

seeee i told you id post it today 🌝

[pasc4lfuzz]

TEARS

pairing: roommate!Clark Kent x F!Reader word count: 5.8k summary: Being Clark Kent’s roommate should be easy—except it’s not. He’s too sweet, too nerdy, too damn polite… and every little thing he does just makes you want to cross every line with him. warnings: EXPLICIT MDNI! , Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, size kink undertones, clark being a gentleman a/n: my first smut hehehe, well i just have to say.... i tried my masterlist - my askbox - Man's BF Special divider by @/saradika-graphics

Living in Metropolis isn’t as easy as it looks. Between your early shifts at the little bakery on 9th Avenue and the late nights covering for your best friend—who seems to catch a new cold every other week at the bar she works at—you don’t exactly have the kind of money to pay rent and bills in a nice apartment.

You used to split the place with your best friend, but she recently moved in with her boyfriend and left you scrambling to find a new roommate. Simple task, right? Well… not exactly.

Scrolling through the endless list of “potential candidates” online quickly turned into a horror show.

One girl mentioned she had at least five cats. Nothing against cats—you love animals—but five? In a tiny Metropolis apartment? That’s practically a zoo.

Then there was another one who casually asked if you’d mind her being a camgirl. You didn’t. Live and let live, right? Until she mentioned she’d also have to bring her “partners” over. Frequently. Which, honestly, was not part of the cozy-home vibe you wanted. You didn’t need a parade of strangers in your living room every week, and you definitely didn’t want to hear people getting laid through the thin apartment walls.

That was when you were just about ready to give up and he shows up.

His ad had been short, almost boring compared to the others. No flashy promises, no desperate oversharing. Just a neat little message about needing a quiet place to live, being responsible with bills, and “happy to help around the apartment if needed.” Honestly, it sounded too good to be true. Responsible? Quiet? Happy to help? In Metropolis? Either he was secretly a serial killer or the most boring man alive.

Except he wasn’t boring. Not even close.

The first time you met him, he’d shown up at the café across the street wearing an ill-fitting button-down, glasses that kept slipping down his nose, and the warmest smile you’d ever seen. He shook your hand like you were doing him the biggest favor in the world, like moving in with you was some sort of blessing.

And that was the start of all your problems.

Because Clark Kent turned out to be polite to a fault. He always knocked before entering a room, never left dirty dishes in the sink, and somehow managed to make carrying the trash downstairs look like an Olympic sport. He even fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom without being asked, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing in ways you really didn’t want to notice.

Living with him should have been easy.

But with every little thing he did—every considerate gesture, every domestic miracle—it got harder and harder not to imagine what it would be like to close the space between you.

Over the weeks, you and Clark fell into an easy rhythm—one that surprised you with how natural it felt. He wasn’t just a polite roommate who paid rent on time; he was… a friend. The kind of friend who always asked how your day was, who carried your grocery bags without being asked, who remembered small details about your life that even you sometimes forgot.

And then there were the little things he did that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t want to analyze too closely.

Every time you covered your friend’s late-night bar shifts and dragged yourself home at some ungodly hour, Clark made sure there was food waiting for you. Sometimes it was leftovers he’d reheated on the stove, covered with a plate so they’d stay warm. Other times, it was something he’d picked up from the bakery down the block—always your favorite order.

Cinnamon rolls with hot chocolate.

He never asked, never made a big deal about it. Just left it there for you with a little sticky note that said something simple, like “Don’t forget to eat” or “Hope your night wasn’t too hard.”

The first time it happened, you’d laughed softly to yourself, touched but convinced it was a one-time thing. But then it kept happening. Again, and again. Until the sight of a steaming cup of cocoa and the smell of cinnamon and sugar waiting on the counter started to feel like home itself.

And the worst part?

Every time you took a bite, every time the chocolate warmed your throat after a long night, you thought of him—his stupid kind smile, the way his glasses slid down his nose when he concentrated, the gentle patience that seemed stitched into his every move.

After a few months, the wall between you and Clark slowly began to crumble. What started as polite small talk over shared takeout boxes turned into long conversations that stretched past midnight, sitting on the couch with the city lights spilling in through the window.

You got to know him in ways you never expected. He told you about Lois—the Lois Lane—and how, in the end, things just didn’t work out. You never pried too much, never wanted to push where it still seemed tender, but deep down you couldn’t understand how anyone, especially Lois Lane, could let a man like Clark Kent just… walk away.

And he got to know you, too. He knew you didn’t always get along with your mom, that the two of you clashed more often than not. But he also knew that, no matter how strained things were, you still called her every Sunday evening—because that’s what you did. That was your ritual. You never admitted it out loud, but those calls left you feeling both drained and relieved at the same time. Somehow, Clark understood without you having to explain.

Somewhere in all those little moments, the air between you changed. He wasn’t just your roommate anymore. He wasn’t even just your friend. He was Clark—your Clark, in ways you couldn’t quite admit out loud. And the more you let him in, the more dangerous it felt to stay this close.

It started small. A hoodie here, a T-shirt there. Clark didn’t think much of it at first—laundry got mixed up sometimes, right? But then he noticed the pattern. His clothes weren’t missing, exactly. They were… migrating.

The first time he actually caught you, you were in your room painting one of the walls a soft shade of blue. Hair pulled up messily, brush in one hand, a little streak of paint on your cheek. And on you was a shirt he hadn’t worn in years—faded cotton, the logo of The Mighty Crabjoys barely hanging on.

“I know that shirt,” his voice came from the doorway.

You turned, startled, to find him leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to make that stupid smirk tug at his mouth. His glasses had slipped a little down his nose, and the way his eyes gleamed with amusement made your stomach twist.

“Do you?” you asked, feigning innocence as if you weren’t caught red-handed in his clothes.

Clark raised a brow, letting out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah. It used to be mine.”

“Used to be,” you repeated, dipping the brush back into the paint as if this was no big deal. “Finders keepers, Kent.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you shot back, smirking now yourself, even though your heart was hammering against your ribs.

His eyes lingered on you a little longer than they should have, warm and soft and dangerous all at once. Then he pushed his glasses up with one finger, still smiling. “Alright. But don’t blame me when you run out of closet space.”

And with that, he left you there, paintbrush in hand, face flushed hotter than it should’ve been over something as simple as a T-shirt.

And then there were the nights.

Your last year of marine biology was brutal—endless papers, late-night study sessions, your brain swimming with notes about coral reefs and migratory patterns when all you really wanted was sleep. More often than not, you lost track of time, staring at textbooks and research articles until your water bottle sat empty for hours without you even noticing.

That’s when Clark would appear.

He never knocked too loudly, just a soft tap against the door before easing it open. In his hands: your water bottle, freshly refilled, and a plate with a couple of brownies balanced on top.

“Thought you might need these,” he’d say simply, like it was no big deal.

And then he’d stay.

Sometimes he perched on the edge of your bed with his laptop, typing away at an article for the Planet. Other nights, he just sat back with a book, glasses sliding down his nose as he read quietly. He never spoke much, never distracted you—just kept you company, the steady presence in the room reminding you that you weren’t completely alone in the chaos of deadlines and exams.

It became your favorite part of studying, though you’d never admit it out loud. The sound of his pages turning. The soft click of his keyboard. The way he’d nudge the plate of brownies a little closer when he noticed your energy fading.

It was a random Tuesday. You were in your room, halfway through reorganizing your closet, humming along to your playlist and carefully folding clothes, when you heard the doorbell ring.

You opened your mouth to say something, but as usual, Clark was faster.

“I got it,” he called from the hallway.

You shrugged and kept folding, letting the music wash over you.

A few minutes later, a series of repetitive thuds started echoing over your music. You paused the song and held still, listening. For a moment, the only sound was your own breathing. Curiosity won. You set down the stack of clothes and stepped out of your room to see what was going on.

And there he was.

Clark Kent, in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the first few buttons of his shirt undone just enough to reveal a hint of the chest beneath, muscles flexing with every motion. He was focused, meticulously assembling a chair.

Your chair. The one you had just ordered from IKEA to replace the battered old thing that groaned every time you rolled around in it and had almost collapsed under you one night during a particularly long study session.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, trying—and failing—not to stare. Every movement he made, tightening a screw, adjusting a bolt, made something stir in your chest. The air in the apartment suddenly felt charged, heavier, and somehow… impossibly warm.

You cleared your throat, trying to draw his attention without making it obvious.

Clark looked up sharply, his head snapping toward you. And then, just like that, his eyes traveled—slowly, deliberately—from your face down to your legs.

You followed his gaze, and a sudden, involuntary gasp escaped your lips. You pressed your hand over your mouth immediately, hoping he hadn’t noticed just how… revealing your outfit was.

You’d been so absorbed in reorganizing your closet that you’d completely forgotten what you were wearing.

A tiny gym short that left the curve of your butt barely covered… and on top, the cherry on the cake: Clark Kent’s Metropolis Meteors jersey, loose and hanging off your shoulders in all the right ways.

For a moment, time froze. The room felt impossibly small, the sound of the IKEA chair thudding under his hands drowned out by your own heartbeat. Clark’s expression was unreadable at first, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you everything you needed to know.

“Hmm… is that my new chair?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Clark glances up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Yes… and is that my jersey?”

You glance down at yourself, mock innocence on your face. “Maybe,” you say, letting your fingers play with the hem just slightly. “Did I mention it’s really comfortable?”

His eyes flick up from the screws in his hands, slow, deliberate, scanning you from head to toe. That smirk widens just a fraction, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement—and something else. Something hotter.

“Comfortable, huh?” he murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer, careful to stay in the “helping with IKEA” role. “I’d say it looks… better than comfortable.”

You feel heat rush to your cheeks, but you don’t move. Instead, you tilt your head, playful, daring him to say more. “Better than comfortable? That sounds like a compliment—or a warning.”

Clark chuckles softly, shaking his head, sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with every small movement as he adjusts the chair. “Maybe a little of both,” he says, voice low. “And you owe me a warning next time you decide to borrow my clothes.”

You bite your lip, trying not to grin, trying not to imagine too much, knowing full well that the air between you has just shifted—suddenly, the IKEA instructions and the thuds of the chair are the least interesting thing in the room.

You were ready to give a quick, witty reply when your phone buzzed on the dresser. 

“Give me a second,” you said, already turning toward your room. 

Clark’s eyes followed your every move, tracing the curve of your hips, the way your shorts hugged your body, the subtle sway of your ass as you walked. You tried not to notice—or rather, you tried not to notice him noticing—but it was impossible.

Clark listened faintly to your conversation, catching only a few words here and there. He wasn’t trying to abuse his super-hearing—he knew when to dial it back, when to respect someone’s privacy.

But then he heard it.

Your voice, soft and casual over the phone, casually dropped his name.

For a moment, he hesitated. Using his hearing now would cross a line… but the curiosity, the pull of wanting to know exactly what you were saying about him, was too strong.

He decided to use it.

Slowly, carefully, Clark tuned in, letting his super-hearing pick up more than the faint murmurs. He didn’t listen to everything—just enough to catch your tone, your inflection, the way you laughed at something small, the warmth in your voice when you mentioned him.

Clark froze for a moment, the words sinking in.

"I swear, every time he acts like a gentleman… tears run down my thighs."

He had to pause, just to process it. Part of him wanted to pull back, to remind himself that this was your private conversation. But another part—the part that had been quietly simmering for months—couldn’t ignore what he had just heard.

A slow, deliberate smile tugged at his lips.

“You slut!” he heard your friend laugh on the other end of the line.

Clark’s gaze flicked to the closed bedroom door, tightening slightly. Part of him wanted to knock, to stop listening, but curiosity—and something far more primal—won.

“I just can’t help it,” you continued, your voice soft and casual, completely unaware he was listening. “Today I ran on him assembling my new chair from IKEA, that huge biceps popping out of the sleeves, and those curls falling on his forehead…”

Clark swallowed, heat rising in his chest. He tightened his grip on the screwdriver in his hand, pretending to focus on the bolts, but every word was burning its way into him.

He could feel the pull—the magnetic, impossible-to-ignore tension—and he realized with a sharp jolt just how much he wanted you in ways that went far beyond shared chores or quiet nights studying together.

Clark shook his head slightly, setting the screwdriver down on the partially assembled chair. It was time. Time to stop abusing his super-hearing, time to respect your privacy, and time to process everything he had just heard.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the apartment fade to normal—the faint hum of the refrigerator, the city beyond the window—and carefully pushed the intrusive words to the back of his mind.

But even as he did, he couldn’t deny the way his body reacted, the way his heart still raced, the subtle tension in his muscles. That pull, that magnetic draw toward you, hadn’t disappeared.

Clark exhaled slowly, trying to center himself. He would process this. He would think it through. But he also knew, deep down, that nothing between the two of you would ever feel quite the same again.

After a few minutes, you returned to the living room, oblivious to the fact that Clark had overheard your conversation.

“Need some help?” you asked casually, leaning against the doorway and watching him crouched over the chair, meticulously sorting the pieces and screws.

Clark glanced up, giving you a small, polite smile. “No… I’ve got it,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “But thanks.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping a little closer, handing him a small Allen wrench anyway. “Are you sure? It looks complicated.”

He gave a tiny shrug, his focus still on the chair, but you caught the subtle flex of his arms as he adjusted a bolt. “I’m sure,” he repeated, tone calm, measured… but there was an edge to it now, a quiet intensity that made your pulse pick up.

You turned your back to him, reaching into the fridge for something to drink, completely oblivious to the storm that was about to hit.

That’s when Clark finally snapped.

His eyes landed on the jersey stretched across your shoulders, the name “Kent” clearly visible on the back. Something deep inside him ignited. Without thinking, he rose from the floor and closed the small distance between you.

Before you could react, he had you gently but firmly pinned against the open fridge. He leaned in just slightly, his face hovering centimeters from yours, the heat radiating off him undeniable.

With a smooth, almost casual motion, he picked up the juice jar you had been reaching for and closed the fridge behind you both, trapping you in that small bubble of kitchen space.

Clark’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, and every muscle in his body was taut, controlled, aware of you in a way that had been simmering for months. “You… have no idea what you just did,” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate, almost teasing.

The room shrank around you, the IKEA chair forgotten, the mundane apartment sounds fading away. It was just you, him, and the magnetic pull between you—the tension that had been quietly building for months now impossible to ignore.

"…I… wanted juice?" you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper as you meet his intense gaze. Your eyes flicker nervously, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the storm behind his blue eyes, and the way his chest rises and falls steadily, controlled.

Clark lets out a low, almost amused sound, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Juice,” he repeats, the single word rolling off his tongue like it’s a secret, like it’s somehow the most ridiculous thing in the world compared to what’s really happening right now.

His hands, still resting near your arms on the fridge door, don’t move, but the pressure of his presence is inescapable. “You have no idea… how dangerous it is to wear that,” he murmurs, voice dropping even lower, brushing against your ear. “You think this is about juice?”

Your heart skips, your breath catching, and you shake your head almost involuntarily, realizing that whatever this is, it’s not about juice anymore.

He tilts his head, studying you, a slow, deliberate smile creeping across his face. “No… it’s about this,” he says, and the word hangs between you, thick, heavy, and impossibly charged.

You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the closeness, of the heat radiating off him, of the way the tiny kitchen feels impossibly small now, containing only the two of you. “I… I didn’t mean—”

“I… I didn’t know… look, if you were upset that I grabbed your shirt—” you try, your voice trembling, swallowing nervously with each word.

Clark raises an eyebrow, that corner-of-the-mouth smirk still there, amused and more intense than ever. “Upset?” he repeats, the word drawn out, almost as if savoring it. He tilts his head just enough so that his breath brushes your face, making you acutely aware of every inch between you.

“N… no, it’s not that,” you stammer, feeling heat creeping up your neck. “It’s just… I didn’t know that… that this would…” You falter, unable to finish, because the truth—the attraction, the tension, the pull between you—is impossible to put into words.

Clark laughs, low, almost a purr, his hand sliding slowly to rest over yours, firm yet gentle. “This… this is exactly what I wanted you not to know,” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with that intensity that slices through the air between you.

“Know what?” you whisper, your eyes flicking to his lips, drawn to the curve of them, the slow, deliberate way his mouth moves.

Clark’s gaze drops to yours, dark, heated, impossibly intense. “Know that… I want you,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, each word lingering between you like a spark hovering just above a flame. His hand tightens slightly over yours, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel the weight of his intent.

“I’ve… wanted this,” he continues, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of your hand, sending shivers up your spine. “Every time you wear that shirt, every time you don’t even realize you’re looking at me… it’s like it pulls me in. I can’t… I can’t look away. I can’t ignore it.”

His eyes search yours, unwavering, and there’s an edge to his tone, a mixture of confession and challenge. “Do you know what it’s like, to want someone this much and have to pretend like it doesn’t matter? To see them, to feel them, and know that every second I stay still, I’m dying a little inside?”

“I know, Clark,” you whisper, your voice trembling but certain. Your hands slide up, resting lightly on his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. “I know… because I want you.”

His breath catches, eyes widening just enough, and then darkening with a mix of relief and hunger. “You…?” he murmurs, as if testing the word, letting it hang between you like a promise.

“Yes,” you murmur, letting your forehead lean slightly toward his, your fingers threading lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ve wanted you too… for so long. I didn’t know how to say it… but I can’t fight it anymore.”

The air between you thickens, charged, your hearts hammering in sync, the kitchen shrinking around the two of you until nothing exists but the pull, the heat, the undeniable need.

You can’t hold back any longer. It’s like a pressure building inside you, a fire threatening to consume every rational thought. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, your hands clutching at his neck as if anchoring yourself to him, to this moment.

“Clark…” you breathe, your voice trembling, almost a plea. “I… I can’t—”

He silences you with a small, knowing smirk, his eyes dark and sparkling with the same desperation you feel. “Then don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough with restrained desire.

Before you can think twice, your lips are crashing together, urgent, hungry, the kiss exploding through you like electricity. Every second of restraint, every glance, every touch you’ve held back, pours into that moment. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and his arms wrap around you, pressing you impossibly tight against him.

It’s chaotic, desperate, and perfect—the world outside the kitchen vanishing entirely as if you’re the only two people left on Earth. The heat, the need, the longing you both tried to ignore, finally has a release, and it’s everything you imagined… and more.

Clark’s hands slide down to your waist, fingers gripping gently but firmly, pulling you impossibly closer. Your body melts against his, fitting perfectly as if you were always meant to be pressed together like this.

Your own hands thread through his curls, fingers tangling in the soft, dark strands as you tug him nearer, craving every inch of him. The sensation sends shivers down your spine—his warmth, the steady beat of his chest against yours, the heat radiating off him, all overwhelming in the best possible way.

He leans his forehead against yours for a brief moment, just enough for both of you to catch your breath, before his lips find yours again, deeper this time, slower, letting the tension simmer as your hands continue to explore the silky texture of his hair. Every small movement, every brush of skin against skin, is electric, a silent confession of the desire that’s been building between you both for far too long.

Without a word, his hands tighten at your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as his lips find yours again—this time deeper, hotter, his tongue slipping against yours, exploring, claiming, leaving you gasping.

The world narrows to the two of you, the kitchen fading into background noise, the fridge, the counter, everything forgotten. His arms hold you perfectly, steady and strong, yet every movement is deliberate, teasing, making your heart hammer wildly in your chest.

With a slow, controlled motion, he carries you over to the counter, setting you down gently but firmly. He leans in immediately, lips brushing yours again, tongue darting teasingly, hands gripping your waist, holding you close as if he could fuse your bodies together.

Every kiss, every touch, every heated glance is a reminder that the tension that’s been simmering for months has finally ignited—and neither of you wants it to stop.

His kisses move lower, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and a soft gasp escapes your lips as you tug at his hair, guiding him closer. Your hands roam across his chest, lingering on the firm planes of his body as you undo the last buttons of his shirt, revealing more of the warmth beneath. His hands slip under your shirt, fingers tracing the smooth curve of your bare back, memorizing every inch of your skin. There’s no hint of a bra to slow him down, and he leans in, letting his palms slide to your sides, pressing lightly, teasing your bare tits, making you arch into him.

Your breaths mingle, shallow and fast, and the tension between you feels electric. You feel his lips grazing your collarbone, his fingers exploring, mapping, claiming. Every movement is deliberate, charged with a heat that leaves the air between you trembling.

"Baby…" Clark murmurs, the word almost escaping as a whimper, and you watch him slowly kneel before you. His hands move deliberately, sliding your shorts down along with your panties, sending a shiver through you. You start to reach for the jersey, but he gently catches your wrists.

"I want you wearing my jersey," he says, his voice low and rough, eyes dark with need. He finishes removing your shorts, and the heat radiating from him makes your skin tingle. Your body instinctively arches toward him, every nerve ending alive, every touch sparking fire. The room feels impossibly small, every sound, every breath, every gasp between you two amplified.

You feel a sudden warmth spreading through your core as you realize his intent. He wants you wearing his jersey, a symbol of his possession, while he explores your most intimate parts. You feel a shiver run down your spine as he pushes your legs apart, his strong hands spreading your knees wide.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before trailing open-mouthed kisses up to your soaking wet center. You gasp loudly, your back arching off the counter as he parts your folds with his thumbs and dives in, licking a harsh stripe up your pussy.

His tongue swirls around your clit, sucking and licking with an intensity that makes your legs shake. He hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your body. His hands grip your thighs possessively, holding you open as he feasts on you like you're his favorite meal.

You tug at his hair desperately, moaning his name as he smirks against your wet flesh. His tongue plunges deep inside you, curling up to hit that sensitive spot that makes your eyes roll back. He adds two fingers alongside his tongue, pumping them roughly while sucking hard on your clit.

He pulls back slightly, his lips glistening with your juices. "Goddamn, you taste so fucking good" he growls softly, before diving back in with renewed vigor. His fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue and fingers work in tandem, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You're a panting, trembling mess on the counter, your hands fisting in his hair. 

"Oh god, Clark... I'm gonna..." You warn breathlessly, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth. As soon as the words leave your lips, Clark redoubles his efforts. He sucks your clit hard, his fingers pistoning in and out of your spasming pussy. Your back arches off the counter completely as the orgasm rips through you, a loud cry of Clark's name echoing off the kitchen walls.

He pulls back, licking his lips clean of your release. He's so goddamn sexy like this - on his knees, between your thighs. He rises suddenly, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his lips and tongue, moaning softly as you wrap your legs around his waist.

Your eyes lock with his deep blue ones. "I need you right now" you whimper.

Your hand dropping down to cup his length through his boxers. You can feel him hard and thick beneath the cotton, making you bite your lip. "Golly." he growls softly, thrusting into your palm.

You let out a soft giggle, leaning down to kiss him, your lips parting against his as your fingers work quickly to undo his pants. The fabric slips down, revealing him fully, hard and demanding.

You look down, your eyes widening as you take in the sheer size of him. He's huge - long and thick, with a vein running along the underside. The head is wide and purple, already leaking pre-cum. You swallow hard, looking back up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

He smirks slightly, reading the worry in your eyes. "Don't worry." he reassures softly, cupping your cheek. "It'll fit." He leans down, kissing you deeply, dominating your mouth with his tongue while his hands move to lift your legs higher around his waist.

He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your arousal. Then slowly, so slowly, he starts to push in. Your body stretches around him, taking him inch by thick inch. You both moan into the kiss, neither of you breaking contact as he sinks deeper.

He's fully sheathed inside you now, his hips flush against yours. He stays still, allowing you to adjust to his considerable size. His head rests on your shoulder as he takes deep breaths, inhaling your scent. "You're so tight." he murmurs huskily against your skin.

After a moment, you whimper out, "Please move, Clark." Your inner walls flutter around him, encouraging him. He lifts his head from your shoulder, his blue eyes burning into yours as he starts to move. He pulls out slowly, nearly all the way, before thrusting back in just as slow."Like this?” As he pulls out, a sense of emptiness fills you, quickly replaced by the delicious stretch of him entering again. The feeling of his thick length sliding through your wet folds is incredible. When he bottoms out this time, you let out a soft, pleasure-filled moan. 

"Yeah baby," you breathe out, your nails digging into his back. He's being careful, his hips rolling slowly, making love to you more than fucking. He watches for any signs of discomfort. You see his concern, so you pull his face close, making him look at you. "Clark," you chuckle softly. "Baby, go faster. You won't hurt me.”

Hearing your encouragement, Clark's hesitation vanishes. He grips your thigh tightly and presses his forehead against yours, his blue eyes locked intensely with yours. With a groan, he starts moving faster, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. Each thrust is deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot inside you. As he picks up the pace, so does his vocabulary. His deep voice fills the room with moans, groans, and the occasional "Fuck" or "Goddamn." You realize that under that quiet exterior, there's a very vocal man who enjoys expressing his pleasure loudly.

His movements become more urgent, more frantic. He lifts your leg over his shoulder, going even deeper. His balls slap against your ass with each thrust. "Honey..." he pants, his face twisting in pleasure. "I-im fucking close. Fuck, I need to cum so bad.” He leaves quick pecks on your lips down to your neck.

Your nails raking down his back snap something inside him. He growls deeply and pounds into you harder. You whispering  "inside" makes his mind race with dirty thoughts. He pulls back almost all the way out before slamming deep again. "Baby..." He grunts loudly.

With a final, powerful thrust, Clark buries himself deep inside you and roars his release. His thick length pulses and throbs as he fills you with warm, sticky cum. The feeling of him coming undone inside you pushes you over the edge too. You scream his name loudly, your body convulsing with pleasure as you orgasm around his cock.

You both stay locked together, bodies slick with sweat and hearts pounding in sync. Clark's softening cock remains buried inside you, still twitching gently with residual pleasure. His breath comes in hot pants against your lips as he rests his forehead against yours once more.

With great care and a soft smile, Clark slowly pulls out of you. You both watch as his now flaccid member slides free, glistening with your combined fluids. He reaches down and gently lifts the jersey off of you, revealing your naked body beneath. "Goddamn…”

You press soft kisses on his neck, making him shiver. "That was..." You start to say before he captures your mouth in a deep kiss. He suddenly hoists you up again, making you yelp. 

You wrap your legs around his waist. "Mmm" He hums. His hands squeeze your bottom possessively as he carries you towards the bathroom. His lips trail open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone while walking. "This is not over" He growls playfully, making you laugh loudly as your head falls back exposing your throat completely.

And in that moment—wrapped in his arms, your laughter mixing with his—you realize being roommates with Clark Kent was the best decision you ever made.

MBF Taglist: @elenamoncadaibarra

[hyuckiestarz]

Did you see Haechan’s insta post ??? Thought of you immediately queen

crying screaming throwing up

saw this and thought of me?! might die idk

[lyvhie]

★ ˙ ̟ ─── . “get you there”.

| summary | haechan fucking you until you see stars and pass out. | cw | smut, oral (f), unprotected sex, squirt, passing out 😔, pet names. | a/n | i did this as a way to redeem myself for my accidental clickbait, FORGIVE ME YALL 🥺

To be honest, you had no idea how long you'd been there, lost in it.

It started off silly. Just a casual comment about your now very inactive sex life, shared with your friend, Haechan.

A small get-together had happened at your place earlier that night, but somehow, Haechan ended up staying way longer than planned. The conversation had drifted into the late hours, soft voices under dim lights, both of you relaxed in that quiet, familiar way that only years of friendship could create.

You talked about past relationships, about the weird things people did in bed, the good, the bad, the awkward. The air between you was even more comfortable than usual. Maybe that’s why things slipped out so easily. Things you never thought you’d admit. Things like the fact that you’ve never actually had an orgasm.

That—that caught his attention.

He looked at you a little differently after that, a spark lighting in his eyes as he leaned in just a bit and said, “I can make you get there, if you let me.”

Stupid man with stupid words. And you were just as stupid, because you really said yes.

Which brings you to the present—legs spread wide, back arching, and Haechan’s mouth glued to your cunt, his tongue working your soaked hole with shameless dedication.

How long had you been like this? You weren’t sure anymore.

Your legs were starting to ache from the position, trembling from the strain and the overstimulation. You’d long lost count of how many times he’d made you cum, even though he’d told you to keep track.

Your fingers were buried in his messy hair, tugging hard, not sure if you wanted to pull him closer or push him away. But he wasn’t giving you a choice, his tongue was relentless, thrusting into you with obscene precision, his mouth noisy, wet, ravenous.

His arms were hooked beneath your thighs, hands gripping them tightly as he anchored you in place, pulling you down even harder against his mouth.

He was devouring you, absolutely shameless, his nose brushing against your sensitive little bundle of nerves with every eager thrust of his tongue.

The room was filled with the slick, lewd sounds of wet sucking, your broken moans spilling freely, mixing with the soft, desperate hums coming from his throat, he was enjoying this. And you could feel it.

Not just in the way he moaned into you, but in the subtle grind of his hips against the mattress beneath him, chasing relief he was clearly denying himself in favor of feasting on you.

That familiar pressure began to build in your core once again, your body wound so tight it barely took anything now. And before you could even brace for it, you were cumming. Again.

Haechan groaned into you, loud and guttural, as his tongue welcomed your release like he’d been starving for it. He drank every last drop, licking you clean with long, purposeful strokes, your soft mewls only making his smile grow against your soaked, trembling cunt.

Honestly, you could’ve come again just from the sight of it.

He slowly hovered over you, capturing your lips in a messy, fevered kiss, his tongue coated with the taste of you, of both of you. It made your head spin.

You were so dazed, so far gone, that you didn’t even register the sound of his pants being pushed down, or the way he settled smoothly between your legs, hands caressing your thighs like they were something sacred.

Not until you felt him.

His cock, heavy and flushed, dragging through your folds, the tip brushing against your clit with maddening precision.

You gasped, overwhelmed, your hands flying to his arms as if to keep yourself ground, or stop him.

“Hyuck,” you whimpered, breathless and spent. “Gimme a break… please.”

He dragged his tongue slowly along your neck, warm and wet, just as his cock slid up and down your slick folds teasingly. The tip circled your entrance, barely pushing in, just enough to make your walls flutter around nothing.

“A break?” he murmured against your skin, lips curving into a smirk as he nibbled at your pulse. “After everything I gave you?” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his cock still resting right at your entrance, heat pulsing between you. “You’re so selfish, you know that?”

His hips rolled forward just enough for the head of his cock to catch on your entrance again, making you twitch. He didn’t push in, of course he didn’t. He just stayed there, smirking.

“All those pretty sounds you made,” he whispered, trailing his hand up your thigh, spreading you wider. “All those orgasms I handed to you…”

He nipped at your jaw, gentle but firm.

“And now you want to rest?” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your skin. “After laying there, whining, taking everything like a needy little pillow princess?”

His fingers found your clit again, drawing slow, torturous circles, just light enough to make your whole body jolt, overstimulated and aching.

“You should say thank you, pretty,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours. “And let me take care of you, hm?”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as your hips gave a weak jerk toward his fingers, your body betraying any protest your lips might’ve formed. You were exhausted, wrecked, even, but the way he touched you, spoke to you, looked at you… there was no way you could say no.

Your fingers curled tightly around his biceps, bracing yourself. “T… Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely audible, thick with embarrassment.

He chuckled, a low, condescending sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. “I didn’t know you were obedient like that,” he teased, voice dripping with mockery.

And before you could even fire back, before you could think, he drove into you with a sharp, hard thrust. Your breath caught in your throat, a startled gasp slipping out as your body clenched around him instantly, your walls molding to every inch, the sudden stretch stealing whatever witty comeback you had.

His moan was downright pornographic and it had you clenching around him nonstop. The way he throbbed inside you, thick and heavy, made it obvious he was in heaven, or at least somewhere damn close.

He started to move, slow at first, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that let you feel every single inch of him. And fuck, he was savoring it. Savoring the way your slick, gummy walls pulled him in greedily, clenching and fluttering like your body didn’t want to let him go.

But his slow, gentle thrusts didn’t last long, his hands clamped down on your hips, fingers digging in with an almost bruising grip as he picked up the pace. His thrusts turned rough, relentless, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to rock your body up the bed with each movement, as he pounded your already sensitive, abused pussy.

Slick, wet slaps echoed through the room, the sound of your cunt squelching obscene as he drove in deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot again and again like he knew it by heart.

“Fuck,” he moaned, voice ragged, breath catching as you clenched down on him tight. “Gimme one—fuck, baby, gimme one more.”

It wasn’t like he even needed to ask. At this point, you had no control over your body, especially not with the way he was pounding into you while his fingers pinched your clit, only to soothe it with a teasing, gentle rub right after.

Your entire body responded to him like a live wire, tension building faster than you could process. Then, without warning, a gush of wetness burst from you, soaking his lower abdomen and the sheets below as your body trembled violently, nerves on fire from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Fuck—look at that,” he moaned, eyes wide in surprise, a slightly disbelieving smile curling on his lips. “So messy for me. So fucking good.”

You spasmed beneath him, body jerking as every muscle finally gave out, going limp all at once. He was so turned on by how completely he’d unraveled you, it took him a few seconds to even register it, until he stilled inside you, balls deep, as he spilled hot ropes of cum into your waiting cunt.

“Shit,” he hissed, breath ragged, brushing damp hair from your face and noticing how your eyes fluttered, your body still twitching softly. “You passed out?” he asked with a soft laugh as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “Yeah… I’ll take that as a thank you.”

↝ taglist: @nebularsung, @spacejip, @peterm4rker, @sinisxtea.

[sakamoto-hey]

Haechan baby give me one chance

[seospicybin]

COCKY.

CHAPTER I

Bangchan x reader. (s,f)

Synopsis: As a researcher developing a specialized condom in extra large sizes, you never expected the company’s product manager, Chris, to volunteer as a test subject—let alone for things to get this complicated. Balancing professionalism with undeniable chemistry, you must navigate a partnership that’s strictly business… or so you keep telling yourself. (23,6k words)

Author's note: One order of extra large Chris is here. Hope you enjoy it and pls share what your thoughts on it after ♡

Working at a company that specializes in sexual health products isn’t exactly dinner table conversation, but it’s your job—and you take it seriously. As one of the lead researchers in product development, you’ve spent months working on a specialized condom for individuals with extra-large sizes. And now, it’s time to pitch it to the board.

You take a deep breath, tugging at the hem of your blazer before stepping into the conference room. A long, intimidating table stretches before you, lined with executives who look way too serious for a meeting about condoms. Behind you, the screen glows with the first slide of your presentation, the product name in bold letters.

"Good morning, everyone," you begin, keeping your voice as steady as possible. "Today, I'll be walking you through my research on a new condom designed specifically for those who find standard sizing... insufficient."

A few executives glance at each other. Some raise their brows, others nod with mild interest. You press on, clicking to the next slide. Graphs, charts, and anatomical studies fill the screen as you explain the glaring gap in the market and why this product is necessary.

"Our research shows a real demand for this," you continue. "Current options on the market are often too restrictive, uncomfortable, or prone to breakage. This design addresses those concerns by enhancing durability while maintaining a natural feel."

You move through the slides with confidence, breaking down the materials, elasticity testing, and the competition. But as you reach the last slide, you sense the shift in the room. Mr. Kim, the head of the board, leans forward, fingers steepled together.

"Your research is solid," he says. "The product has potential. But before we approve production, we need real-world testing."

You pause. "Of course. We're already in the process of recruiting participants—"

"Expedite it," another executive interrupts. "We need actual user data before we move forward. Bring us results, then we’ll talk."

You nod, maintaining a professional expression, but frustration bubbles beneath the surface. Finding participants for something this specific isn’t exactly a quick task. But without those test results, your project is stuck in limbo.

As the meeting wraps up and the executives file out, you exhale, already running through possible recruitment strategies in your head.

What you don’t realize is that one of your participants might already be in the room—watching you with quiet interest.

-

Back in your lab, you slump into your chair with a sigh, letting your head fall back against the headrest. The sterile, fluorescent lights hum softly above you, a stark contrast to the high-stakes tension of the conference room. You kick off your heels, rolling your chair toward your desk just as the door swings open.

"So? How'd it go?" your friend and co-worker, Jane, saunters in, her lab coat barely hanging onto her shoulders.

"Ugh." You rub your temples. "It went as expected. They love the concept, but they won’t approve production unless I bring them real-world test results. And fast."

Jane lets out a low whistle as she strolls over to the shelves lined with various prototype models and sample products. Without hesitation, she picks up one of the dildos—one of the many you use for testing elasticity and fit—and spins it in her hand like a baton. "So basically, you need to find guys with huge dicks willing to help out?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous. But yes. And I haven’t found a single participant yet. Screening takes time, and I don’t have much of it."

Jane smirks, tapping the tip of the dildo against her palm. "Maybe you should try a more direct approach. Put up a ‘Now Hiring: Well-Endowed Men’ sign in the break room."

You shoot her a deadpan look. "Oh sure, that’ll go over great with HR."

She laughs, setting the dildo back with the others. "I’m just saying, desperate times call for desperate measures. You’re working against the clock, and if you don’t find someone soon, all that research goes to waste."

You exhale, staring at the mess of paperwork and sample prototypes on your desk. You know she’s right. You need a participant—fast.

Jane heads for the door but pauses before leaving, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Hey, maybe you should start looking for participants here in the office. You never know who might be hiding a big secret."

She winks before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you groaning into your hands.

What you don’t know is that the solution to your problem is much closer than you think.

-

Lunch break couldn’t have come at a better time. You needed to step away from your desk, from the research, from the stress of finding participants. But Jane’s words from earlier linger in your head, much to your dismay.

Because now, as you sit in the company cafeteria, sipping on your drink, you catch yourself doing something utterly mortifying—unintentionally observing every single man who walks by. Or, more specifically, their crotches.

You aren’t trying to. Really. But Jane had planted the thought, and now, your brain has decided to betray you. Your eyes flicker over a group of IT specialists at the salad bar. Then to the finance associate adjusting his belt. Then to one of the marketing interns stretching in line for coffee. You don’t even realize you’re doing it until Jane elbows you with a wicked grin.

"Oh my God, you’re actually doing it," she laughs, nearly choking on her sandwich.

Your face heats instantly. "I’m not! I mean—not intentionally. I was just—oh, shut up. Let’s go."

Jane, still giggling, follows you out of the cafeteria, coffee cups in hand. She chatters about some office gossip as you make your way back to your lab, but you barely register her words. You just need to get back to work and shake this subconscious habit before you embarrass yourself further. But the moment you step into the lab, all coherent thought screeches to a halt.

Because standing in the middle of your workspace, examining a row of sample products with a curious yet unreadable expression, is Chris.

His fingers hover over one of the prototype models, but when he notices you, he straightens and offers a polite smile. "Good afternoon," he greets. "I came to speak with you."

Jane arches a brow, glances between the two of you, then smirks. "I’ll leave you to it," she says before slipping out, leaving you alone with Chris.

You turn back to him, slightly puzzled. "How can I assist you?"

He hesitates for a moment before nodding toward your desk. "I would like a more detailed explanation regarding your product—its functionality and how far in development are you."

You blink, pleasantly surprised by his interest. "Of course." You proceed to outline the design, materials, and the challenges in securing participants.

Chris listens attentively, though his expression remains unreadable. He appears to be weighing something in his mind but ultimately checks the time and exhales. "I have a meeting to attend, but could you come by my office later? Around four?"

You nod, though curiosity lingers. "Certainly. May I ask what this pertains to?"

He offers a small smile. "We’ll discuss it then."

And with that, he heads out, leaving you wondering what exactly he has in mind.

-

Chris Bang is a name everyone in the company knows. As a product manager, he’s known for his reliability, innovative ideas, and ability to bring projects to life. He’s respected, well-liked, and a natural leader. A social butterfly who effortlessly navigates through the office, friendly to everyone he meets.

You, on the other hand, have only ever interacted with him in passing—polite nods, brief greetings when you cross paths in the hallway. So when you receive an invitation to meet him in his office, you can’t help but wonder why he suddenly wants to talk to you.

A few minutes before four, you find yourself lingering outside Chris’s office, nervously shifting on your feet. You check your watch, heart thumping. A little after four, Chris finally appears, offering an apologetic smile.

"My apologies for the delay," he says. "Please, come in."

You follow him inside, settling into the chair across from his desk as he takes his seat. He folds his hands on the desk, studying you for a moment before speaking. "Thank you for coming. I wanted to discuss something regarding your research."

You nod, trying to keep your curiosity at bay. "Of course. How can I assist you?"

Chris watches you carefully, his expression unreadable as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. The slight shift in his posture draws your attention—just enough to make you hyper-aware of the space between you.

“What specific criteria are you looking for in a participant for your product test?” His voice is even, measured, but there’s something in the way he asks that makes your breath hitch for just a second.

You clear your throat, straightening in your seat. “The main requirement is that participants need to have a genital size above average.”

His lips quirk up slightly, though his expression remains composed. “And what qualifies as above average?”

You’re certain he already knows the answer, but you respond anyway, keeping your tone professional. “Anything more than 5.5 inches when fully erect is considered above average.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. Chris doesn’t say anything immediately, just sits there, tapping a finger lightly against the desk, his gaze flickering over you in a way that makes the air feel heavier.

Then, finally, he exhales, tilting his head slightly. “I may have a solution to your participant problem,” he says, his voice lower now. “I would like to volunteer.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “You… what?”

“I want to be a participant.”

You blink, your mouth opening slightly before snapping shut. Your grip on your pen tightens as you try to process what he just said.

He nods. "I see potential in your product, and I believe in its success. More importantly, I want to contribute to the company’s innovation."

You stare at him, still trying to wrap your head around it. "How exactly are you going to be a participant?"

Chris leans back slightly. "I ask that my involvement remains anonymous."

Your throat feels dry as you nod. "Alright. But how are we going to conduct the test if you want to remain anonymous?"

He watches you carefully before answering. "We can arrange to do it outside of the office, in secret."

Without another word, Chris pushes himself up from his chair and moves around the desk. He stops right in front of you, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossing over his chest as he watches you, waiting. And that’s when it happens.

For the first time, you really look at him—not just as a well-respected product manager but as a man. The sharp cut of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows, the way his fitted white dress shirt does absolutely nothing to hide the definition underneath. How had you never noticed before?

Your eyes trail lower before you can stop yourself, a fleeting glance—until you realize exactly where you’re looking. The bulge against his dark slacks.

Heat floods your face as you snap your gaze back up, praying he didn’t catch that momentary lapse in professionalism.

Chris doesn’t comment on it, but there’s something almost amused in the way he tilts his head. He extends a hand toward you, expectant.

“So? Do you agree to this arrangement?” he prompts.

“Yes,” you regret for answering too quickly, making you sound way too eager. When in fact, you're just glad to finally solve the problem but also, yeah, okay, you can’t lie, you're a bit curious about something, about Chris.

Your fingers wrap around his, and as you shake hands, you feel it. The shift. The undercurrent of something you can’t quite name just yet.

-

The next day, work starts as usual. You and Jane are in your lab, reviewing reports and planning your next steps. This time, she’s not interrogating you about Chris—at least, not yet. Instead, she’s too busy grumbling about her own research troubles.

“I swear, if I have to go through one more round of reformulations, I’m going to lose my mind,” she complains, tapping her pen against the table. “And to make matters worse, the participant who had the reaction was the best one in the trial. Great responses, perfect for data analysis, and now she’s out.” She rubs her forehead. “I need to find a replacement ASAP, or the timeline’s screwed.”

Hearing that, you can’t help but think about your own situation. At least Jane had a participant—even if it went south. Meanwhile, you were stuck—until yesterday.

Your thoughts drift back to Chris. To the conversation in his office. To the way he leaned against his desk, arms crossed, waiting for you to respond to his offer. To the handshake that sealed the agreement, his grip firm and unwavering.

To the fact that you somehow, in the middle of all that, had managed to glance down—

Nope. Not going there.

“Hey!” Jane’s voice snaps you out of it. You blink at her.

“What’s with that face?” she asks, squinting at you suspiciously.

“What face?”

“The one that says you were just thinking about something you don’t want to admit.”

Damn it. You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Just work.”

Jane narrows her eyes. Then, suddenly, her gaze flicks past you—to the glass window overlooking the lab.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh.”

Your stomach drops. You don’t even have to look to know what—or rather, who—she’s seeing. Still, against your better judgment, you glance up.

There he is. Chris is standing outside, observing another team of researchers working on their project. His hands are in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he listens to someone explaining something.

Jane lets out a low whistle. “Well, hello, product manager Bang.”

You close your eyes briefly. “Jane. No.”

Jane ignores you. “You know, I never really paid attention before, but now that I’m looking at him properly… Damn. You’ve been sitting on gold this whole time, and you didn’t even realize it.”

“I am not sitting on anything,” you hiss, horrified.

Jane grins, enjoying this far too much. “Not yet.”

You gape at her. “Stop.”

But your attention betrays you because the longer Chris stands there, the harder it is to ignore the way he looks. The rolled-up sleeves. The way his dress shirt fits just right. The way he listens so intently, brows furrowed in concentration.

Jane leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “You have to wonder, though… With a body like that, what else do you think he’s got going on under there?”

You suck in a breath, scandalized. “Jane.”

She smirks. “I mean, you would know better than me now, wouldn’t you?”

You nearly choke on air. “I—excuse me?”

Jane just winks. “Just saying. You’re in charge of a very… specific study. And he’s very… qualified.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond because, at that exact moment, Chris shifts—and his gaze lands directly on you. Your heart stops. For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, as if sensing the sheer panic flooding your system, Jane casually takes a step back and hums. “Welp, have fun processing that. I’ll let you get back to work.”

And with that, she strolls away, leaving you to deal with the mess she just made in your brain. The worst part? You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to look at Chris the same way again.

Especially when, minutes later, Chris finishes his observation and starts walking past your lab.

Your body tenses as he nears the doorway, but when he glances in and sees you, his expression remains calm—pleasant, even.

“Good morning,” he says, voice as smooth as ever.

“Good morning,” you manage to reply, keeping your tone neutral.

He offers a brief nod before continuing down the hall, leaving you exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

But just as you think the encounter is over, your phone buzzes. You glance down, unlocking it. A new message. From Chris.

Meet me tonight. Hotel Mira. 8 PM.

There’s no explanation. No context. Just the time. The place. And the undeniable fact that your life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.

-

The sun is beginning to set, casting a dim orange glow through the windows. Most of the other researchers have already packed up and left, giving you just the moment of solitude you need.

With one last glance around, you reach for the shelf where your prototype samples are stored. Your fingers hover for a second before you carefully pick up a small box of the condoms—the very ones you’re supposed to be testing.

You hesitate only for a moment before swiftly slipping the box into your bag, ensuring it's hidden beneath your notebook and other miscellaneous items. Your pulse quickens. It’s not like you’re doing something wrong, but if Jane sees…

Yeah. You’d have a lot of explaining to do. You zip up your bag, moving as casually as possible, just in case—

“Hey.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Snapping your head up, you see Jane standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised.

Your heart pounds as you quickly compose yourself, forcing your shoulders to relax. “Jesus, Jane. Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

She shrugs, stepping into the lab. “Didn’t know I had to make an announcement before entering.” She leans lazily against the doorframe, completely unaware of the miniature panic attack she just induced. “Anyway, my car’s still in the shop. Can you give me a ride to the station?”

You blink, still recovering. “The station?”

“Yeah. You know, where trains exist.” She gives you a look. “It’s in the same direction as your place, isn’t it?”

Your fingers tighten around your bag strap. The station. Which just so happens to be on the way to Hotel Mira.

You nod, keeping your voice neutral. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great. Let me grab my stuff, and we can head out.”

Jane disappears for a moment, giving you time to let out a slow breath. That was way too close.

-

The drive to the hotel feels longer than it should, your mind running in circles despite the fact that this is nothing more than a professional meeting. A business matter. An agreement you both shook hands on.

And yet, as you pull into the parking lot and step out of your car, there’s an uneasy flutter in your stomach that you can’t quite suppress.

Inside, the hotel lobby is polished and pristine, dimly lit with a warm, intimate glow. You walk past the front desk without sparing a glance, heading straight toward the restrooms.

Once inside, you take a moment to steady yourself. You set your bag down, gripping the edge of the sink as you look at your reflection. Your face betrays you. You don’t look like someone heading into a purely professional meeting. You look… nervous. Almost like—

No. You shake your head, breaking the thought before it can go any further. With a quick breath, you smooth out the creases in your shirt, adjust your hair, and dab a cool drop of water against the back of your neck. You look fine. Presentable. Professional.

And then, without giving yourself any more time to overthink, you grab your bag and leave the restroom.

The elevator ride is quiet, save for the low hum of the machinery as you ascend. The numbers above the doors blink steadily—six, seven, eight—each one making your pulse tick higher. By the time you reach the tenth floor, your grip on your bag is tight.

Room 1003.

You walk down the hallway, the carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps. The walls are lined with identical doors, each one leading to a private, undisclosed space. Your destination is at the end of the hall.

You stop in front of it. For a moment, you just stand there. The number on the door gleams under the soft glow of the overhead light. 1003. The right room. The right place.

Then, shifting your bag in front of you, you lift a hand—

And knock. A pause. Silence. Then, the sound of movement from the other side. A slow, deliberate click of the lock and then the door begins to open.

-

The door clicks open, and you swear your heart stumbles over itself. Chris stands before you, his usual professional image softened by the undone top buttons of his shirt and the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows. He looks relaxed—too relaxed. And that only makes your nerves spike even more.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You force yourself to move, slipping past him and into the room. It’s a standard hotel suite, sleek and modern, but your attention flickers to the small bar cart near the TV. Chris follows your gaze.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, walking toward it without waiting for an answer.

You shake your head, gripping your bag a little tighter. “I’m good. I’d rather get started with the test.”

Chris chuckles, glancing at you over his shoulder. “You’re all business, huh?” He picks up a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a small amount before holding up another glass. “Come on, just one drink. We’re going to be working closely together. Shouldn’t we at least loosen up a little?”

You hesitate, knowing this isn’t what you came here for. But the way he’s looking at you—warm, patient, but with an undeniable sense of control—makes you cave just a little. You sigh, finally moving toward the sofa. “Fine. Just one drink.”

Chris smiles, a pleased glint in his eyes as he pours your drink. You watch him quietly, noticing how different he seems outside the office. The polished product manager is still there, but here, in this dimly lit hotel room, he seems more at ease, more himself. He hands you the glass, his fingers grazing yours for the briefest second. You swallow before raising it slightly.

“To… professional courtesy?” you say, trying to keep this neutral.

Chris chuckles again, lifting his own glass. “To a successful product test.”

You clink glasses and take a sip, the burn of the alcohol trailing down your throat. You’re not sure if it’s the drink or something else entirely, but suddenly, you feel a little hot.

You set your glass down on the table after a single sip, straightening in your seat as you slip back into work mode. Clearing your throat, you open your bag and take out your notebook. “Alright. Before we begin, I need to outline the process.”

Chris raises an amused brow, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Go on.”

You nod, focusing on your notes. “The test requires me to take measurements—both in a flaccid and an erect state. This includes length, girth, and width to ensure the condom’s fit and elasticity.”

You glance up, expecting him to react professionally. Instead, Chris chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. You frown. “What?”

He smirks, taking a slow sip of his drink before meeting your eyes. “You’re so serious about this.”

Your lips part slightly, caught off guard by the comment. “Well… it is a serious matter. This is research.”

Chris hums as if considering your words. Then, with a teasing lilt, he tilts his head. “Or are you just impatient to see me naked?”

Your body locks up. “What—? No! That’s not—”

But Chris only chuckles, leaning back against the sofa, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”

You exhale sharply, feeling warmth creep up your neck. Without thinking, you grab your glass and take another sip, hoping the drink will calm the sudden fluster in your system.

Chris watches you with a knowing glint in his eyes, then lifts his own glass. “Alright. Once we finish these, we’ll start.”

You nod, trying not to overthink how nonchalant he is about all of this while you’re barely holding it together. This is just research. Just a product test. You tell yourself.

A few more sips and the glasses are emptied, the clink of crystal against the table sounding much louder in the quiet room.

Chris exhales, setting his drink down with ease before rising to his feet. Without thinking, you follow suit, standing just as he does—an instinctive reaction, though you’re not sure why.

The two of you find yourselves facing each other, the space between you charged with something unspoken. His gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable, and you realize you’re gripping the edge of your notebook a little too tightly.

The silence stretches just long enough to make your pulse tick faster. Then, Chris breaks it with a low, amused murmur. “So… should we get started?”

His voice is smooth, casual, but the weight of the moment makes it feel heavier than it should.

You swallow, forcing a nod. “Y-Yes. We should.”

But your feet stay rooted in place and Chris notices. The corner of his mouth twitches—something between a smirk and a knowing smile. He tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s waiting for you to make the next move. Or if he’s simply enjoying watching you hesitate. Either way, you need to snap out of it.

Clearing your throat, you tighten your grip on your notes and take a steadying breath. “Let’s begin.”

Chris hums in agreement, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze as he finally moves. And suddenly, it feels as if the real test is not just the one you came here for—but something else entirely.

He moves first, unbuttoning the remaining buttons of his shirt with practiced ease. The fabric slips from his shoulders, revealing toned muscles beneath—broad chest, defined abs, and a confidence that makes the entire act seem effortless.

You keep your expression neutral, or at least you try to. “This is strictly professional,” you remind yourself silently.

Chris glances at you, catching the way your gaze flickers before you quickly refocus on your notes. “Do you need me to undress completely?” he asks, his tone smooth, almost teasing.

You press your lips together before answering. “For accurate measurement, I need access to the necessary area. So… yes.”

He chuckles, a deep, warm sound. “Straight to the point.”

You don’t respond, instead focusing on preparing the measuring tape and recording sheet. Anything to keep yourself occupied while he finishes undressing.

A moment later, you hear the rustle of fabric, the sound of a belt unfastening, the subtle shift of movement. You don’t look up until Chris speaks again.

“I’m ready when you are.”

When you finally lift your gaze, your breath catches for a fraction of a second. You do your best to maintain your professionalism—but the moment you see it, all thoughts momentarily leave your head.

Chris stands before you, bare from the waist down, his body relaxed yet radiating a quiet confidence. He doesn’t shy away, doesn’t fidget—he simply waits, watching for your reaction.

You knew he had to be on the larger side to even qualify for the study, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. Bigger than you expected. Definitely bigger than you imagined.

You barely catch yourself before audibly reacting, but your throat betrays you as you swallow air, a reflex you hope he doesn’t notice.

Chris, of course, notices everything. A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “Something wrong?”

You snap out of it, quickly shaking your head as you reach for your measuring tape, trying to ignore the sudden warmth creeping up your neck. “No, nothing at all. Let’s just get this done.”

Chris chuckles, but thankfully doesn’t press further. For now. You quickly move to retrieve a pair of latex gloves from your bag, slipping them on with practiced precision.

Chris raises an amused eyebrow. “You really came prepared, huh?”

You shoot him a pointed look. “Of course. This is an official product test.”

His lips twitch in amusement as he peeks into your open bag, catching a glimpse of all the testing materials. “What else do you have in there? A microscope? A lie detector?”

You ignore his teasing and pull out the measuring tape, standing straighter to compose yourself. “Alright. Let’s begin with the flaccid measurement.”

Chris doesn’t move, doesn’t make it easier for you. Instead, he watches—patient, unreadable—as you kneel slightly, positioning the measuring tape against him.

Your fingers brush against his skin through the latex, and you swear you feel the slightest twitch beneath your touch. You pretend not to notice. But Chris does.

And as the test continues, you realize that maintaining professionalism might be the hardest part of all.

You keep your focus steady, guiding the measuring tape along the length of Chris’s flaccid state. Your gloved fingers work efficiently, noting the exact numbers as you move on to measure his girth, wrapping the tape around the thickest part before finally noting the width calculation.

Chris watches you work, amusement flickering in his eyes. “How do you measure width, exactly?”

You don’t hesitate as you jot down the numbers. “You divide the girth by 3.14.”

Chris lets out a short laugh. “Huh. I used to think I wouldn’t need math in real life.”

You smirk, a little too focused on your notes when you reply, “Well, here’s a practical use of Pi for you.”

His chuckle is warm, and you don’t notice how his eyes linger on you as you make quick calculations in your notebook.

Once you’re done, you lift your head, meeting his gaze. “Alright, now I need to measure—” You stop mid-sentence as realization sets in. His fully erect size.

The complications of that request hit you all at once. Chris raises an eyebrow, clearly catching your hesitation. And for the first time, you’re at a complete loss for words.

You clear your throat, willing yourself to sound casual. “I need to take your measurements when you’re fully erect.”

Chris tilts his head slightly, studying you with quiet amusement. “And do you have any idea how to get me there?”

You keep your expression neutral. “You can look at pornographic images or watch an adult film. That should help.”

At that, Chris grins, a small chuckle escaping him. He shakes his head, clearly entertained by your clinical suggestion. “That’s one way,” he muses. “But I have a better idea.”

You don’t like the way his eyes darken ever so slightly, the playful glint in them laced with something else. You try to stay calm, but your fingers tighten around your measuring tape. “And… what’s that?”

He stalls, watching you carefully before answering. “You can help me with it.”

Chris must notice your reaction because he quickly adds, “I won’t touch you unless you give me permission.” His voice is smooth, patient, almost reassuring—but his gaze stays locked onto yours, watching your every move.

You know he’s waiting for a response but all you can think about is the weight of his words. And the heat in the way he’s looking at you. You take a steadying breath before nodding. “Okay.”

Chris’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before he speaks again, his voice firm yet gentle. “If anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me to stop.”

You nod again, not trusting your voice. He takes that as his cue, stepping closer. You hold your ground, determined to remain professional, but the moment he stops in front of you—so close that your bodies are only inches apart—you feel the heat radiating from him. And then, when you think this is where he’ll stop, he takes another step forward.

Your pulse quickens as the space between you disappears. He doesn’t touch you—not yet—but his presence alone is overwhelming. He tilts his head slightly, his mouth hovering near your neck, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Chris stays there, simply breathing you in, dragging out the tension until your mind starts to blur. Then, in a low, hushed voice, he asks, “Can I hold you?”

You look at him, startled by the rawness of his request. His gaze meets yours, unwavering, intense. “I just need to hold you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something about the way he says it—like he’s asking for permission but also making a promise—makes you nod before you can second-guess yourself.

Chris doesn’t waste time. He closes the remaining distance, his arms slipping around your waist, drawing you fully against him. The contact is intoxicating. His body is warm and solid, firm in all the right places, and you feel every inch of it pressing against you.

His breath is hot against your skin as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. The tip of his nose brushes against you, and then, slowly, his mouth follows, dragging lightly across your skin.

“You smell good,” he whispers, his voice deep, laced with something that sends shivers down your spine.

You could say the same about him. His cologne, a mix of something woodsy and subtly sweet, blends with his natural scent in a way that makes your head spin.

He’s not even doing anything—his hands remain on the small of your back, respectful, unmoving—yet the moment feels unbearably intimate. Dangerously intimate. And the worst part? It feels good. Too good.

Chris lets out a soft, teasing hum. “You know, I don’t bite.” His voice is low, velvety. “You can put your hands on me if you want.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes even as you keep your hands hovering near his shoulders. “I don’t want to.”

He chuckles, a knowing sound. “Mmm. Sure.”

And yet, as if magnetized, your hands eventually land on him. First, just your fingertips brushing against the fabric of his shirt, then your palms pressing gently against his broad shoulders. He’s solid beneath your touch, his warmth seeping through his shirt and into your skin.

Chris stays buried in your neck, breathing you in, his chest rising and falling against yours. Then, just as your heartbeat starts to slow, he leans in further, pressing his mouth to your ear.

His next words are a whisper. “Even if I did bite…” He pauses, his voice dipping lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I think you’d like it.”

You keep your head turned away, refusing to acknowledge the way his voice alone sends heat curling through your stomach.

Chris chuckles, the sound deep and rich, vibrating against your skin. You’re not sure if it’s the heat of his body or your own rising temperature, but you feel warm all over. Your first instinct is to get a space so you can cool down.

Sensing you about to pull away, he tightens his arms around your waist, keeping you close. He lifts his head just slightly, his face now barely an inch from yours. His eyes are dark, lidded, fixed on you. “Just five more minutes,” he murmurs, almost pleading.

Your breath catches. “Five minutes,” you warn.

Chris smirks before dropping his head back against your neck, exhaling deeply as if settling in. This time, he draws you even closer, molding your body against his. His fingers press lightly into your lower back, holding you there as he murmurs, “I like the way you feel against me.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Then, his head tilts slightly, his lips grazing the column of your throat as he speaks again. “So soft,” he whispers. “So warm.”

You feel his head shift, his mouth now pressing against the curve of your jaw. His voice is barely a breath. “I was right,” he murmurs almost to himself. “Your body fits me just right.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a long second, neither of you moves. His gaze flickers down—to your lips. Your breath hitches, and he looks back into your eyes again. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in.

And without thinking, you close your eyes. Your instincts pulling you deeper into the moment but your body refuses to cooperate. You shift slightly on your feet and that’s when you feel it. Something firm presses against your thigh. Your eyes snap open.

Reflexively, you break away from his hold, your hands flying up as you step back. Your gaze darts downward before you can stop yourself. And there it is. His erection. Hard, prominent, taunting you with its size.

Your eyes widen, and the moment you realize you’ve been staring, you jerk your head away, heat burning up your face.

Chris exhales, his tongue swiping over his lower lip as he watches you, amusement flickering in his gaze.

You clear your throat, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “It’s time for the measurements.”

For a split second, Chris looks almost… disappointed. But then he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he glances down at himself.

“Well,” he muses, smirking. “Guess I’m ready.”

You take a steadying breath, willing yourself to focus as you retrieve your measuring tape. Slipping back into professionalism, you kneel slightly to get a better angle, careful not to react to the sheer size of what you're working with.

Chris watches you with a smirk, his arms resting loosely at his sides. As you wrap the tape around him, he hums. “Are you always this serious?”

You glance up at him, momentarily thrown by the question. His eyes are amused, but there’s something else there—something unreadable.

“I’m working,” you say simply, jotting down the measurement in your notebook.

Chris tilts his head, watching you intently. “Still. You didn’t even flinch.” His smirk widens. “I’m kind of impressed.”

You roll your eyes, shifting to take the next measurement. “You’re not the first participant I’ve worked with.”

He chuckles at that, his voice dropping slightly. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Chris lets out a deep chuckle, shifting slightly under your touch. “So, you’re saying you do this often?” His voice is laced with playful curiosity.

You don’t look up, keeping your focus on writing down the numbers. “It’s my job.”

He hums. “Right. Your job.” There’s a pause, then a teasing edge creeps into his tone. “Do all your test subjects get this kind of personal attention?”

You snap your head up, eyes narrowing at the smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just being thorough.”

Chris bites back a grin, looking entirely too entertained by your reaction. “Thorough, huh? Should I be flattered?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you reach for your measuring tape again. “You should be cooperative.”

“Oh, I am,” he says smoothly. “But I have to admit, it’s kind of nice seeing you flustered.”

You pause for half a second—just enough for him to catch it—before quickly resuming your work. “I’m not flustered,” you mutter.

Chris chuckles again, low and knowing. “Right.” He shifts his weight slightly, and your fingers brush against his skin, making you tense. “You sure you don’t need to double-check any of those numbers? You know… just to be extra thorough?”

You shoot him a glare, but he just grins down at you, completely unbothered. You reach into your bag, pulling out one of the prototype condom packs. You hold it out to him, keeping your expression neutral. “Here. Try it on so I can check the fit.”

Chris takes the pack from your hand but doesn’t move to open it. Instead, he watches you with an amused glint in his eyes. “You know…” He tears the wrapper slowly, his fingers deliberately smooth over the material. “Since you’re the expert, shouldn’t you be the one putting it on?”

Your breath catches, and you quickly shake your head, keeping your voice steady. “I think you can manage.”

Chris lets out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Oh, I can. But wouldn’t it be more accurate if you did it? I mean, this is all in the name of research, right?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a challenge in his gaze, waiting to see how you’ll react.

You cross your arms. “Are you serious right now?”

He grins. “Completely.”

You exhale sharply, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.”

Chris sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Fine, fine.” He slides the condom out of the wrapper, still smirking. “But I have a feeling you’d do a much better job.”

You roll your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Just put it on, please?”

He chuckles again, finally following your instruction. But the way he keeps looking at you—as if he’s enjoying every second of your flustered state—tells you this won’t be the last time he teases you like this.

You take a step closer, eyes focused as you observe how the condom fits around him. Your fingers hover near, but you refrain from touching, keeping your professionalism intact.

“How does it feel?” you ask, glancing up at him.

Chris exhales slowly, rolling his hips slightly as if adjusting to the fit. “Honestly?” He looks down at himself. “It’s a little too tight.”

You immediately jot that down in your notebook. “Too tight…” you murmur, pen scratching against the paper.

“And I think it’s too short for my length,” he adds, pulling at the base slightly as if to emphasize his point.

Your eyes widen slightly before you catch yourself. You write it down quickly, nodding. “Alright, noted.”

Chris tilts his head, watching you with interest. “Are you sure you brought the right size?”

You don’t even look up as you answer, still focused on your notes. “Yes, these prototypes are all specifically made for extra-large sizes.”

Without thinking, you blurt out, “It’s your penis that’s too big.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you freeze.

Chris blinks. Then, slowly, a smirk curls on his lips. “Oh?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping into something more amused—almost smug. “So you’re saying I’m too big?”

You clutch your notebook a little tighter, willing yourself to keep your composure. “Scientifically speaking,” you emphasize, clearing your throat, “it exceeds the parameters we accounted for in development.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

You take a step back, regaining your composure as you focus on the real reason you're here. Flipping to a fresh page in your notebook, you clear your throat. "How does the material feel?" you ask, keeping your tone professional.

He glances down at himself, rolling his hips slightly as if assessing the sensation. He hums, thoughtful. "It’s… okay. Smooth, but a little tighter than I’d like. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable, just a bit restrictive."

You jot that down quickly. "Restrictive how? Like it’s compressing too much or just not flexible enough?"

Chris watches you with a smirk. "Look at you, so serious about this."

You shoot him a pointed look. "Just answer the question. Please."

He chuckles, but obliges. "I’d say both. The stretch is good, but it’s still a little snug, especially at the base. If I were to wear this for a long time, it might get uncomfortable."

You nod, scribbling notes. "Noted. What about sensitivity? Can you still feel everything, or does it dull the sensation?"

Chris leans in slightly, and you catch the glint in his eye before he speaks. "I can definitely still feel things. Though, if you really want an accurate answer, I’d have to—"

"Don't even finish that sentence," you interrupt, already knowing where he’s going with it.

Chris bursts out laughing, hands raised in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just saying, full functionality testing might be necessary."

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. "Noted," you say dryly, though you don’t actually write that one down.

Chris watches you with amusement before tilting his head. "So, what now?"

You glance at him—more specifically, at his still-erect situation—and then back at your notes. "We’ll discuss material modifications later." You pause, shifting on your feet. "But first… you should take that off."

Chris’s grin returns, playful and teasing. "You might want to turn around for this."

Rolling your eyes, you turn away just as you hear him peel the condom off while you put everything back into your bag.

A moment later, Chris has already discarded the condom and pulled his slacks back on, though his shirt remains unbuttoned at the top, his sleeves still rolled up. He leans against the desk, arms crossed, watching you with that ever-present smirk.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "What’s the verdict, Doc?"

You ignore his teasing tone and glance down at your notes. "The material needs improvement—more elasticity without sacrificing durability. The length also needs to be adjusted for better coverage. And the base should have a slightly looser fit to prevent discomfort over time."

Chris nods along, but you can tell he’s only half-listening. "So, in short, you need to make a custom size just for me."

You look up at him, unimpressed. "You're not the only man with this issue."

He grins. "No, but I bet I’m the first one to have you personally taking notes on it."

Your mouth opens, then closes. He’s not wrong, but you refuse to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. "I appreciate your participation in this test. It was helpful."

Chris’s grin softens into something more genuine. "I’m glad. I mean it. I know this is important to you."

The sincerity catches you off guard. You hesitate, then nod. "It is."

A beat of silence stretches between you, the air oddly charged. Then Chris claps his hands together. "Well, I’d say that wraps up our very professional, totally scientific evening."

You huff a small laugh despite yourself. "Sure."

Chris pushes off the desk and steps closer, his voice lowering. "And I’m assuming this stays between us?"

You meet his gaze. "Obviously."

"Good," he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before he steps back.

As you gather your things, Chris watches you with a lazy smirk, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. Just as you reach for the doorknob, he speaks up.

"You sure you don’t want another drink before you go?" His voice is smooth, almost coaxing. "I still have some left."

You glance back at him, shaking your head. "No, thanks. I have work tomorrow."

Chris tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "So do I."

"Exactly my point," you say, giving him a pointed look.

He chuckles, then raises his hands in surrender. "Alright. No more drinks. Just thought I’d offer."

You nod, gripping the strap of your bag. "I appreciate it."

Chris takes a slow step closer, his smirk softening into something unreadable. "Well then," he murmurs, "I guess I’ll see you at work."

You clear your throat, clutching your bag. "Yeah. See you."

And with that, you turn and walk out of the hotel room, acutely aware of his eyes on you the entire way.

-

The next morning, you arrive at the lab early, hoping to get a head start on your request for adjustments to the condom's materials and dimensions. You’re deep in thought, typing notes on your computer when Jane suddenly appears beside you, peering at your screen.

Her eyes narrow. "What’s this?"

You nearly jump out of your seat. "Jesus, Jane! Stop sneaking up on me like that!"

Jane ignores your reaction, leaning in closer to read. Her eyebrows lift as she scans the document. "Wait a minute... requests for material flexibility? Increased length and width?" She crosses her arms and looks at you, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Oh-ho. This is interesting."

You immediately close the document. "It’s nothing."

"Nothing?" Jane repeats, her smirk growing. "Sounds like the test subject was huge if you need to adjust everything."

You keep your face neutral. "It’s just data. The prototype wasn’t a perfect fit, so I have to make changes."

"Uh-huh," Jane says, tilting her head. "So? Who was it?"

"What?"

"Who was the guy?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "And don’t even try lying because I know you had a test subject last night."

You grab a random file from your desk, flipping through it as a distraction. "Confidential."

Jane groans dramatically. "Oh, come on! Throw me a bone here. Was he at least good-looking?"

You sigh, exasperated. "It’s not about that."

"But it is, isn't it?" Jane leans closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. "You had to see everything, didn’t you?"

You press your lips into a thin line, refusing to indulge her.

Jane gasps, then grins. "Oh my God. You totally did."

"I work in research, Jane. It’s part of my job."

She hums, clearly not buying it. "And yet, you're being all weird about it."

You shake your head, pretending to focus on your paperwork. "Just drop it."

Jane taps her chin, pretending to think. "Fine. I won’t ask any more questions." She pauses, then adds, "For now."

After lunch, the two of you step out onto the balcony before heading back to the lab. Jane lights a cigarette, taking a slow drag, while you sip on your iced coffee, letting the coolness settle in your throat. The sun is high, casting a warm glow over the city skyline, but there’s a nice breeze that makes it bearable.

“Man, I needed this,” Jane sighs, exhaling a stream of smoke. “I swear, if I have to deal with one more report about allergic reactions, I’m going to start developing a whole new drug—one for my patience.”

You chuckle, taking another sip of your coffee. “Maybe that’s the next project you should pitch.”

Jane hums in amusement, but her attention shifts suddenly. Her eyes lock on something—or someone—on the other end of the balcony. You follow her gaze and immediately spot Chris. He’s leaning against the railing, looking effortlessly put-together as always, engaged in conversation with a woman.

You recognize her instantly—Suze, the executive manager of another department. She’s beautiful, stylish, and carries an air of confidence that makes her stand out in any room. She’s also notoriously popular among the higher-ups and has a reputation for being both sharp and charming.

Jane clicks her tongue, watching the two of them. “Well, well. Looks like Miss Perfect is making her move.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

Jane gestures subtly toward them with her cigarette. “You don’t know? Suze has been eyeing Chris for a while now. Apparently, she’s been dropping hints left and right, but he’s been playing it cool.”

You turn your gaze back to the pair. Suze is smiling, leaning in slightly as she speaks. Chris listens, nodding occasionally, but his expression remains unreadable.

Jane lets out a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, they’d make a ridiculously good-looking couple. It’s almost unfair.”

You don’t respond, just watching the way Suze tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her manicured fingers brushing the lapel of Chris’s blazer ever so slightly.

Jane exhales another puff of smoke. “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. You think he’s into her?”

You shrug, keeping your voice neutral. “I wouldn’t know.”

Jane side-eyes you, smirking. “You sound like you don’t care, but I know you care.”

You scoff, finishing the last of your coffee. “I don’t.”

“Sure,” she drawls, taking one last drag before stubbing out her cigarette. “And I don’t need nicotine to survive the workday.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, we need to get back.”

But as you turn to leave, you can’t help but glance one last time at Chris and Suze. And for some reason, the sight of them together lingers in your mind longer than you’d like.

-

In the lab, you and Jane stand over a workstation where another team has been developing edible lubricants. Small sample bottles line the table, each labeled with different flavors—strawberry, vanilla, honey, and even some unconventional ones like mojito and buttered popcorn.

Jane picks up a small vial labeled “Salted Caramel” and gives it an experimental sniff. “Huh. Smells legit,” she muses before wiggling her eyebrows at you. “Wanna try some?”

You scoff. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

Jane ignores your protest and dabs a tiny drop onto her finger before popping it into her mouth. She hums in thought, smacking her lips. “Damn. That’s actually good.”

You shake your head, amused. “You do realize this is meant for other uses, right?”

“Obviously.” Jane grins before picking up another sample labeled “Piña Colada.” She dabs some onto her finger and holds it out to you. “C’mon, just one taste. For science.”

You hesitate, narrowing your eyes at her suspiciously. “You’re just trying to make me look ridiculous.”

She gasps, feigning offense. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I am a woman of integrity.”

You snort, but before you can respond, a voice cuts through the room.

“Can I talk to you?”

You turn, your breath catching slightly when you see Chris standing there. His expression is serious, his posture relaxed but purposeful.

Jane, still sucking on her finger from the piña colada lube, slowly lowers her hand and looks between the two of you. “Uh-oh. That sounds important.”

Chris doesn’t react to her comment, his gaze fixed on you.

You clear your throat. “Right now?”

He nods. “If you’re free.”

You glance at Jane, who raises both hands in surrender. “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll just be here taste-testing the entire catalog.”

Chris doesn’t wait for further response—he simply turns and heads toward the door, expecting you to follow.

You exhale sharply, setting down the sample bottle you were holding. Whatever this is about, it’s clearly not a casual chat. You throw Jane a look before heading after Chris, your heart thumping just a little harder than it should.

-

You inhale a long air before you reach Chris’s office door. After that night, you weren’t sure how it would go. Would he act like nothing happened? Would he bring it up? Would things be… weird?

Pushing those thoughts aside, you knock.

"Come in."

You step inside, closing the door behind you. Chris is at his desk, reviewing something on his laptop, but when he looks up and sees you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips.

Chris gestures to the seat across from him. "Have a seat."

You hesitate but eventually do as he says. Your fingers unconsciously tighten around the side of your lab coat.

He leans back in his chair, studying you. "How are you feeling?"

It’s a loaded question, but you pretend not to notice. "Fine. Why?"

His lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re doing. "Just checking." He nods toward your bag. "Did you review our test’s results?"

"Yes," you say, clearing your throat. "The prototype was too tight and short for your size. I’ll have to make some adjustments to the material and dimensions before moving forward with mass production."

Chris hums. "So, you’re saying I’m too big for the product."

Your fingers twitch, remembering last night’s slip-up. You keep your tone professional. "Technically, yes. The size I brought was meant for extra-large measurements, but you exceeded expectations."

Chris grins. "Exceeding expectations… I like the sound of that."

You shoot him a look. "Excuse me?"

He chuckles. "Back to business." He sits up, his expression turning a little more serious. "What’s your next step?"

"I already sent in a request for adjustments to the prototype," you explain. "It’ll take some time, but I can get an updated batch for testing soon."

Chris nods. "And when that happens, will I be your test subject again?"

You hesitate. "That depends. Are you still willing to participate?"

He tilts his head slightly. "What do you think?"

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you—calm, confident, but with something simmering beneath the surface. You look away, keeping your voice even. "I’ll keep you updated."

Chris watches you for a moment before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You know… I have to admit, that was more fun than I expected."

You raise a brow. "Testing a condom was fun?"

He chuckles. "No, but watching you try to stay professional while clearly flustered? That was fun."

Your face heats up. "I wasn’t flustered."

Chris’s smirk deepens. "Sure you weren’t."

Then, as if the weight of the conversation suddenly lightens, he tilts his head slightly. “You’ll let me know when it’s ready, right?”

His words sound casual, but there’s an underlying meaning in them that you can’t quite decipher. You nod, keeping your voice steady. “Of course.”

Chris holds your gaze for a second longer, then leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Good,” he repeats, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes your stomach flip.

-

Exactly three days later, the revised prototypes arrives in your lab. You carefully open the box, inspecting the changes you requested. The material feels smoother, the elasticity slightly improved. Satisfied, you make a note in your log—only to jump slightly when Jane suddenly leans over your shoulder.

“Length 8.07 inches and width 2.02 inches... Holy shit!” Her voice is filled with pure astonishment as she snatches one of the foil packets and flips it over in her hands. “Are you seeing this? This is huge.”

You try to stay composed, pretending to be preoccupied with the paperwork in front of you. “It’s within the expected range,” you say coolly.

Jane squints at you, then back at the condom in her hand. “Expected range, my ass. You’ve been working on this for weeks, and I’ve never seen a prototype this size before.” She pauses, then gasps dramatically. “Wait a second… did you finally find a participant?”

Your heart nearly stops. “What? No.” You shake your head, scrambling for a convincing excuse. “I just figured… why stop at extra-large when we can push the boundaries even further? There’s always a demand for more variety in the market.”

Jane eyes you suspiciously, her lips pursed. “Hmm.” She leans in closer, lowering her voice. “Are you sure you’re not hiding some secret test subject from me?”

You force a casual laugh. “Jane, I would tell you if I had someone lined up. It’s just research.”

She doesn’t seem fully convinced, but she lets out a sigh and puts the condom back. “Alright, fine. But if you do have a participant, I wanna meet him.”

You quickly turn back to your paperwork, hoping she doesn’t notice the way your ears are burning. As soon as Jane leaves, you let out a slow breath, your fingers still gripping the pen you had been pretending to write with. You wait a few moments to make sure she’s really gone before pulling out your phone.

Your thumb hovers over Chris’s contact for a second, your mind briefly flashing back to the last test, to the way he had looked at you, the way he had—

You shake the thought away and type out a quick message.

The revised prototype is ready for testing. Let me know when you’re available.

You hit send, placing your phone face-down on the desk as you try to focus on your notes. But the distraction is already there, the anticipation simmering in the back of your mind.

A few minutes pass before your phone vibrates. You glance at the screen to read a reply from Chris.

Tonight. Same place.

Your breath catches slightly. No hesitation. No pleasantries. Just straight to the point. Your fingers tighten around your phone before you type back.

Understood. See you then.

You lock your screen and exhale, pressing your hands to your warm cheeks. This is fine. It’s just a professional test. Just like last time.

…Right?

-

As the workday winds down, you keep your head low, avoiding unnecessary conversations. You wait until Jane is nowhere in sight before discreetly slipping a box of the new prototype into your bag, carefully tucking it beneath your other belongings. Just as you zip it up, your phone buzzes. You pull it out, and your stomach does an unexpected flip when you see Chris's name.

Can’t do the test tonight. Something came up.

You stare at the message, an unfamiliar twinge settling in your chest. Disappointment? No, that’s ridiculous. This is strictly professional. You quickly type out a response before you overthink it.

That’s okay. Let me know when you’re available, and we’ll reschedule.

You lock your phone and sigh, shaking off the strange feeling as you hear familiar footsteps approaching.

"Hey," Jane leans against the doorway. "Can you give me a lift again?"

You figured as much. You nod, grabbing your things, and the two of you make your way down to the parking lot.

Just as you unlock your car, Jane grabs your arm, stopping you mid-motion.

"Oh my God," she whispers excitedly, nodding toward a sleek black car a few rows away.

You follow her gaze and instantly regret it. Chris is there. But he’s not alone. Suze is with him, sliding into the passenger seat like she’s done it a hundred times before. Chris gets in right after her, and within seconds, they’re driving off together.

Jane whistles low, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk. "Damn. Guess the rumors weren’t just rumors."

You don't respond, just gripping your car keys a little tighter.

Jane, of course, doesn’t stop there. "I mean, it makes sense. She’s his type, isn’t she? Gorgeous, high-profile, and let’s be real, she’s been eyeing him for a while now. Wonder if they’re dating or just—"

"Can we go?" you interrupt, climbing into the driver's seat before Jane can read your face.

Jane laughs, sliding into the passenger seat. "Alright, alright. No need to get grumpy."

You roll your eyes, but as you start the car, you can't shake the odd heaviness in your chest. It’s none of your business. It shouldn’t bother you. But somehow… it does.

-

The entire company is in high spirits, and it doesn’t take long to remember why—tonight is the launch event for the newest collection of vibrators.

The venue is decked out with neon lights and sleek product displays, and there’s an open bar keeping everyone’s spirits high.

You mingle with your co-workers, drink in hand, while Jane, as expected, thrives in the lively atmosphere. She’s laughing, flirting, and making jokes that get progressively bolder with each sip of her cocktail.

At one point, she throws an arm around your shoulders. “This is fun, huh?” she grins.

You force a smile. “Yeah. Totally.”

It’s not that you aren’t enjoying yourself—you just need a breather.

“I’ll get you another drink,” you tell her, using it as an excuse to slip away from the group.

Jane waves you off without a second thought, already too invested in another conversation. You weave through the crowd and make your way to the bar, ordering another drink. As you wait, you take a deep breath, letting yourself relax. But before you can even take a sip—

“Hey, can we talk?”

The familiar deep voice makes you turn, and there stands Chris, looking effortlessly sharp in his suit. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked onto you with intent.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Chris doesn’t wait for an answer—he just reaches for your wrist and leads you away from the crowd.

Your pulse jumps as he guides you through the party, his grip firm yet careful. The noise fades behind you as he takes you into a quiet hallway, away from the music, the laughter, and most importantly—prying eyes.

Finally, he stops, turning to face you. His gaze is steady, searching.

Your heart beats a little too fast. “What is this about?” you ask, your voice steady despite the rush of emotions swirling inside you.

Chris exhales, running a hand through his hair before finally meeting your eyes. “Sorry about bailing on you last night,” he says, his voice softer now. “Something came up.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine. We can do it another time.”

There’s a brief silence between you. The muffled sounds of the party filter in from the other end of the hallway, but here, in this secluded space, it feels like the two of you are in your own little world.

Then Chris asks, “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

“I—uh—” You hesitate, quickly running through your mental calendar, but there’s nothing. “No, not really.”

Chris grins at that. “Good. Let’s do the product test tomorrow. Saturday night.”

You weren’t expecting that. The way he says it so casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, throws you off. But before you even fully process it, you find yourself nodding.

“Okay,” you agree, your voice quieter than you intended.

His smile lingers as he pushes off the wall, standing tall in front of you. “I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

You nod again, almost dazed, and Chris watches you for a second longer before he turns to leave. Just as he’s a few steps away, he glances back, his voice dropping slightly. “Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

And with that, he walks away, disappearing into the crowd. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You definitely need another drink. Or at least a moment to breathe.

-

Your phone buzzes early Saturday morning, and when you check the screen, it’s a text from Chris.

Dinner first. 7 PM. La Riviera.

That’s it. No unnecessary words, no emojis—just the time and place. You stare at the message longer than you probably should.

Dinner? This wasn’t how the last test went. You were expecting another hotel, another quick, professional meeting. But a restaurant?

You shake your head, telling yourself not to overthink it. It’s probably just to discuss the test before getting into it. But despite that rationalization, you catch yourself preparing more than you intended to.

Your outfit selection takes longer than it should, your makeup is a little more put together, and even when you tell yourself it’s just because you’re stepping out for the evening—not because of who you’re meeting—you know it’s a lie.

You arrive at La Riviera a little before 7 PM, taking a deep breath before stepping inside. The restaurant is elegant but not overwhelmingly fancy—warm lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and the faint aroma of wine and freshly baked bread filling the air and then you spot him.

Chris is already seated, dressed in a casual formal ensemble. A dark button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to tease his forearms, paired with tailored slacks. The contrast between the deep color of his shirt and his pale skin is striking, and for a second, you almost forget why you’re here.

His eyes find yours almost instantly, and he smiles, standing up slightly as you approach. “Glad you made it.”

You sit across from him, suddenly feeling a little nervous because this—this doesn’t feel like a business meeting at all. The dim lighting, the quiet atmosphere, the way he leans slightly forward as he watches you—it feels like a date.

Dinner starts off casually enough, but then Chris begins asking you questions.

“Are you seeing anyone right now?”

His question catches you off guard, but you answer by shaking your head, then throw it back at him. When you ask if he’s seeing someone, he hums, picking up his wine glass. “I am.”

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Is it Suze?”

Chris freezes mid-sip, then lowers his glass, blinking at you. “Suze?”

You instantly regret your brashness, but it’s too late now. You clear your throat, trying to sound indifferent. “Yeah. You two seem close, and the rumor said—”

“The rumor.” Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course.”

You watch as he leans back in his seat, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And what exactly did the rumor say?”

You shift in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. “Just… that Suze and you are close.”

Chris tilts his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And do you believe everything the rumor says?”

You purse your lips, looking away. “Not everything.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and amused. “Well, for the record, Suze and I are not a thing. She’s a great colleague, but that’s it.”

You should feel relieved—it’s not like you care who he’s seeing—but something about his tone makes you wary. You meet his eyes again. “Then who’s the someone you’re seeing?”

Chris doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his wine, watching you over the rim of his glass. The silence stretches just long enough to make your stomach twist. Then, finally, he sets his glass down and leans in slightly, his voice lower now. “You.”

Your heart skips a beat and a second later, you blink. “Me?”

Chris grins, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Well, we are having dinner together, aren’t we?”

Your lips part, but no words come out. He’s messing with you—he has to be. You try to regain your composure, clearing your throat. “This is a business meeting.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, his fingers casually tapping against the stem of his glass. “Is it?”

You open your mouth to say yes, obviously, but the way he’s looking at you—the way tonight feels—makes you hesitate. The air between you shifts, heavy with something unspoken.

Chris tilts his head. “Tell me… if I didn’t bring up the product test, would you still be here?”

Your stomach twists again. You don’t know how to answer that. You feel your pulse quicken, the weight of his question pressing down on you. Instead of answering, you grab your napkin and mutter, “I—I need to use the restroom.”

Chris doesn’t stop you. He just leans back in his seat, watching with quiet amusement as you push your chair back and walk away, your heart pounding with every step.

The moment you step into the restroom, you grip the edge of the sink and take a deep breath. What the hell was that?

You turn on the faucet, letting the cool water run over your hands as if it’ll help clear your thoughts. This was supposed to be a simple dinner before the product test—so why does it feel like he’s pulling you into something else entirely? And worse, why aren’t you stopping him?

You glance at yourself in the mirror, your reflection betraying the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. No matter how much you try to convince yourself that this is just work, that Chris is just teasing, something about the way he looks at you makes it hard to believe that. You take another breath, steadying yourself. Just go back out there and keep it professional.

Easier said than done.

-

The car ride is quiet, but the tension between you is thick. You grip the hem of your dress, feeling the fabric twist between your fingers as you steal glances at Chris. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. His sleeves are rolled up again, exposing the strong lines of his forearms, and it takes everything in you not to stare. Then, you notice something. The hotel he took you to last time—the one you were expecting—flashes past the window.

“Wait,” you blurt out, turning to him. “You just passed the hotel.”

Chris doesn’t look surprised. In fact, he grins slightly, eyes still on the road. “Yeah, I know.”

Your brows furrow. “Then where are we going?”

“I know a nicer hotel,” he says smoothly, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Then, as if reading your thoughts, he adds, “It’s not like you have anything to do tomorrow, right?”

No, you don’t. But the way he phrases it—like it’s already decided—sends a shiver down your spine.

Chris glances at you then, his gaze flickering down to your hands still gripping your dress. His smirk softens, but his voice is just as teasing when he says, “Relax. It’s just for the test, remember?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to loosen your grip. But you’re not sure if it’s his words or the way he says them that make your pulse race even more.

Chris pulls into the hotel’s driveway, the warm glow of the entrance lights reflecting off the sleek surface of his car. You step out, adjusting your dress as you follow him inside, your heart pounding a little too fast.

The lobby is luxurious, far more upscale than the previous hotel. The marble floors gleam under the chandelier lights, and the air is filled with a faint scent of expensive cologne and polished wood. You try not to fidget as Chris approaches the front desk.

“One suite, please,” he says smoothly.

Your head snaps toward him. “A suite?”

Chris doesn’t even glance at you, just slides his card across the counter to the receptionist. “Yeah.” Then, finally, he looks at you, an amused glint in his eyes. “Problem?”

You hesitate, glancing between him and the receptionist, who remains professional as she processes the request. You don’t know why you expected anything less from Chris—of course, he wouldn’t settle for a standard room. But a suite?

“I just thought…” You trail off, pressing your lips together.

Chris leans in slightly, voice low enough that only you can hear. “If we’re testing a product, shouldn’t we have more space to move around?”

Your breath catches at the implication, and he chuckles at your reaction before straightening up, accepting the key card from the receptionist. “Let’s go.”

You follow him into the elevator in silence, gripping the strap of your bag tighter than necessary. The numbers on the display climb higher, the anticipation pressing down on you.

When the doors finally slide open, Chris gestures for you to step out first. You do, walking down the plush carpeted hallway until he stops in front of a door and swipes the key card. The lock clicks open.

He pushes the door wide and turns to you with a smirk. “After you.”

You hesitate for just a second before stepping inside, and as the door closes behind you, you realize just how different tonight already feels.

Instead of taking a tour around the room, you hurriedly take a seat on the sofa, your hands clasped together as you watch Chris move around the suite with ease, like he belongs here. The room is larger than you expected—modern, sleek, and far too intimate.

Your nerves start creeping in, tightening your shoulders. It’s not that you haven’t done this before, but something about tonight feels… different. More deliberate. More dangerous.

Chris, on the other hand, looks completely at ease as he wanders over to the minibar, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the complimentary bottle of champagne. He plucks it from its ice bucket and grins. “Perfect timing.”

You watch as he peels off the foil and works the cork loose. “You don’t have to open that—”

Pop!

The cork flies off, the sudden noise making you jump. Chris bursts into laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Relax,” he drawls, pouring the golden liquid into two glasses. “You’re acting like this is your first time in a hotel room with me.”

You press your lips together, refusing to respond to that, and instead accept the glass he offers you. He raises his in a toast, his voice smooth. “To… scientific research.”

You huff a small laugh despite yourself and clink your glass against his before taking a sip. The champagne fizzes pleasantly on your tongue, cool and crisp.

But then—

“You know,” Chris muses, swirling his drink, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were nervous. Maybe even a little flustered. But that can’t be right, can it?”

You shoot him a glare. “I’m not—”

And then it happens. Your fingers slip, and in your haste to retort, your glass tips forward, sending a splash of champagne straight down the front of your dress. The cold liquid soaks through the fabric instantly, making you gasp.

Chris freezes for a second, then— He bursts out laughing. You groan, setting your glass down as you grab a napkin from the table, dabbing at the wet stain. But it’s useless. The fabric clings to your skin, highlighting every curve.

He leans back against the minibar, arms crossed, watching you with open amusement. “Well,” he says, biting back another chuckle, “if you wanted to take your dress off, you could’ve just asked.”

His laughter still lingers in the air as he moves across the room, casually plucking a plush bathrobe from the hotel’s wardrobe. He turns to you, holding it up like a peace offering, his grin unrepentant.

“Here,” he says. “You can’t just sit around in a wet dress all night.”

You hesitate, gripping the damp fabric clinging to your skin. It’s uncomfortable, borderline unbearable—but the idea of slipping into a hotel bathrobe, of making yourself even remotely comfortable here, feels dangerous.

Still, you don’t have much choice. With a sigh, you accept the robe and head toward the spacious en-suite bathroom. Just as you’re about to close the door behind you, a shadow appears in the doorway.

Chris. You look up in confusion, but he leans against the doorframe, completely unfazed by your reaction. “Want some help?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, completely at ease. “I mean, it only makes sense, doesn’t it? You need me ready for the test, and I need a little… encouragement. Two birds, one stone.”

You gape at him, caught between indignation and sheer disbelief. “You—”

Chris lifts both hands in mock surrender, though there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Just a suggestion.”

Your fingers tighten around the door handle, and for a second, you actually consider slamming the door in his face. But then reality kicks in—the sooner you finish this test, the sooner you can leave.

With a deep breath, you step back and pull the door open just a little wider. “Fine.”

Chris blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to agree so quickly. Then, a slow smirk curves his lips as he steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

-

The bathroom feels smaller with Chris standing behind you, the soft glow of the vanity lights casting both of your reflections in the mirror. You keep your gaze locked on yourself, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his body as he reaches for the zipper at the back of your dress.

His fingers brush against your skin as he tugs it down, agonizingly slow, and the air shifts—suddenly heavier, thicker. The fabric loosens around your shoulders, slipping slightly, exposing more of your back. “You’re tense,” he murmurs, his voice low.

You grip the edge of the counter, willing yourself to focus on anything but the way his fingers ghost over your spine as he eases the zipper all the way down. “I wonder why,” you say dryly.

Chris chuckles, the sound vibrating so close that you can feel it. He places his hands lightly on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the bare skin there. “Relax,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “It’s just a dress.”

Just a dress. Just a simple, professional test. You exhale and let the straps slide off your shoulders, the silky fabric pooling at your feet. The cool air kisses your exposed skin, making you shiver slightly. You’re left in nothing but your underwear, standing there in front of him, vulnerable yet unwilling to let it show.

Chris doesn’t move right away. His gaze flickers up to meet yours in the mirror, something unreadable swimming in his dark eyes.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you crackles with unspoken tension. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Chris finally steps back, his lips quirking into that knowing smirk.

“There,” he says, voice softer now. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He grabs a clean washcloth, dampens it with warm water, and steps closer. You watch him through the mirror as he wrings out the excess water, his sleeves already rolled up, revealing his forearms.

“This might be a little cold,” he says, but before you can react, he presses the cloth against your bare shoulder, wiping away the sticky remnants of wine.

You inhale sharply—not because of the temperature, but because of the slow, deliberate way he drags the cloth down your arm, over your collarbone, and lower. His touch is gentle, almost too careful, as if he’s savoring every second of this moment.

“You have nice skin,” he muses, his voice taking on that teasing lilt. “Soft… delicate...”

You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter. “Chris.”

“What?” He tilts his head, eyes dark with amusement as he crouches slightly, now running the damp cloth along your side. “I’m just making an observation. It’s not every day I get to admire my researcher up close.”

You shoot him a glare through the mirror. “I don’t recall this being part of the test.”

He grins, completely unbothered. “No, but it’s a nice bonus.”

The cloth moves lower, skimming along the curve of your waist, across your stomach. His knuckles brush against your ribs, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s intentionally slowing down.

“You’re staring,” you point out, trying to sound unaffected.

Chris doesn’t even try to deny it. “Can you blame me?” He leans in just slightly, his breath warm against the back of your neck. “You look incredible.”

Your pulse jumps. You keep your eyes on the mirror, on the way his hands move with too much ease, too much familiarity. The way his gaze lingers, dark and intense. It feels too intimate. Too much.

You clear your throat, shifting your weight. “Are you done?”

Chris smirks, but he finally straightens up, tossing the cloth into the sink. “Yeah,” he says, stepping back. “For now.”

Before you can even react, Chris's hands grip your waist, and in one swift motion, he lifts you onto the sink. A surprised gasp escapes you as your palms press against the counter for balance. "Chris—"

"I'm not done yet," he interrupts smoothly, already crouching in front of you, the wet cloth in hand.

Your heart skips a beat as he starts wiping down your legs, his touch slow, precise, like he's savoring every second. He starts at your ankle, dragging the warm cloth up the length of your calf, then to your knee, and higher still. His fingers brush against your thigh, sending a shiver up your spine.

Your entire body feels like it's on high alert. "You don’t have to—"

"Shh," he hums, amusement flickering in his eyes as he continues. "Let me do this properly."

You press your lips together, watching him through the reflection on the shower glass door. He looks entirely too focused, like this is some kind of ritual for him. And then, just as he finishes, he does something you don’t expect. He parts your legs.

Your breath catches as he steps between them, standing so close that his body heat seeps into your skin. His hands rest on the counter beside you, effectively caging you in. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t move any closer, just lingers there—his chest barely an inch from yours, his face so close that you can see the flicker of something dark in his eyes.

The air between you shifts, thickening with something unspoken. You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when Chris is looking at you like that—like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s daring you to react.

"Chris," you murmur, unsure of what you’re even asking for.

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. His voice is low, teasing. "Nervous?"

You straighten your shoulders, meeting Chris’s intense gaze with as much composure as you can muster. "No," you say firmly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "No?"

All of a sudden, his hands grip your waist again, and with one sharp tug, he pulls you flush against him. The sudden contact knocks the air from your lungs—his body is solid, warm, pressing into you in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how close you are.

"Don't be shy," he murmurs, his voice edged with challenge. "Go ahead and put your hands on me."

You hesitate, feeling the weight of his expectation hanging in the air. Then, awkwardly, you lift your arms, wrapping them around his broad shoulders.

Chris watches you the entire time, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Good girl."

Before you can process those words, he moves again—this time gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting them, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. The position forces you even closer, your core pressed right against the hardness growing beneath his pants. His arms snake around you, locking you in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear.

"You feel so damn good," he murmurs, his voice like silk against your skin. "Better than I even imagined."

Your fingers tighten on his shoulders, a shudder running down your spine at his words. And then—he moves.

Slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips against you. The pressure is subtle at first, almost teasing, but the friction sends a wave of heat straight through your core. He does it again, this time with more intent, dragging his clothed length against you in a way that makes your breath hitch.

"You like that?" he whispers, his lips brushing your ear.

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, your body tensing against his. You don’t answer, but Chris doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, your silence only encourages him. He grinds against you again, this time slower, more drawn out, savoring the way your body reacts to him. A quiet groan rumbles in his chest as he buries his face into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel perfect," he breathes.

You swallow hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it's slipping fast. The way he’s moving, the way he’s talking—it's intoxicating.

Chris pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. "Tell me to stop," he challenges, voice low and husky. "If you want me to."

He watches you, waiting, his lips hovering just a breath away from your skin. His body stays pressed against yours, his hands firm on your waist, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself sink into the sensation.

The warmth of his breath against your neck, the intoxicating way his body molds against yours—it’s dangerously easy to forget why you're here. You close your eyes, allowing yourself just one more second of indulgence. One more second of feeling him. But then—an alarm rings in your head.

Reality crashes down on you like a wave of cold water. Your eyes snap open, and with a quiet breath, you press your hands against his chest, gently pushing him away. Chris hesitates for a fraction of a second before letting you go, his gaze flickering with something unreadable as you quickly slip down from the sink.

The heat of his body is gone instantly, but the lingering effect still pulses through your veins. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to move, to ground yourself back in the real reason you’re here.

You grab the bathrobe and hurriedly wrap it around yourself, securing the belt tighter than necessary. You can feel Chris’s eyes on you the entire time, silently watching, waiting for you to say something.

You clear your throat. "It’s time for the test," you say, your voice firmer than you expected.

Chris exhales a quiet chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he takes a step back. "Right," he murmurs, amusement laced in his voice. "The test."

There’s something in the way he says it—like he knows exactly what just happened between the two of you. Like he knows how close you were to completely surrendering but he doesn’t push.

Instead, he watches as you gather yourself, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Alright," he says, taking a step toward the door. "Let’s get started."

-

Despite dressed in a bathrobe, you clear your throat and slip back into professionalism as you grab the pack of condoms from your bag. Without looking at him, you extend your hand, offering one of the revised prototypes.

Chris takes it from you with a small, amused hum. "Let’s see how this one goes, then."

As you make a move to turn around and step out of the room to give him privacy, his voice stops you.

"You can stay," he says, his tone casual but carrying that underlying teasing edge. "It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before."

You pause mid-step, fingers tightening slightly on your notebook. That’s true, but it doesn’t make it any less… distracting.

Still, you force yourself to act unfazed. You shift back to your previous spot, keeping your eyes locked on your notes as Chris continues undressing. The sound of fabric rustling fills the room, and when you finally glance up, your breath nearly catches.

The first time you saw him naked, he’d still had his shirt on. But this time, he’s taken everything off. Completely bare. Your grip tightens around your pen as you force yourself to maintain a neutral expression. But your eyes… they betray you. They keep flickering downward, drawn helplessly to the sheer size of him. It’s eye-catching, unfairly so, and despite your best efforts, you keep stealing glances.

Chris notices. Of course, he does. He smirks as he tears open the condom wrapper and then— "Want to put it on for me this time?"

You snap your head up, shooting him an unimpressed look. Without dignifying his question with a response, you roll your eyes and immediately focus on writing down the preliminary details of the product test.

He chuckles but doesn’t push. He sits down at the edge of the bed, takes the condom, and rolls it down his length with practiced ease. Your eyes flicker toward him again—just for a second—but it's enough for him to catch you looking.

You quickly redirect your gaze back to your notes. "How does it feel?" you ask, voice all business.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back slightly, spreading his legs just a little as he looks down at himself, inspecting the way the condom fits around his length.

You keep your eyes on your notebook, pen poised over the page, but your fingers are tense around it. Your pulse is unsteady.

"It feels better than the last one," Chris finally says, his tone casual, though there’s a smirk playing on his lips. "Not as tight. And the length is better, too."

You nod, quickly jotting down his feedback, willing yourself to focus on the task and not on the fact that he’s sitting there, completely naked, completely unbothered.

"The material feels smoother," he continues, running a hand along his length, testing the stretch. You don’t dare look up. "Not too thick, but sturdy enough."

You scribble his words down, keeping your head low.

Chris hums. "You’re really not gonna look, huh?"

Your grip on your pen tightens. "I don’t need to look. I just need your feedback."

"Right," he drawls, clearly amused. "And what if I had trouble putting it on? You wouldn’t have helped me?"

You finally glance up, rolling your eyes. "You’re a grown man, Chris."

He grins. "I know, but isn’t this a part of product testing? Hands-on research?"

You shoot him a glare, but he just chuckles, leaning forward slightly. "Relax," he says, voice low and teasing. "I’m just messing with you."

You sigh, shaking your head as you jot down the final notes. "If the fit feels good, then we can move on to the next phase of testing."

Chris tilts his head. "The durability test?"

You meet his gaze, keeping your expression neutral. "Yes."

A slow smirk spreads across his face. "I’m looking forward to it."

You walk back to your bag resting in a chair, you pull out the box of condoms from your bag and hand it to Chris, keeping your expression professional. “For the durability test, you can conduct it yourself and come back to me with your feedback.”

Chris blinks at you, clearly confused. He glances down at the box in his hands, then back at you. “Wait… what?”

You arch a brow. “You don’t need me for that part. Just use it and let me know how it holds up.”

Chris leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “I thought we agreed to keep this a secret.”

“We are,” you reply evenly. “Your sexual partner doesn’t have to know the condom you’re using.”

His eyes narrow slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I thought you and I were doing this together.”

“We are,” you say, nodding. “Just… not that way.”

Chris lets out a low sigh, tilting his head as he studies you. Then, after a pause, he says, “Isn’t it better if we do it together?”

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “Chris—”

He leans in slightly, voice lowering. “That way, I can give you feedback right away. No outside variables. Just you and me.” His gaze lingers on yours, unreadable yet intense. “And this stays between us.”

You exhale sharply, trying to keep your composure. “Chris, that’s not how this works.”

Chris smirks, tilting his head. “Why not?” He taps the box of condoms against his palm, his eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re the researcher. I’m the participant. Wouldn’t it be more efficient if we tested it… together?”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms. “That’s not how clinical testing works.”

His smirk widens. “Oh? And what exactly is stopping you?” He leans in, his voice dropping just slightly. “Are you scared?”

Your jaw tightens. “I’m not scared.”

“Then why not?” His gaze flicks over you, studying your reaction. “You’ve already seen everything. Touched, even. What’s one more step?”

You scoff. “There are plenty of reasons why.”

Chris hums, pretending to think. “Is it because you’re not attracted to me?” His grin turns playful. “Because I don’t believe that.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

He leans even closer, just enough for you to catch the faintest scent of his cologne. “Or…” he murmurs, “is it because you are?”

That catches you off guard. His smirk deepens at your silence, clearly enjoying the way he has you cornered. You swallow, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact.

“It’s because we work together,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Chris lets out a low hum, tilting his head. “So it’s not because you don’t want to?”

You exhale sharply. “That’s not what I—”

He takes a slow step forward, closing the small space between you. “Because if that’s the only reason stopping you,” he murmurs, “then it’s not really a reason, is it?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Chris, workplace relationships are complicated.”

His smirk softens just slightly. “Who said anything about a relationship?”

You blink your eyes at him, nonplussed.

He chuckles at your reaction, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m just talking about product testing.” He lifts the box of condoms slightly, as if to emphasize his point. “Two consenting adults conducting a private experiment.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re relentless.”

Chris grins. “I just don’t like wasting good opportunities.” He taps the box against his palm again. “And you can’t tell me you’re not at least curious.”

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you—like he already knows the answer.

“Look,” he says, his voice softer now, more coaxing. “This doesn’t have to be anything more than product testing. No strings. No expectations. Just a controlled experiment.” He lifts the box of condoms slightly, as if to emphasize the professionalism of it all.

You let out a slow breath, glancing away. Every rational part of you is screaming that this is a bad idea, that this is crossing a line. But then there’s the way Chris is looking at you, the way your body still remembers the way he felt pressed against you in the bathroom, the way your curiosity is getting the better of you.

You press your lips together, weighing your options. “Just product testing,” you repeat, as if saying it out loud will make it less dangerous.

Chris nods, his expression unreadable. “Just product testing.”

Another beat of silence. Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you slowly nod. “Okay.”

The corner of Chris’s mouth tugs upward, a slow, knowing smile. “Good.” He takes a step closer, his voice dropping just slightly. “Shall we begin?”

-

It's unclear how long you've been standing there, unsure on how to do this, or even to process that you, a researcher, are about to conduct a durability test on your product with your participant.

Chris watches you for a moment, then leans back on the bed, his legs slightly spread as he gestures toward you. “Take off the bathrobe,” he says, his voice smooth, assured. “Then sit next to me.”

Your fingers tighten around the edges of the fabric, hesitation gripping you, but you remind yourself—this is just a test. Just product testing.

Slowly and awkwardly, you untie the robe, letting it slip from your shoulders, revealing your body with your matching underwear covering your private bits. The cool air of the room prickles against your skin as you step toward the bed and lower yourself beside him. Your heart is pounding so loudly that you barely register the way Chris shifts, turning toward you.

A moment later, his hand reaches for your face, his fingertips grazing your cheek. Instinctively, you squeeze your eyes shut.

Chris chuckles, low and warm. “Why so nervous?” he teases, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You’ve been so composed this whole time… but now?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain is barely functioning. His touch is gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath warm as he leans in. Your lips part slightly, bracing for a kiss—

But instead, he presses his lips to your closed eyelid. Your breath stutters, the unexpected tenderness sending a shiver down your spine. Then he moves, kissing the other eyelid, his lips soft and lingering.

A small sound escapes you before you can stop it, a quiet moan slipping from your parted lips and that’s when Chris takes the opening, tilting his head and capturing your mouth in a deep, heated kiss.

Chris deepens the kiss, his lips moving slowly, deliberately, as if savoring every second. His hand drifts from your face, down the slope of your neck, skimming the curve of your shoulder before sliding further down. His fingers find the strap of your bra, tracing it lightly before slipping it off your shoulder.

Your breath catches as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and firm, grounding you even as your mind spins. He kisses you deeper, his tongue brushing against yours, coaxing you further into the moment.

Then, with practiced ease, he reaches behind you, fingers deftly working the clasp of your bra. The fabric loosens, and he slowly pulls it away, his lips never leaving yours as he discards it to the side.

Chris shifts, guiding you backward onto the bed, his body following as he hovers over you. His hands smooth over your sides, his touch steady but unhurried, as if giving you time to stop him if you wanted to. But you don’t.

His fingers trail down to the waistband of your underwear, teasing along the edge before he hooks his fingers under the fabric. He pulls back just slightly, his dark eyes searching yours, silently asking for permission.

And when you give him the smallest nod, he slides them down, the slow drag of fabric sending a shiver up your spine. He discards them just as he did with your bra, then settles back over you, his body warm against yours.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze dark and intense, his lips slightly parted as if taking in the sight of you beneath him. Then he leans down again, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below your jaw, his lips trailing lower as his hands explore your body, mapping every inch of you. Your lips, your neck, your breasts and the way they fit his hands as if they were made for him. The dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, the ample flesh of your ass cheek. Then, there’s the miles and miles of soft skin, endlessly enthralling him.

Your body tenses beneath him, your hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders. “Chris, I don’t think you’ll fit,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heartbeat.

He stops, lifting his head to look at you, and for a brief moment, you catch the amusement flickering in his dark eyes. Then he lets out a soft chuckle, his fingers coming up to gently brush your cheek. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs. “Just relax.”

His touch is warm, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. Then, with ease, he presses you back against the pillows, his weight hovering over you but not pressing down. He leans in, capturing your lips in another kiss—this time softer, slower, as if coaxing the tension out of you with every gentle movement.

His mouth leaves yours, traveling downward, leaving a heated trail along your jaw, your neck. His lips linger at your collarbone, pressing a kiss there before continuing lower. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you as he moves further down, his lips grazing the center of your chest, the valley between your breasts and then a quick lick on each of your hardening nipples.

You try to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when he’s kissing down your stomach, his hands sliding along your sides, feeling, exploring. He’s deliberate with every touch, every kiss, giving you time to ease into the moment.

“Mmh... You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice hushed, almost reverent. Then he continues, his mouth mapping a path further down, his hands parting your thighs as he settles between them.

Chris lingers at the curve of your hip, pressing slow, deliberate kisses against your skin. His hands trail down your thighs, his touch both firm and teasing. You shudder as he parts them further, settling between them with an air of confidence that makes your pulse race.

He looks up at you through hooded eyes, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Still nervous?” he asks, his voice husky.

You don’t answer—not because you don’t want to, but because the moment his lips press against your inner thigh, all coherent thoughts slip from your mind. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a ripple of anticipation through you.

Chris lands his plush lips on your cunt, his tongue skillfully part your folds so he can drown in your wetness. This time, his mouth moving in lazy, unhurried strokes. Every kiss, every brush of his full lips, sets your skin alight. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you still as he delves deeper, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate patterns that have your fingers digging into the sheets.

A soft gasp escapes your lips as he finds the right spot, his rhythm precise, purposeful. Your body arches instinctively, a rush of warmth flooding through you as the sensation builds. Chris hums against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure rolling through your body.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his tongue moving with a practiced ease that leaves you breathless. Your hand flies to his hair, gripping onto him as the pressure inside you coils tighter and tighter. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s relentless, determined to pull every last bit of pleasure from you.

Your head tilts back against the pillow, your lips parting on a shaky moan as your body gives in, waves of sensation crashing over you in a slow, intoxicating release. Chris doesn’t move away immediately—he lingers, pressing one last, lingering kiss against on your clit before finally pulling back, his hands smoothing up your trembling thighs.

He looks up at you, his lips glistening, a satisfied smirk curving them. “See?” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement. “Told you to relax.”

Chris hovers over you, his hand smoothing over your thigh as he positions himself at your entrance. His gaze drags over your body, dark and hooded with desire. He exhales a slow breath, his fingers tracing lazy circles into your skin.

“You’re right. You're so little,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice filled with something close to awe. His hands roam over your waist, your hips, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you beneath him.

Chris takes one look at his cock, making sure the condom is still snug around him before he gives it a few pumps as if it's not hard, stiff enough. He takes your legs and puts them over his waist as he positions himself in between.

The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as he slowly pushes forward, just the tip stretching you open, and a sharp gasp escapes your lips. A sudden twinge of discomfort has you clenching around him, your hands gripping onto his arms as you mewl softly in protest.

“Chris, I—” You can't even finish your sentence as the sudden sensation surges through you.

Chris stops immediately, his brows knitting together as he watches you, his fingers stroking soothingly along your thigh. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice gentle, “breathe.”

But even with just that little bit inside you, the feeling is overwhelming. A shiver runs down your spine as you try to adjust, your body tightening involuntarily. Your breaths come in shaky pants, heat blooming from where your bodies connect.

Chris watches you intently, eyes never leaving your face as he shifts slightly, and suddenly, a sharp pleasure shoots through you, unexpected and electric. Your back arches off the bed as a strangled moan escapes your lips, your body quivering around him. The pressure, the stretch—it’s too much, yet somehow, it sends a rush of pleasure so intense that your body trembles beneath him.

Chris stills, his expression flickering with surprise before it melts into amusement. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips as he watches the way you writhe beneath him, helpless against the sensation.

“You came just from that?” he muses, his thumb brushing over your hip in lazy circles. “That’s cute.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, embarrassment and lingering pleasure making your body feel even more sensitive. Chris chuckles softly, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against your parted lips before whispering, “Guess we’ll have to take our time, won’t we?”

Chris stays still for a moment, his warmth pressed against your back as he lets you catch your breath. His arms tighten around you slightly, anchoring you to him as he presses a lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder. You’re still trembling, body sensitive and flushed from your sudden release.

He exhales softly, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You okay?” His voice is low, gentle.

You nod, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. The feeling of him still inside you, filling you completely, makes you shudder.

Chris shifts behind you, adjusting the way he’s holding you. His arm is draped over your waist, fingers spread over your stomach, grounding you. His other hand smooths over your thigh, soothing, patient.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks, voice laced with restraint, as if he’s willing to stop if you say no.

To his surprise, you whisper, “Yes.”

A deep, quiet groan rumbles from his chest, and you feel his fingers flex against your skin. His lips press into the curve of your neck before he moves again, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. The stretch burns slightly, but the pleasure laced in it makes your breath hitch.

Chris moves carefully, his thrusts slow and deep, keeping you flush against him as he spoons you. His hand trails from your breasts, to your stomach, splaying over your skin as if he wants to feel every reaction, every tremor that ripples through you.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice breathless against your ear. His pace remains steady, each push and pull measured, sending waves of heat through your body.

Your hands grip onto his arm, holding onto him as pleasure coils low in your stomach once again. Every movement is intimate, every breath shared in the quiet space between you. Chris’s lips ghost over your shoulder, his soft grunts vibrating against your skin as he continues to move within you, drawing out every ounce of pleasure he can.

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, pressed against him so completely, you find yourself lost in the way he makes you feel—like you were meant to fit together like this.

Chris’s breath is hot against your ear as he leans in, his voice dropping into a husky whisper. “Feels good,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing your skin. “Fits just right… but I think it could be thinner. Let me feel you more.”

His slow, deliberate thrusts send a shiver through you, your body tightening around him in response. He chuckles, the sound deep and breathless. “You like that, don’t you?” He presses a lingering kiss to your jaw, his hand gripping your hip to keep you steady as he rolls into you again, deeper this time.

You don’t answer, too lost in the pleasure unfurling inside you. Chris doesn’t mind. He continues to move, the tension building between you both. “Maybe I should test a few more,” he muses between ragged breaths, his voice laced with amusement. “Make sure we get it just right.”

His words make you whimper, and he groans in response. “You’re so cute moaning like that,” he breathes, his pace quickening as he nears his peak. His grip on you tightens, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic. The coil in your stomach tightens, and before you know it, you’re coming again, your body tensing as waves of pleasure crash over you.

Chris groans against your neck, his hips stuttering as he follows right behind you. His grip on you never loosens, holding you close as he spills into the condom, his breath warm and heavy against your skin.

For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your breaths mingling. Chris presses a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before shifting, turning you gently onto your back so he can look at you. His dark eyes flick over your face, taking in your dazed expression before he leans down, kissing you deeply.

When he pulls back, a smirk tugs at his lips. Then, he reaches for the duvet at the foot of the bed and carefully pulls it over both of you, tucking it around your bare body. The warmth is instant, but not nearly as comforting as the way he wraps himself around you right after.

His arms tighten around your waist, drawing you flush against his chest. His breath is warm against the back of your neck as he settles in, his lips barely grazing your skin. For a while, neither of you speak. The rise and fall of your breaths eventually sync, the exhaustion from the night settling into your limbs. Just as your eyes begin to flutter shut, his voice breaks the silence—low, drowsy, and laced with something softer than usual.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, the word barely more than a breath against your skin.

For a moment, you hesitate, but then, in the safety of the dimly lit room and the comfort of his arms, you whisper back, “Goodnight.”

Chris hums in contentment, tightening his hold just slightly before finally allowing himself to drift off to sleep.

-

The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the hotel suite. Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you're disoriented—until the sound of running water brings everything back.

Chris is in the shower.

Your stomach tightens as memories from last night flood in, and instinct kicks in. You need to leave. Carefully, you slip out of bed, scanning the room for your clothes. But just as you reach for your bag, the bathroom door swings open, and there he stands—his hair damp, beads of water clinging to his toned skin, a white towel hanging dangerously low around his hips. You freeze in place.

Chris notices your reaction and grins. "Unless you want to walk out of the hotel naked, I don’t think you’re going anywhere."

Your brows furrow in confusion as he tilts his head toward the chair. "I sent your dress for dry cleaning."

Your lips part in disbelief. "You what?"

Chris walks up to you, holding out a plush bathrobe. “Relax. It'll be back soon.” He doesn’t just hand it to you—he steps closer, draping it over your shoulders and helping you slip your arms through the sleeves, his touch far too gentle for how casual he's acting.

"Go shower," he tells you, his voice softer now.

You hesitate but eventually nod, dragging yourself toward the bathroom. Just as you reach the doorway, he calls after you, "Better hurry. I ordered room service for breakfast."

Your body tenses at his words, but you say nothing. Instead, you step inside and shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a moment—just processing everything from last night to this very second.

The test, the sex, everything blurs into one and before you recall more memories from last night, you get into the shower in hope to wash it away.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries fills the suite as you step out of the bathroom, now wrapped in the bathrobe Chris gave you. He’s already seated at the small dining table by the window, scrolling through his phone while absentmindedly sipping from his cup. A full spread of breakfast is laid out—omelets, toast, fruit, and two cups of coffee.

Without a word, you take the seat across from him. He glances up briefly but doesn’t say anything, just pushes a plate toward you in a silent invitation to eat.

The quiet stretches between you, thick with unspoken thoughts. You focus on your food, taking small bites, though you barely taste anything. Chris, on the other hand, eats leisurely, like this is just another morning. Then, he finally breaks the silence.

“So,” he says, setting his fork down. “What’s your conclusion on the product test last night?”

You almost choke on your coffee. Your eyes dart to him, but his expression is unreadable, as if he’s genuinely asking for a professional evaluation. You hesitate, gripping your fork a little tighter.

"Well?" he presses, taking another sip of his coffee. "Did it pass?"

You clear your throat, setting your coffee cup down carefully. “I think… to be thorough, it’s better to run a few more tests.”

Chris quirks an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “A few more tests, huh?” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t expect you to be so dedicated to research.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “It’s just proper procedure.”

“Proper procedure,” he repeats, his smirk widening. “You sure it’s just that? Because last night, it kinda seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”

Your jaw tightens, and you stab a piece of fruit with your fork. “That’s not relevant to the study.”

Chris chuckles, clearly entertained. “Right, of course. All in the name of science.” He tilts his head slightly, his gaze locked onto you. “So, how many more ‘tests’ are we talking about? Two? Three? A full trial period?”

You sigh, exasperated. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Chris hums, taking another bite of his toast. “Well, just let me know. I’m happy to help.” His tone is casual, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flip.

You quickly focus on your breakfast, pretending not to notice the way he’s watching you.

Chris leisurely takes a sip of his coffee, playing it cool as he glances around the suite. “You know,” he muses, “I’m really liking this hotel. Feels… comfortable.” He leans back slightly, stretching his muscular arms before resting them on the table. “I think it’d be a great place to conduct another test.”

You pause mid-bite, eyes flickering up to him. He’s watching you, but his expression is unreadable—except for the slight curve of his lips. Then, he grins. “Maybe next weekend?”

You nearly choke on your food, quickly taking a sip of water to recover. “You’re already planning the next one?”

Chris shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just being proactive. You said it yourself—we need more tests for accuracy.” He lifts his coffee cup again, smirking over the rim. “And I wouldn’t want to let you down.”

You exhale sharply, placing your utensils down. “I haven’t even analyzed the results from last night.”

“Take your time,” he says easily, “but don’t overthink it too much.” He tilts his head, studying you. “Unless… you’re backing out?”

You narrow your eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how flustered you are. “I’ll let you know,” you say, keeping your voice even.

Chris chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “I’ll be waiting.”

-

Monday morning, you walk into work with an unusual lightness in your step. You try not to think too much about that night—about Chris, his touch, the way he whispered in your ear—but the memories flash unbidden in your mind, making your face warm. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, not wanting to attract any suspicion. Especially from Jane.

Speaking of which… you realize she hasn’t come to bother you like usual. Curious, you make your way to her lab, where you find her hunched over her workstation, deeply focused.

“Hey,” you call out, stepping inside. “What’s got you so busy?”

Jane barely glances up before turning back to her notes. “I have to finish my reformulation today,” she says quickly. “Final presentation’s tomorrow, and if I don’t get this right, all my work’s going down the drain.”

You nod in understanding. The pressure of finalizing a product before launch is no joke, and seeing Jane—who’s usually so carefree—this stressed means she’s really cutting it close.

“You got this,” you tell her sincerely. “Good luck.”

She lets out a deep breath, finally pausing to give you a smirk. “I better. If I crash and burn, I’m dragging you down with me.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Noted.”

Back in your own lab, you try to push all thoughts of Chris aside and focus on your own work. But as you review your notes and the adjustments you’ve made to the product, an uncomfortable realization creeps in—you’re running out of time.

Jane’s stress reminds you that your own product is also in a critical stage. If she’s giving her final presentation tomorrow, that means your deadline isn’t far behind. You tap your pen against your clipboard, staring at the latest batch of data, and suddenly, the pressure starts to settle heavily on your shoulders.

You sigh and grab your phone, quickly sending an email to the team in charge of screening participants. A few minutes later, you receive a reply:

Final stage of screening participants. Will update once selection is complete.

You lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly. Final stage. That means any day now, you’ll have another participant to help move this process forward—another participant who isn’t Chris. For some reason, that last thought lingers a little too long in your mind.

-

A few days later, Jane is a walking ball of stress, and unfortunately, it’s rubbing off on you.

She paces back and forth in the break room, arms crossed, her fingers tapping against her upper arm impatiently. “I don’t get it. They should’ve given me an answer by now,” she mutters before turning to you with a sharp look. “What if they hated it? What if they’re just trying to figure out a way to reject it without making me throw a fit?”

You sip your iced coffee, trying to keep your own anxiety in check. “If they hated it, they would’ve told you already,” you reason, though you understand her panic completely.

Jane groans and drops her head onto the table. “I can’t take this anymore. The waiting is worse than the presentation itself.”

You don’t say it out loud, but you completely agree. Because the uncertainty of your own project’s progress is starting to gnaw at you too. You haven’t received any updates on the new participant, and without that, you can’t finalize the product. And without a finalized product, you can’t meet your deadline.

You exhale and press your fingers against your temples, suddenly feeling the weight of everything piling up. “Your stress is contagious, you know that?” you mumble.

Jane lifts her head just enough to give you a weak smirk. “Misery loves company.”

Later that day, you get a message from Chris’s secretary, asking you to stop by his office. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should prepare yourself for whatever he has in store this time. But you shake off the thought and head over.

When you step inside, Chris is leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly good as usual. He grins when he sees you. “Hey, right on time,” he says, and you do as told, walking over to his desk.

“I wanted to let you know I’m available this weekend for the test,” he says, watching you closely.

You nod, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “Okay. That works.”

Chris tilts his head, his grin faltering slightly. “That’s it? No excitement?”

You blink at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

His brow raises. “I don’t know… maybe something like ‘Great! Can’t wait!’” He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “What’s wrong with you today?”

You sigh and rub your temples. “I’m just stressed about my product. There’s still so much to do, and I don’t even know if I’ll have another participant before the deadline.”

Chris hums in thought, then leans back again. “Well, you’re doing your best, right?”

“I guess.”

He smirks. “That’s all that matters. Besides, I’m the one doing my best for you.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your lips twitches at his teasing. “Of course, how could I forget?”

Chris chuckles, pleased with himself. “Exactly. So stop stressing. I’ve got you.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, still feeling the weight of your stress pressing down on you. “You know… you could’ve just texted me about the test instead of calling me to your office.”

Chris scoffs, shaking his head with a smirk. “Yeah, I could’ve.”

You wait for him to continue, but he just looks at you like you should already know the answer. When you don’t say anything, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping a little.

“But I wanted to see you.”

His words catch you completely off guard, and you freeze for a second, unsure how to respond. He watches you closely, amused by your reaction.

Your mouth opens, then closes. You clear your throat, trying to brush off the sudden shift in atmosphere. “Well… you’ve seen me now,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze.

Chris chuckles. “Yeah, I have.” He tilts his head. “And?”

“And what?”

He grins. “Feel better?”

You scoff. “No.”

Chris just laughs at your flat response, shaking his head. “Liar.”

He leans back in his chair, still smirking as he watches you squirm under his gaze. “I think you do feel better,” he teases. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “If I’m stressed, I’m stressed. Seeing you doesn’t magically fix that.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe not, but I bet it helps a little.”

You scoff, looking away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. The part you hate the most is because he’s not entirely wrong. Despite everything weighing on you, there’s something about his presence—his confidence, his teasing, the way he acts like he’s got everything under control—that makes you feel just a little lighter.

And that annoys you.

-

The hotel lobby is dimly lit, elegant but not overly extravagant. You step through the entrance, scanning the space until your eyes land on Chris, who’s waiting near the elevators. He’s dressed casually but polished—dark slacks, a fitted shirt with the top two buttons undone, looking unfairly good as usual.

Just as you take a step toward him, your phone buzzes in your bag. You fish it out and sigh when you see Jane’s name flashing on the screen. Pressing the phone to your ear, you barely manage a greeting before she starts rambling.

“I swear, if they don’t approve this formula, I’m quitting,” she huffs. “I mean, not really, but you get what I mean. I haven’t slept properly in three days, and I think I’m running on caffeine and pure delusion at this point.”

You let out a small laugh, even though the stress in her voice weighs on you. “It’ll be fine, Jane. You worked hard on it.”

“That’s what people say before something blows up in their face,” she groans. “Anyway, where are you? I need to rant.”

Panic flickers in your chest. You glance around, as if she could somehow see you through the phone. “Uh… just out,” you say vaguely. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

She huffs again. “Fine. But if I have a breakdown, it’s on you.”

You chuckle. “Duly noted.” Ending the call, you sigh, but the stress clings to you, the tension knotting in your shoulders refusing to ease.

You take a deep breath and walk toward Chris, who straightens when he sees you. He starts to say something, but before he can get a word out, you grab his face and kiss him.

Chris barely has time to react when you press your lips to his, the kiss sudden and hurried, almost desperate. His hands instinctively settle on your waist, grounding you for the few fleeting seconds before you pull away.

Your lips are still parted as you mutter, “Why don’t we just skip dinner and head upstairs?”

Chris blinks, momentarily surprised by your forwardness. Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Someone’s eager tonight,” he muses, his voice low and teasing.

You huff, looking away. “I just—” You exhale sharply, rubbing your temple. “I'm just a little stressed.”

His expression softens slightly. “Ah.”

“It’s work. I'm stressed about work, and I just—I don’t know.” You sigh, shaking your head. “It’s like I can’t escape it.”

Chris tilts his head, studying you for a moment before his hand finds yours. “Then let’s go.”

You look at him questioningly.

He squeezes your hand. “Upstairs,” he clarifies. “Since that’s what you want.”

You nod, letting him lead you toward the elevators. As the doors close behind you, sealing you both away from the rest of the world, Chris turns to you, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

“Want me to help you take your mind off work?” he asks, his voice rich with suggestion.

You swallow, anticipation coiling in your stomach. “Yes.”

-

The hotel suite door barely shuts behind you before Chris pulls you in, his hands framing your face as his lips crash into yours. The kiss is deep, heated, and rushed—both of you hungry for each other. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer as you stumble toward the bed.

Chris’s hands slide down your back, finding the zipper of your dress and pulling it down in one swift motion. The fabric pools at your feet, leaving you in your lingerie as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. You gasp, arms looping around his neck as he carries you to the bed, laying you down gently against the plush sheets.

He kneels above you, his dark eyes drinking you in before he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undoes them, his toned chest coming into view, and once the shirt is off, he tosses it aside without a second thought. Then, he leans in again, claiming your lips with his own, his body pressing against yours as the heat between you intensifies.

For a moment, the purpose of tonight is forgotten. There’s no product test, no work stress—just the two of you tangled together, lips moving in sync, hands wandering, breaths coming out in soft, desperate gasps.

Then, your fingers trail down his chest, lower and lower, until you feel the growing bulge beneath his pants. Chris groans softly against your lips, his body tensing slightly at your touch. That’s when reality crashes back into you.

You break the kiss slightly, your breaths mingling as you whisper, “Chris, the condom. In my bag.”

Chris hovers above you for a second, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a slow smirk, he leans in, brushing a teasing kiss against your lips before murmuring, “Yes, ma’am.”

He gets off the bed, heading toward where you left your bag, and as you watch him, heart racing, you can’t help but think—maybe this test is just an excuse now.

You watch as Chris retrieves the condom from your bag, his fingers expertly tearing open the wrapper. He steps out of his remaining clothes, his bare form illuminated by the dim hotel lighting. Your eyes are drawn downward, and despite having seen him before, the sheer size of him still makes your stomach flip. It’s intimidating—taunting, even—and the nerves creep up on you all over again.

Chris notices the way you tense, the way your thighs press together involuntarily. Rolling the condom over his length with practiced ease, he turns back to you, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

“You need to relax,” he murmurs, his voice smooth yet edged with something deeper, something almost reassuring.

He crawls back onto the bed, hovering over you once more, his hands running along your sides as if to coax the tension out of your body. “You’re overthinking it,” he adds, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw, then another just below your ear.

Your breath hitches when his lips trail lower, down your neck, his touch slow and deliberate. It’s almost distracting enough to make you forget your nerves—almost. But when he settles between your legs, his gaze locking onto yours, the anticipation coils tightly in your stomach once more.

Chris smirks, tilting his head. “You trust me, don’t you?”

And the way he asks it—soft, teasing, but with a glimmer of something genuine—makes your heart skip.

His hands roam your body with a deliberate slowness, his fingertips tracing the curves of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the softness of your thighs. Each touch is meant to ease the tension out of you, to replace your nerves with something warmer, something deeper.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips pressing gentle kisses along your collarbone. “So soft… so perfect.”

His voice is a lull, smoothing over your anxiety like silk. He drags his mouth lower, his breath fanning across your skin as he continues whispering praises—how good you feel, how much he likes touching you, how you have no idea what you do to him.

You shudder beneath him, your body instinctively responding to his words, his touch. The tension in your muscles slowly unravels, and Chris pulls back just enough to take in the sight of you. His gaze sweeps over your bare form, dark and heavy with admiration. He doesn’t rush. He just looks.

“Gosh,” he breathes out, a slow grin forming on his lips. “I could look at you all night.”

The intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch, heat rising in your cheeks. He leans in again, his hands framing your face as he brushes his lips over yours.

“You okay now?” he asks, voice low, his forehead resting against yours.

And maybe it’s the way he’s holding you, or the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious—but you find yourself nodding, your nerves fading into something else entirely.

Chris’s fingers trail down your body with deliberate slowness, his touch igniting warmth everywhere he grazes. His lips brush against your ear as his fingers tease along your inner thigh, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re already trembling,” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement and something deeper—something that makes your stomach tighten. “Are you nervous or just impatient?”

You don’t answer, not when his fingers finally slip between your legs, parting you with ease and easily finds your clit as it pulsates with each gentle rub. He does it for a long moment, waiting until you're wet enough for him to slip his two fingers inside you. A soft gasp escapes before you can stop it, and Chris hums in approval, pressing a lingering kiss just below your jaw.

“You always take me so well,” he whispers, his fingers moving in slow, calculated pumps that make your toes curl. “And you’re already clenching around me… How do you think you’ll handle me when I’m actually inside you?”

The words alone send heat rushing through you, but it’s the way he says them—low and coaxing, like he’s savoring every reaction you give him. You turn your face into his shoulder, gripping onto him as if grounding yourself, but Chris only chuckles.

“Don’t hide from me,” he coaxes, shifting so he can watch your face. “I want to see everything.”

He curls his fingers inside to get to your sensitive spot, his touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through you, and your breath stutters. Chris smiles against your cheek, his voice softer now, gentler.

“Just relax,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

Your body tightens around his fingers as the pleasure builds, your breath hitching with every precise movement of his hand. Chris watches you intently, his dark eyes flickering with something both possessive and admiring as he feels you getting closer.

"That's it," he whispers, his lips grazing your temple. "You’re so good for me."

His thumb circles your clit just right, and the tension in your body unravels all at once. A sharp cry slips from your lips as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you trembling in his arms. Chris doesn’t stop right away—he works you through it, dragging out every last wave until you're gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders for stability.

When you finally go limp against him, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his voice warm and full of praise. "So beautiful when you come around my fingers like that," he murmurs, his fingers slipping away only to trail soothingly along your thigh.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he leans in, his lips brushing against yours. "Think you’re ready for me now?" he asks, a teasing grin playing at his lips.

Despite his words, he gives you a moment to climb down your high, touching you, kissing you, keeping you heated just enough for the next one.

When he deems you're ready, he settles himself between your legs and take another moment to warm you up, sliding his cock between your folds, intentionally lubricating it with your essence.

The moment he starts to push his cock into your entrance, you whimper, your fingers gripping the sheets. He stills immediately, his brows furrowing.

“Still hurts?” he murmurs, his voice softer now, tinted with concern.

You shake your head instinctively, but he isn’t convinced. His large hands massage your hips soothingly, and for a moment, he just stays there, warm and solid against you. Then, as if making a decision, he leans down, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades before murmuring against your skin, “There’s more than one way to do this.”

Before you can ask what he means, he shifts, gently guiding you onto your stomach. His hands coax your legs together, and then you feel it—his length settling between your thighs, snug and heavy. He lets out a low hum of approval as he starts a slow, deliberate movement, sliding his cock against you, the condom still doing its job.

“This works just fine for the test,” he says, a smirk evident in his voice. “No need for penetration.”

The new sensation sends a shiver through you. His body is warm against your back, his arms caging you in as he moves, taking his time. His above average cock allowing him to hit your clit for every time he thrusts forward. Every deliberate stroke of his tip on your clit has you squirming, and when he presses his lips to your ear, his breath hot, he whispers, “You feel so good like this… almost better than the real thing.”

His hands grip your waist, guiding you to match his rhythm, and before you know it, the tension in your body builds again. The sensation overwhelms you, and with one final push of pleasure, you come undone beneath him, trembling as the feeling washes over you. Chris lets out a low groan, his own release following moments after.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your breathing evens out, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of everything else disappears.

Chris lets out a content sigh, his grip on you loosening slightly as he shifts onto his side, still keeping you close. He presses a lazy kiss against the back of your shoulder before murmuring, “Well, I gotta say, the condom held up pretty well.”

You blink in confusion, still trying to come down from your high. “What?”

He chuckles, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you. “You know… the test? The whole reason we’re here?” His smirk deepens when you don’t respond right away. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

Heat rushes to your face as you realize he’s right. You were so caught up in the moment, in him, that you completely forgot this was supposed to be about work. You scowl at his teasing tone, but Chris only grins wider.

“That’s cute,” he muses, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re really slacking as a researcher, you know? Getting too distracted by your test subject.”

You groan, pushing at his chest, but he just laughs, rolling onto his back with a smug expression. “Don’t worry,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “We can always run more tests. Just to be thorough.”

You roll your eyes, but deep down, you know you’re in trouble—because a part of you is already considering it.

Chris stretches his arms behind his head, still lounging in the bed with that smug expression. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Should we order some room service?”

You hesitate, still tangled in the sheets, still feeling the lingering heat between you. But the idea of food is tempting, and you nod. “Yeah… okay.”

Chris grins, reaching for the hotel’s menu on the nightstand. “Good. I was gonna order anyway, but I figured I’d be polite and ask.”

You scoff but let it slide, watching as he casually flips through the options. He orders for both of you without asking what you want, but somehow, he picks exactly what you would have chosen.

When the food arrives, the two of you settle onto the couch, eating in comfortable silence for a while. The tension from earlier has softened into something almost… normal. Like this is just another dinner, another night spent together. Then, as you poke at your plate, you find yourself speaking without really thinking. “Thanks, by the way.”

Chris glances up from his food. “For what?”

You shift slightly, feeling a little awkward. “For earlier. For not… pushing it when I said it hurt.”

Chris leans back, setting his fork down. He studies you for a moment before giving a small shrug. “I told you before, didn’t I? I wasn’t gonna do anything you weren’t ready for.”

You swallow, feeling something tighten in your chest.

Chris smirks, sensing the shift in your expression. “What? Surprised I’m a decent guy?”

You roll your eyes. “A little.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You wound me.” But there’s something softer in his eyes now, something that makes you look away before he can read too much into your expression.

Chris doesn’t push. Instead, he just picks up his fork again, casually adding, “Guess that means we’ll just have to try again next time.”

Your stomach flips. “Next time?”

Chris just grins. “Unless you’re saying the test is complete?”

You don’t answer, and his smirk widens as he takes another bite of his food.

-

The morning sunlight filters through the hotel suite’s curtains as you fasten the last button of your blouse, trying to ignore the way Chris watches you from across the room. He’s standing by the dresser, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt, looking far too put together for someone who spent the night in a hotel bed with you.

"You’re quiet this morning," he comments, slipping on his watch.

You smooth down the hem of your dress, keeping your eyes on your reflection in the mirror. "Just thinking about work."

He looks relaxed—too relaxed, considering the nature of your conversation.

"So," he says, tapping the fork against his thigh, "how are you planning to refine the product?"

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to focus. "I need to get more participant feedback, obviously. We’ve tested the fit, but durability and performance still need more trials."

Chris hums in acknowledgment, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes. "And how do I rank as a participant?"

You shoot him a look, trying not to let the memory of the night’s events creep back into your mind. "You're… useful," you answer carefully.

He chuckles at that. "Just useful? After everything?"

You press your lips together, ignoring his teasing tone. "I mean it, Chris. But I need more participants for a thorough evaluation."

At that, his amusement fades slightly. He sits up straighter, turning toward you. "More participants, huh?"

You nod, scribbling something in your notebook to avoid looking at him. "It’s necessary for better data."

Chris is quiet for a moment, then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his warmth. "I get it," he says, voice softer now. "Just don’t forget who was here first."

You finally glance up at him, and the weight of his gaze makes your stomach flip. There’s something unreadable in his expression—not quite jealousy, but not far from it either.

You swallow. "Of course not."

A small smirk tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he nudges your knee with his. "So, should I clear my schedule for next weekend?"

You exhale, shaking your head. "I’ll let you know."

Chris grins, leaning back onto his elbows. "Can’t wait."

You roll your eyes, not indulging him with an answer. Instead, you head toward the door, but just as you reach for the handle, Chris beats you to it, leaning down slightly.

"Leaving without a goodbye?" he teases, voice low.

You glance at him, hesitating for half a second before sighing. "Goodbye, Chris."

As you walk down the quiet hotel corridor, your thoughts swirl between the pressure of finalizing your product and the undeniable truth that you still need more data. More tests.

You tighten your grip on your bag, exhaling sharply. That’s what this is about—work. Research. A product that needs to be perfected before it can move forward.

And yet, as you recall the way Chris looked at you before you left, the way he smirked at the idea of "more participants," a different kind of tension settles in your chest.

Finalizing your product soon is the goal. But a small, dangerous part of you wonders if maybe… just maybe… you’re not quite ready to be done with the testing phase.

-

As you're walking through the office hallway, your mind is still clouded with the remnants of the weekend—Chris’s touch, his whispered praises, the way he held you close even after everything was over. Every time you close your eyes, flashes of that night play in your head, making warmth creep up your neck. You shake your head, trying to snap yourself out of it as you step into your lab, determined to focus on work. But the moment you walk in, you freeze.

There’s a man already inside, leaning lazily against the counter, his posture relaxed yet confident, like he’s been waiting for you. The overhead lights cast sharp angles on his sharp jawline, his lips curled into a smirk that feels almost too self-assured. He straightens when he sees you, his eyes—dark, playful—sweeping over you in quiet amusement.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he steps forward. "Finally," he drawls, his voice smooth, almost teasing. "I was starting to think I had the wrong lab."

You blink, caught off guard. He doesn’t look like he belongs here—his presence too bold, too magnetic for the clinical atmosphere of your workspace. "I'm sorry but who are you?" you ask, wary.

He stops just a breath away, the distance between you charged with something you can’t quite place. Then, with a cocky tilt of his head, he offers his hand.

"Han Jisung," he introduces himself, his smirk widening as his fingers brush against yours. "Your new test participant."

Your stomach drops and for a second, all you can do is stare.

"Looks like we’ll be working pretty closely together," he adds, voice dripping with amusement. "I hope you're ready for me."

And just like that, your carefully maintained world tilts off its axis.

-

The second chapter of Cocky is available on my Patreon page. ✨

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @drhsthl @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @angstraykids @lenfilms @modesttiger @inniesfanblog @multi-fandommaniac @ebnabi

[baby-yongbok]

Cat & Mouse

Lee Felix x Afab!Reader

✦ Genre - Friends to Lovers

✦ Word Count - 2.8k

✦ Summary - Felix is fed up with your game of cat and mouse and decides to flip the script for good. ✦ CW - Unprotected piv, Breeding kink, Degradation, Spanking (for like a second), Possessive Lix, [let me know if I missed anything♡ ] ✦ A/N - Writing jealous dom Felix was a bit harder than I thought. I hope I did it well! I've had this in my drafts for soooooo long. It's time to let her be free... even if I'm nervous asf. + reader is depicted as chubby/plus size and is a POC ♡ ✦ ´-Requested - Yes `♡´ No

✦ Masterlist✦

You have a bit of a bad habit. It started towards the end of high school and followed you through college all the way to now. What is it?

Felix. 

Being around him, teasing him, edging your connection and tittering between giving him more and nothing at all is a thrill that you’ve grown addicted to.

He’s been by your side through it all, pinning for your undivided attention and you feed into it just enough to get his lips on yours. You get him to your bed but never in it. You don’t let him have that. 

He falls for it every time, leaning into your trap and getting high off of the taste of your tongue against his just to watch you stick it down someone else's throat the next day. Just like tonight. 

It’s Chan’s annual holiday shit show that he dares to call a party and you’re on Jeongin’s lap, kissing him and pulling into the same trap you’ve perfected with Felix. Your best friend watches, seething and throbbing in his jeans. 

His mind comes up with excuses for your actions by default. He blames the alcohol, the atmosphere, himself. Everything but you and the game of cat and mouse you’ve been using against him. 

When Jeongin’s hand grips your ass you pull back for air and whisper something that the man under you barely recognizes as a lame excuse to go find your next innocent victim.

You head to the kitchen, looking for something strong enough to inspire your next hunt but then you see Felix. He’s already looking at you, his blonde hair is pulled back under a black beanie, he wears a white tank tight over his body that’s partially hidden under his varsity jacket. 

How could you resist?

The answer is, you can't. 

You saunter right up to him and he watches you. His grip on the glass bottle in his hand tightens and you smirk at the faint twitch of his muscles. 

The intent in his gaze is like cold water to your tipsy state. He sobers you up, gets you hot despite the chill of his undivided attention. You smile, planting your hands against his chest and he lets you, while he takes you in. His eyes follow the curve of your jaw, down the length of your neck and reverse back up to your lips. Then they flit back down. Is that a fucking hickey?

You take the bottle in his hand and gulp down a long swig, not bothering to ask. He doesn't stop you. His eyes are still fixed on the dark mark. His eyes trail down then up and over, looking for more and his fists tighten when he finds them.

"Jeongin?" Felix is asking a question, not stating the obvious. “You let him do that?” his gaze shifts from your neck to meet your eyes and suddenly you feel pinned. 

This look on his face is new. dark. 

"Yeah." You smirk, tilting your head and feigning your usual carefree act. "He's pretty good."

Felix grits his teeth. His jealousy is obvious, it always is but his anger is a bit harder to read. It’s rare that you ever see it. You know him well enough to recognize it though. The subtle clench of his jaw, the stiffness in his posture. And his gaze, hardened and unrelenting. Exposing.

“Shut up.” The bottle is snatched out of your hand and on Felix’s lips in an instant. He downs the rest of it and discards it onto the messy table beside him but you're still caught off guard by his response.

“What?” He tsks, staring back at you.

“I said, shut up.” You laugh. It comes out nervous, awkward, and forced. What’s going on?

"Lix..."

"No. Don't 'Lix' me, you can't keep doing this." His eyes are aflame, a dangerous glint and you shiver. Fuck, he’s actually pissed? “You're just giving attention to anyone who looks at you twice, huh? Anyone but me."

"It's not like that-"

"Bullshit. I see you. You’ve been playing this game for years. You wind me up then let me spin out of control while someone else gets to taste what I’ve been so patient for." Your eyes meet his. The tension between you is thick and you swallow, your mouth feeling suddenly dry.

"That's not-" 

“Don't act stupid. This isn't fair.” What happens next surprises you and pushes Felix over the edge. You grin. Your lips turn up in a way that’s not playful or coy. No. It's smug. You're proud. You've gotten him to break and finally crack, his true feelings exposed. He's done being ignored. 

"Well, you should've spoken up. I would've stopped." He's about to open his mouth, his temper growing and his neck shading a hot red when you press yourself closer. The game is shifting right before your eyes, you can see it in his. 

“Stop playing with me.” His voice is low, husky and deep.

“I can’t.” You bring your hand up to push a fallen strand of hair back from his face but his hand grips your wrist, pulling your attention back to him. 

"Can't? Or won't?" 

"Both." You mumble. “I can’t help myself.”

"Don't bullshit me." His tone is low, eyes blazing and half-lidded and you can't tell if he's challenging you or warning you. So you make it a challenge.

"What are you gonna do about it, Lix?" He pulls you closer by his grip on your wrist. Your chest is flush to his. The tight fabric of your shirts are all that’s separating you from him, the only thing prolonging your inevitable spiral. 

"Don't start anything you can't finish." He whispers but you can hear him loud and clear over the music. 

"Why not?" You ask, grabbing the collar of his jacket and pulling him closer, "Don’t you not want me, baby?" Your lip gloss stains the rim of his collar. Your perfume clouds his senses and he’s pulling you through the party and over to the stairs.

"Wait! Wait, wait." You're giggling, a giddy sound as he pulls you up the stairs. You're stumbling over his feet, your own, and the steps, "Lix, what’re you-"

"Shut up." You can't stop laughing and smiling, your heart racing. He's finally snapping, getting the balls to put his money where his mouth is. 

 “Felix, I am not fucking you at a party.” He's annoyed, his grip on your wrist is too tight and the hallway is dim. Felix leans down, pressing you against the wall at the top of the stairs and pushing some random drunk guest to the side to make room for you. His forehead to yours, locking your gazes.

“Where do you want me to fuck you then? Cause I’m gonna have you. I’m gonna wipe that pretty smile off your face and I’m gonna do it tonight. So, where do you want me?”

Your breath catches, your words lost in the sudden heat. The game is changing, you're the one losing control now. Your confidence is wavering. 

"Speak up." His nails bite into your wrist and he presses himself firmer against you. "Tell me, princess." 

You can't think, he's got you backed into a corner. Literally. This is all new, this side of him, a dark and dominant one that has you squirming and aching to get a taste of his lips again. The side that you’ve created.

"Tell. Me." You swallow. Your mind is foggy and he's looking down at you with that cold sharp gaze that has you sure that he’ll choose for you if you don’t act fast. 

"Home." You manage. "Take me home."

You've never seen him move so fast. He's practically dragging you out of the party and to his car, your heart pounding and mind racing. The entire drive back is silent. Neither of you can think. He can't decide how he wants to do it. Hard and slow, gentle and quick. All of the above.  

Felix parks his car, it’s crooked and he couldn’t care less. When the two of you get inside he gives you a second, just a second to kick off your shoes before he’s pinning you to the wall by the front door.

His lips are on yours, swallowing your gasp and taking away the breath you were holding. He’s never kissed you like this before. It’s possessive, wild, and so hot. The way he handles you is rough and quick. His hands grip your waist, pulling you forward then moving to cradle the back of your head with one hand while he walks you over to his room. It’s clumsy and messy but you make it.

The back of your knees hit the bed frame and Felix watches as you fall back. He takes it in for a second - the way your chest rises and falls with the rush of him. The way you look at him, trying to guess his next move.

"Are you nervous?" His voice is a whisper, his question almost a taunt. 

"No." There’s a waver in your attempt to be confident and he catches it. He smirks. 

Felix rids himself of his jacket then pushes his tank top up his torso just enough for you to see more of him. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and his smirk turns into a smile. He’s definitely taunting you. 

"Liar." His hands find yours and he holds them above your head. His lips attach to your neck, kissing down the curve of it and biting his own bruises on top of the ones that Jeongin left. 

"Fuck, Lix." You moan. "I’m sorry." 

"Now she’s sorry" His hips rock forward, pressing his hard-on against your thigh. You try to hide the whimper that leaves you but it’s no use. He’s zeroed in, he’s in charge now. "Tell me why I should believe you. After everything, after all the times you've had your tongue down someone's throat and not mine." 

You groan, rolling your hips. "I’m sorry, I-" 

"I'm the only one that can have you, right, baby?" He whispers, his tongue runs along the shell of your ear and your breath stutters.

"Yes." You resign to the electricity coursing between the two of you and buck up into him, desperately chasing the charge of your bodies. 

 “Do you think that you being sorry is going to stop me from ruining you?”

“I don’t want you to stop.” The admission leaves you before you can really think about it. Your brain is fuzzy with thoughts of Felix, it always is but you’ve never given in this far. You can feel him smile against you, his tongue grazes over the bruises he’s created then he pulls back to get a better look at you. 

“That’s good, princess.” His voice vibrates his chest and through you before resonating in the space around you. “Cause we’re gonna play a little game.”

You’re losing it.

“You can do better than that, come on.” Felix’s grip on your hips is bruising as he guides you back against him. His idea of a game is much more cruel than yours or at least that’s what your brain is telling you.

He’s been building you up, chasing a high with you just to make a surprise turn when you’re seconds away from the pinnacle you’ve so desperately fucked him for.

“That’s it, that’s fucking it, baby.” He lets you go, letting you fuck back onto him while he runs his fingers through his platinum locks. You’re drooling at both ends, burning to the bottom like a forgotten candle with the way your orgasm is flickering into view with each stuttered roll of your hips against him.

“You’re not gonna get my cum like that, baby.” The sound of his hand coming down on your ass hits your ears faster than you can react. He spanks your other cheek right after, palming the flesh with a groan. “I should fuck a baby into you. I should - fuck - I should knock you up, keep you as mine forever, yeah?”

A sob is all that you can offer in return, a moan so lewd that it nearly doesn’t sound like you, “Please… let me.. Felix, please…”

 He can’t decide if he likes the sounds of you begging or moaning more. He leans over your body, holding you down so that you're full and still while he takes your hair into his fist and pulls back. Your eyes drift to meet his and it’s then that Felix feels real pleasure. When you look at him like he’s looked at you for years. Like he holds the key to everything you’ve ever wanted. 

“God, you’re so pretty, baby.” He rolls his hips and your eyes go with it. “Beg some more.”

“Please let me cum.” You whimper, fisting the bedsheets and curling your toes. “I wanna cum for you.”

Felix hisses a curse that you take as confirmation just before he starts moving again. He sits up, his fist still in your hair while his other hand grips at your hip. He thrusts into you a way that’s too neat to be reckless. It’s practiced and lethal and it’s tearing you apart. 

His grunts are so deep that they barely register beyond your gasping moans. You tremble and drip and grab at the mattress like it can save you from the fall you're taking. You clench and throb and Felix drinks it in with his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“I’ve got you, baby. Finish for me.” His voice is strained, his own orgasm flickers just out of view as he burns to the bottom. But he doesn’t want this to end. 

He lets go of your hair and reaches around to rub at your clit. You fall forward, your arms give out and your vision blurs as he prolongs the burn. “F-felix, fuck fuck, c-can’t..” His practiced pattern turns into something more wild as he gets closer to his own release. 

His hips slow and his thrusts shallow into a rhythm that has tears rolling down your cheeks and his jaw hanging slack. “Oh, fuck, look at me. Look at me, please.” You turn your head and press the side into the mattress to look at him. There’s a subtle tremble to your body. A vibration that Felix recognizes as raw unfiltered pleasure.

“Who knew you’d look so pretty crying under me.” He groans, bottoming out and pulling back just to do it again. He’s edging himself, using you to keep him right at the tip of it all while you ride his. “Doesn’t this feel so much better than your little game, baby?” 

You can feel it coming, your second or third orgasm. You’ve lost count. The minutes blur together and your words abandon you, your tongue is unstable and caught between your teeth. But Felix is relentless, too far gone in the moment that he’s waited forever for. 

“God, look at you, fucked out, you’d say yes to anything right now wouldn’t ya?” His voice is hoarse, deep. “Want me to fuck a baby into ya? You’re such a slut, listen to you. You want it.” It’s not in your control, or at least that’s what you convince yourself when his words pull a drawn out moan from you. Loud and pornographic.

“Say it. Say you wanna be swollen with my fucking baby and I’ll give you every last drop, princess. All of it. Say it.” His hips falter and his thighs shake against yours as his practiced thrusts turn into messy rutting. You moan, he moans and somewhere in between you two fit whimpers of each other's names. 

You’re gone. 

“Y-yes, yes, I wan’ it.” Tears are falling and your vision abandons you, going from blurry to white as another orgasm peaks. You take a breath, deep like him and you’re falling all over again, screaming and drooling and cumming so hard that Felix has to hold your hips up.

“Holy shit, that cunt ‘s gonna make me cum. Gonna fucking cum.” Now he’s lost it. He chases his high while you fall apart around him and he groans when it finally catches up to him. 

He’s finally got it. He’s got you.

He empties himself inside of you with every intention of pulling out but none of the control. His knees threaten to fold beneath him but he keeps himself up through the duration of his orgasm before collapsing onto the mattress. 

You’re panting, dumb with pleasure as the aftershocks surge through you. You want to say something, anything but nothing feels right. What do you say to the man you’ve finally fucked after years of teasing?

Felix decides to fill in the silence with something better than words. He pulls out of you with a small moan and turns you around. You’re barely settled in his arms before his lips are on yours, hungry and hunting. There’s a passion to it, something that you can only recognize as longing. The taste is something that you can only describe as Felix. 

You let yourself go, you let him have you and he moans once he feels the chain snap. The hold is gone. 

It’s game over.

❥ Wanna Be On My Taglist? Click here for the Taglist Form!

Perm. Tag List:

@dreamingaboutjisung @nxtt2-u @kayleefriedchicken

@compersian @kibs-and-bits @lixiluvs @armystay89 @lghtdarling

@teddy-stay , @baconcupcakes123, @moonchild9350 ,

@krayzieestay, @soulsbbg , @stay-bi , @yzsqu , @lghtdarling @yaorzu-blog

@wealwayskeepfighting @whokno-ows @stay-tiny-things @catsforlife6864 @pixie-felix @unbel1ve4ble @estella-novella @poppet05 @lisaskz @jaeminie-cricket @daveah @bangchanslvt @gingerrracha @chloe-elise-2000 @wickedbutlovely

[Red names are tags that seem broken]

[userbang]

Bang Chan [Stray Kids : SKZ-TALKER GO! Season 5] Ep.02 SEOUL

[viasdreams]

🎀𓂃 ࣪˖

nct 127 boyfriend texts !!

a/n: happy belated 127 day!! dont look at the header for too long plz😬

[hyuckiestarz]

best friend!hyuck but you're actually both down bad

suggestive themes, minors dni! ⊹₊⋆ 🐾ྀི

part one / part two / part three / masterlist

[sakamoto-hey]

crying screaming ugh I want him

[sehunniepotwrites]

RISK IT ALL | L.HC

SYNOPSIS. In theory, playing a card game called Risk It or Drink It during your holiday kickback sounded fun. In reality, it was your group’s wild plot scheme for you and your close friend, Donghyuck, to finally get yourselves together in more ways than one. 

PAIRING. Lee Donghyuck x fem!Reader WORD COUNT. 14.4k GENRE. Friends-to-Lovers!AU, Holiday!AU, Christmas!AU, Party!AU, mutual pining, smut (minors dni!), comedy/humor, a tiny bit of fluff

WARNINGS. language (crude sexual jokes, talks about sex positions, and profanities), alcohol and food consumption, adult drinking games with dares, haechan is heavy on consent, body shots, brief vouyerism, explicit content (needy!haechan, possessive!haechan, fingering, oral–male and female receiving, nipple play, praise kink, penetrative, missionary, etc.), nicknames (hers: princess, baby | his: baby)

PLAYLIST. Up to You - PRETTYMUCH feat. NCT Dream | Look at Me - George | A Nonsesne Christmas - Sabrina Carpenter | santa doesn’t know you like i do - Sabrina Carpenter | Yours (Live feat. Winter and Mark) - Chanyeol and Raiden

DISCLAIMER. This is work of fiction. I do not own the people/characters or concepts I have written about. You cannot translate or copy my work. © sehunniepotwrites, 2023

As people say, Saturday nights are for the boys. 

To you, the boys refer to your group of best friends formed early in your college years. The bond strengthened even after graduation. Two years after leaving your university adventures behind, your Saturday nights still belonged to your small close knit group. What started as dressing up in your best clothes and club hopping hours into the night turned into wearing comfy clothes and hosting weekly kickbacks in your respective apartments. You exchanged drunkenly shouting over loud music with drunkenly shouting over party games. Sometimes, you drink and others, you abstain from consuming alcohol to just bask in your hilarious company.

As you grew older, the clubbing and party scene seemed too exhausting with your nine-to-fives taking up most of your energy. Why would you want to socialize with stupid drunk strangers in a crowded room when you could just do that with your tight circle of friends?

Donghyuck and Mark hosted the kickback at their place this week–this one a little fancier than others due to it being the Saturday before Christmas. You loved it when they did. It gave you the excuse to drink to your heart’s content, knowing you could just crash in Donghyuck’s bed at the end of the night. You never did drink past your limit though–too afraid of your darkest secrets slipping through your loose lips–secrets only Jaemin and his girlfriend Ari knew. 

Ari was a great secret keeper. She never revealed your secret crush on Donghyuck to her lover. You did that yourself one semester when you bursted into her room, complaining about how attractive your best friend looked in his leather jacket to the point of wanting to kiss his pretty confident smirk off his face.  Jaemin heard it all while waiting for his girlfriend to get out of the shower. But as loyal as a friend could be, he kept the slip to your tiny little trio. That, however, did not stop the occasional teasing that happened here and there in full group settings. 

It seemed like Jaemin and Ari always had something up their sleeves when you found yourselves hanging out with them and Donghyuck. They would find tiny little ways to get you and your crush in positions where you had no choice but to be near him. For example, setting up days where the hang outs seemed more like double dates and then pretending to get lost just to guarantee you some alone time with him. Their plans, though obvious to you, worked in many ways. Jaemin and Ari often returned to you with matching grins on their pretty faces when they saw your hands linked together or with Donghyuck’s arm comfortably draped around your shoulder, his free hand carrying your purse. 

You honestly weren’t sure how Donghyuck never caught on to their schemes. 

Maybe he did but refused to say anything on the topic. 

Nevertheless, the devil worked hard but Ari and Jaemin worked even harder.

Although you asked the two to stop fueling the delusions floating in your mind, they insisted Donghyuck liked you too. “His feelings for you were undeniable,” they said,  “just look at the way he treated you versus everyone else.” 

Your best friend—with his gentle touches, sweet smiles, and teasing tones—dropped anything for you. He’d walk you to class even if his classes were on the other side of campus, protect you from creeps that gave you the ick, and have food delivered to your job when you had a rough day. When your dates with men went awry, Donghyuck arrived in seconds. According to the couple, the possibilities were endless for Donghyuck but only when it came to you. And tonight, apparently, was going to show you how endless the possibilities were. 

You were a bit sad Mark was missing out on this round of drinking at his place but as Jaemin slammed the box of cards down on the dining table, maybe it was for the best that the eldest of the group missed it. He’d miss the chaos happening at his apartment but at least, he’d earn money while doing it. 

Stealing a quick glance at Donghyuck, he looked so cute in his oversized knit sweater. The Santa hat resting on top of his long, wavy hair made him appear cozier than usual. Your outfits coincidentally matched–your sweaters in a similar shade and a Santa hat headband resting on top of your scalp. 

“Alright, bitches,” Jaemin smirked while opening the box, “tonight’s game is called Risk It or Drink It. You better not be pussies now.” You missed the gamemaster giving Donghyuck a pointed look as you handed out Ari’s soju cocktails to all the people in attendance. Donghyuck stealthily flipped him off. 

“He means you, babes,” Ari nudged you as she poured the two of you a shot. “We’re doing this for you.”

You grabbed it, the liquid spilling from the top, as you raised it for a toast. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Ari striked her glass with yours, “Well, Watson. Bottom’s up.” 

“Merry fucking Christmas!” The two of you downed the shot, not wincing in the slightest. The dangerous thing about flavored soju was that it tasted sweet, didn’t burn, and snuck up on you when you least expected it.

Everyone gathered around the kitchen island, some choosing to stand or lean against the countertop, while others took a seat on the barstools. You all watched as Jaemin set the game up with ease, placing a thick stack of cards in the middle of the table. 

“The rules are simple. We all take turns getting a card, reading it out loud, and doing what the card says, which is either doing a dare or answering a question. If you can do it, you earn the points at the bottom of the card and keep the card. If you can’t, take a shot or a swig of your drink. First to ten points wins. The player with the least point drinks out of”–the gamemaster pointed to a disgusting concoction next to the cards–“finishes the king’s cup. Got it?”

A chorus of agreement circled around the room and so the game began.

The first round was an easy one. You suspected the deck wasn’t shuffled well enough.

 Jeno’s card asked him to show off how much money was in his account, causing Yeri to jokingly ask him if he needed a sugar baby. He retaliated by telling her to ask Mark when he came home, making her take a big swig of her cocktail to draw attention away from her reddening face. Giselle had to name the worst dressed in the room, which led to Renjun’s cute outburst. Jaemin faked a proposal to his girlfriend and had to chug his drink when she said “no.” 

It was all fun and games until it came to you. That was when the party truly began.

You drew your card, skimmed through the words silently with a puzzled look, and then made a face. On your right, Donghyuck threw his arm over your shoulder to pull you closer to his side. He looked at the card as well, his face slightly dropping as he processed the task. 

“What does it say?” Karina yelled from the other side of the circle. 

Clearing your throat, you read aloud, “Lick the person on your left’s earlobe for five seconds or drink.” 

Jaemin was to the left of you and as much as you thought your friend was attractive, no amount of drinks in the world would result in you doing that.

“Damn, if only it said person to your right,” Jaemin whistled, reaching over to pat Donghyuck’s knee. Then, a mischievous glint in his eye appeared. “Hey, Donghyuck! Wanna switch sides for this card?”

“Jaem, what the fuck?!”

Donghyuck immediately shot up and the rest of the group hollered at the suggestion, urging him to move. Shoving Jaemin aside, your best friend beamed at you. He made a show out of it, pretending to tuck strands of his hair behind his ear. “Ready when you are, Princess.” 

You shoved his side at his flirty tactics, quickly looking away from the pair of eyes you couldn’t resist. “You would be the type to like this shit,” you attempted to play off, ignoring the increasing heartbeats the more he looked at you. 

“I’m into anything as long as you’re the one doing it,” he threw back, quickly placing a kiss right next to your earlobe. You inhaled sharply at the touch. You could almost feel the smirk spreading across his lips as he pulled away.

The screams that followed that line reminded you that you were not alone–you were in a room filled with people that you loved and were now watching you grow even more flustered than you already were. Heaven knows you were not drunk enough for this. Shaking your head out of the thoughts that followed Donghyuck’s words, you reached for your glass and said, “I’m drinking.”

Vocalized disappointment circled around the room and you ignored it, taking three large gulps of your cocktail. You slammed the glass down and felt the alcohol run through your body. If the dares were anything like that one, it would take you a lot more to actually do something. 

Donghyuck didn’t vocalize anything after your choice was made but you did catch his smirk drop the second your lips touched the rim of your glass. The large hand he had around your waist acted as a sign for you to put your drink down. Without words, he placed an opened water bottle in front of you and gestured to it with his chin–he wanted you to take a sip. You did as you were told as the second round of dares continued.

You all had trouble holding in your laughter when Karina called a friend, put them on speakerphone, and asked them to pick her up from the station after being detained for having car sex in a public area. The cackles were harder to contain when the friend pressed for details instead of immediately coming to her aid. When the insistence failed to cease, Karina spit out the first name that came to her head and ended up unmasking the flame she carried for Jeno. You grinned at the unfolding, taking note of how Jeno’s body perked up the minute Karina’s friend screamed, “Finally!” 

Ari confidently revealed her body count, Yeri had to endure being tickled by everyone for thirty seconds, and Renjun took two shots instead of calling his ex-girlfriend.

“List three sex positions in ten seconds or drink,” Donghyuck read his card aloud. Before he could even process the task, the group started counting down, adding pressure onto the boy. “Oh shit! Umm, missionary, doggy–oh what the fuck, what else is there?!”

His time was up before he could think of a third and Giselle shoved a shot in his hand. “You better drink, Hyuck!” 

Donghyuck accepted his fate, groaning after he took the shot. As he nuzzled his head into your neck, you could tell he was disappointed at his failure.

“Aww, baby, couldn’t think fast enough with your little pea brain?” you teased, running your fingers through his messy hair. 

He looked up at you with a playful sneer and pursed his lips. “Like you could do any better in ten seconds.”

Looking Donghyuck dead in the eye, you listed three off the bat with a deadpan face, “Cowgirl, 69, doggy. It’s not that hard, Hyuckie.”

With no other context, your best friend dropped his head back into place and said, “You will be the death of me one day, you know that, right?” His plush lips, now wet with the remnants of alcohol, brushed against the junction of your neck and exposed shoulder. The sudden touch made you shiver.

“And why’s that?”

Donghyuk breathed out, the air making  goosebumps appear on your skin, and deflected the question. “It’s your turn. Draw.”

The moment you pulled the card, Donghyuck shifted his head to read the card with you. His body began to shake with laughter as the rest of your crew rushed you to reveal the dare. 

God, you were not drunk enough for this. He grabbed the paper out of your fingers and took the liberties of saying the dare, “Hold a piece of food in your mouth and have the person on your right,” he paused, grazing his soft fingers on your bare knee, “that’s me, princess—”

“Yes, I know my rights from lefts, Hyuck.”

“—and have them take it from you.”

“I’m picking the piece of food you use and don’t you dare complain!” Ari yelled before anyone else could claim the job. 

Everyone watched as she stifled through a plate of French fries. Her playful grin expanded across her pretty face when she found the perfect fry—a thin, crispy piece that was around an inch long. The group exploded with excitement as she held it up. 

“That,” you pointed to the fry in your friend’s hand, “cannot be legal. That has to be against the rules!”

Jaemin pretended to examine the fry his girlfriend was holding. “Hmm, looks fine to me.”

“You’re a menace, Jaem,” you hissed at him.

Jaemin came right back, “Just doing what has to be done to take us out of our misery.”

“What misery?!”

With everything already set, you resigned to your friend’s wishes and begrudgingly accepted the dare. Ari handed you the tiny piece of food. You sighed dramatically before placing it between your teeth. It barely extended past your top and bottom lip. Shooting Donghyuck a widened look, you told him to hurry. If you were to prolong this dare any longer, you were afraid of the fry breaking before he’d get to it. 

You stood still as Donghyuck approached with a smug look. It disappeared as soon as his eyes dropped to the french fry you held, lingering at the sight of your parted mouth. When he looked back up at you, there was a sort of look in the brown irises you were so attracted to. Hunger. Anticipation. 

“Lean in,” someone shouted but your body froze in its place.

Swallowing back your nervousness, his two warm hands touched your face, both molding to your cheeks. Shutting your eyes as he grew closer, the last thing you saw was his handsome face tilting to get a better angle. Donghyuck’s actions were lightning quick and sudden, making your heart beat skyrocket towards the moon. 

His breath tickled your skin and then, his lips brushed ever so gently against yours. It didn’t last too long; after all, his goal was to retrieve the french fry. You did your best to focus on that, remembering not to bite down to break the crunchy strip of food–the task at hand was hard but not impossible.

Then, there was a slight pressure, the plushness of his lips pushing into you as Donghyuck bit, tugging the food out of your mouth. 

Still frozen in your spot, you sensed Donghyuck pulling back. You exhaled through your nostrils and slowly opened your eyes. Your best friend was right in front of you, wearing a smirk as he chewed on the fry. He licked around his mouth, gathering the tiny dusts of salt before humming. 

“Salty,” was all he said while everyone surrounding  you laughed at his antics.

Ignoring the hammering of your heart as he continued to stare at your lips, you cleared your throat. As much as you tried to shove all feelings of attraction aside, Donghyuck kept his sultry gaze fixated on you. You watched as it dipped back down to your lips again, his fingers coming up to brush away the little specks of salt that stuck your mouth. 

Everything was too much for you–the warmth of his touch, the intensity of his stare, the looks the others were giving you–it was time to direct everyone’s attention elsewhere.

 “Next dare,” you called out, facing away from Donghyuck.

 You did the honors of drawing the card for the next person, reading it out loud and keeping the game going. Despite everyone else’s attention following your distraction, you could still detect your crush’s unwavering stare from your side. You were hyper-aware of his arm circling your waist, tugging you closer to his body heat, and the way his palm curved so perfectly into your side. It sent tingles down your spine, goosebumps forming in your flesh, and heat rising up from the tips of your extremities to the middle of your body.

Looking at the depleting stack as the game continued, you thought it couldn’t get any worse than this. Turns out, you were dead wrong.

Donghyuck plucked the next card at the top of the deck, read it to himself, and let out a low chuckle. Squeezing your side, fingers tickling the sliver of exposed skin, he said, “Looks like it’s you and me again, Princess.”

 The  reaction kept the group of friends on the edge of their seats, curiosity getting the better of them. “Read it!” Giselle yelled from the other side of the island bar. 

Hating the way Donghyuck dragged things out, it was time to take matters into your own hands. Snatching the card out of his hand, you relayed the message aloud, “Hold a staring contest for thirty seconds with the person on your left or drink. The two participants must be within two inches of each other.”

Oh shit. 

If there was one thing that made you weak, it was the way Donghyuck stared at you. You barely survived him stealing the fry. There was a mission to complete despite his impenetrable gaze, which kept your center of interest. But for this particular dare, nothing would be in the way but the air you both breathed. Could you be able to maintain your cool or would you fold the minute your eyes locked with his?

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Jeno whispered to Karina, the two now seemingly closer after the phone call scandal. She giggled, turning her head towards him to hide her laugh. Traitors, you thought to yourself, the both of them. 

Faking nonchalance, you shifted towards an eager looking Donghyuck. “Thirty seconds is nothing. Let’s get this over with.”

“Whatever you say, princess,” he replied, swiveling in his chair to face you. 

The arm holding you close to him slid down your shoulder to rest on your waist, his hand making its way under your sweater and palm now resting on the small of your back. Your body arched at his touch before you fully processed what happened, your grip instantly shooting to his take hold of his upper arms to maintain balance. You ignored the way his muscles flexed under your palms. 

Donghyuck chuckled again, “We didn’t even start and you’re already like this. How cute.”

Despite how his words and tone made you melt on the inside, how they made you sink a little more into his touch, the snark came bubbling out of your mouth. “Shut up.”

Donghyuck did the exact opposite of what you demanded. “Why don’t you make me?”

“Oh my god, Donghyuck,” you groaned.

“Is the timer ready?” he asked no one in particular while keeping you in his line of sight. It never wavered even as someone in the crowd announced they had pulled one up and were waiting for his cue. 

“Start it,” your best friend commanded and then began the longest thirty seconds of your life.

With Donghyuck barely two inches away from your face, his brown eyes dug deep into your soul. Unable to look away, you took note of how his pupils dilated as Donghyuck continued to stare. The way he looked at you was breathtaking, so focused, like you were the only thing that mattered in the moment. 

The boy’s stare, although flattering, was almost too intimidating for you to take. The intensity of it all made you want to withdraw, the upper half of your body drawing away from him. No matter how much you wanted to escape, he didn’t let you. Every time you pulled back, he pushed forward until the tip of your nose grazed against his. The hand underneath your sweater found its way up to support your upper back, his other arm extending out to grip the counter top. Donghyuck now had you pinned in between the island bar and his body and it was too damn hot in the room for this. 

Just as Donghyuck broke the connection to steal a glance at your lips for the second (or third time) that night, the timer alarmed to signal the end of your dare. You lightly shoved your hands against your crush’s chest, ignoring how firm the muscles below you were, to make more room. Once you deemed him far enough, you reached for your cocktail and took a long swig to cool your overheating body down.

Everyone had their own reactions to the stunt: Giselle and Yeri giggling in the corner, Renjun scrolling through the pictures he snuck of the interaction, Jeno and Karina whispering to another about what just transpired. While downing your drink, you made eye contact with Jaemin, who wiggled his eyebrows annoyingly. You were so close to using his pretty face as your punching bag. Ari simply winked at you. You flipped her off in reply.

Even as everyone else moved on, Donghyuck was still stuck on the dare that occurred. 

While taking one too many sips of your drink, you spilled a bit of it, liquid sticking to part of your skin. With no hesitation, Donghyuck used a part of his sleeve to wipe it away. The fingers still tucked into your knit sweater rose up to graze the back of your neck. You shuddered as he pulled his hand away, the warmth leaving with him. Just when you thought it was over, his nimble fingers reached out to fix the Santa headband that was slipping. Your breath hitched  and your crush promptly picked up on it. 

“Do I make you nervous?” he whispered, tacking your name to the end of his question. His voice was lower than usual, the cheerful and bright cadence long gone. The difference in his tone caused your heart to drop to the floor, as if it was free falling from an amusement park’s drop tower at the highest speed. There was no way to pick it back up.

“You wish.”

Donghyuck had the honors of having the last word this time. “I really do.”

No matter how hard you denied it, your best friend did make you nervous. It was apparent when he took the french fry from your mouth and when you had a staring contest. It was even more evident during your next turn, when you were tasked to spin a bottle and kiss whoever it landed on. 

There was no point in even spinning the bottle; you knew your mischievous friends would make you re-spin until you landed on the person they (i.e. you) wanted. You twirled the bottle a total of three times. The first time, it landed in between Jaemin and Ari and the next, it pointed to Renjun who quickly shifted from its path. On the last try, it stopped in the middle of you and Donghyuck. 

Ari’s manicured hand quickly flicked the bottle just enough so the opened end was aimed right at your best friend. “Well, would you look at that?” she giggled. “It landed on Hyuckie.” 

That girl was a devil in disguise, just like her damned partner.

You rolled your eyes. Sarcasm dripped through your words,“Who would’ve thought?” 

“Damn. Is the thought of kissing me that dreadful to you?” Donghyuck asked, lifting his Santa hat to run through his hair. His long fingers pushed back the curled bangs covering his eyes, holding them in place as he awaited your reply. 

The thought was far from dreadful. Nerve wracking was a far better word to describe how you were feeling. Thrilling was another one you could throw into your word bank. 

You ignored the question, too busy handling the butterflies hovering about in your stomach. One almost got caught in your throat when he swiveled your bar stool to face him. You gulped, shoving it back down. 

 “Is it?” Donghyuck insisted you answer him. You couldn’t lie so you abstained from replying. “Oh, you want me to kiss you so bad, don’t you, princess?”

Avoiding his eyes, you muttered, “Let’s get this over with.” 

“Gladly.” 

The next thing you knew, Donghyuck’s rough hands found their way back to your cheeks and tugged you closer. Seizing the opportunity, your best friend closed the distance with no hesitation. His plush lips crashed against yours and the years of tension between the two of  you ultimately snapped. 

As soon as he felt you kiss him back, your body melting right into his grasp, Donghyuck circled an arm around your waist to lock you in his hold. His other hand sneakily traced a path up your arm, creating gooseflesh on your skin, until finding purchase at the back of your head. He cupped your neck to keep you in place and went back for seconds. The first kiss ended and you parted for a mere moment to catch the tiniest breath before you went back at it. 

Donghyuck didn’t care about the crowd and quite frankly, you forgot about the audience. He kissed you hard and you couldn’t stop reciprocating even if you tried. The taste of him was addicting, it was impossible to break away.  

It was official; you were drunk on him within the first kiss. When Donghyuck tightened his grip, you let out a quiet yet pleasured sound. You latched onto his wavy, brown locks only to tug on them. If you went on for any longer, you were sure to have found your way onto his spread out thighs but you were stopped before you could carry on.

Renjun whistled, pulling your attention from Donghyuck’s kiss and back to the real world. 

You slowly opened your eyes, dazed for a moment in time, until you realized what just occurred. Withdrawing the hands tangled in your crush’s hair, you took in your best friend’s appearance–lips red and swollen, hair messy, and eyes half-lidded and completely fixated on your mouth. His chest rose and fell with each breath he took and once his gaze met yours, you swore his pupils grew in size. 

“God damn,” Jeno coughed, clearly flustered by the public display of affection. “Hyuck, you need a moment or?”

“Hmmm?” Donghyuck hummed, his stare unfaltering. He tracked every minuscule move you made, from the way you drew yourself back to create some much needed distance to how your mouth let out little pants to slow down your heart rate. He watched you press the back of your hands against your burning cheeks in a failed attempt to cool down. “No, no, I think I’m good.”

“I honestly think they both need a moment,” Yeri muttered under her breath. 

“Under the mistletoe maybe,” Ari whispered back. 

“The bedroom’s more like it. The card said kiss, not make out for the whole fucking world to see,” Renjun scolded, rubbing his eyes to erase the vision. You probably scarred the poor boy for life. He was most likely debating on whether or not he had to burn his eyes. 

“I think that looked hot,” Jaemin commented, giving you a wink. The heat in your cheeks turned up a notch. “Enjoyed it a little too much, yeah?”

“Of course, you enjoyed it, Jaem. You’re a freak,” Giselle said.

“Hey, no kink shaming here! This is a safe space! I’m going to make you take a shot for that!”

Only then did Donghyuck snap out of whatever trance you had him under. He gave you this enchanting smile that looked even prettier with his puffy lips. You did that to him. A swell of pride coursed through you–you ruined him even if it was just for a moment.

One of his hands dropped to your mid thigh while the side arguments continued. It traced a path to your knee, his thumb stroking your skin back and forth. “Was that okay?”

It was more than okay. Fantastic. Exciting. Stimulating even, judging by the damp feeling in your underwear. Worthy enough for an encore performance. “Yes.”

“Good,” Donghyuck gulped, suddenly shy and less confident than he usually is. “Are we okay?”

The look of a siren took over your features, your eyes flickering to his lips for a short second. Chin pointed down, your eyes then widened when rising up to meet his stare. Your hand settled on top of his, grounding it on your bare thigh. He squeezed your flesh as you answered with a breathless, “yeah.” 

“It wasn’t too much?” Donghyuck asked, leaning into you. 

He always did this–made sure that you were comfortable when put in awkward or unusual situations. Even when he stole your breath away with a kiss or two, the first thing he thought of was you. 

The only response you could give was a shake of your head, causing the headband to fall back yet again. With his light touch, Donghyuck fixed it right up and combed back the stray hairs stuck to your face.

“Good,” he repeated with a satisfied nod. 

He pressed against your thigh once more and you squeezed his hand back. When your hand refused to move, Donghyuck took it as a sign to keep it there for as long as you accepted his touch. As the game went on and the dares entertained the rest of the crowd, you kept yourself amused by running your fingers against his knuckles. It tickled your crush to no end, his hand squirming underneath yours, trying to break free from your crutches but you didn’t let up. 

To prevent it any further, Donghyuck swiftly turned his hand around and tangled his fingers with yours. He kept you in a tight but not squeezing grasp and it took your attention away from your friend group’s shenanigans. 

You missed Giselle refusing to take another shot and reluctantly taking off Renjun’s sweater vest with her mouth, then Yeri answering a “fuck, marry, kill” question, all because of how Donghyuck’s hand molded so perfectly with yours. Your eyes were glued to your intertwined fingers under the countertop, hidden from everyone else’s sight, but so crystal clear for yours. 

Your heart was going crazy, even crazier than when he kissed you in front of everyone. Those were all done for the public but this little moment was meant for you alone. Donghyuck didn’t have to hold your hand. He stood next to you now, his own seat long forgotten, just to be closer to you. You tested something, trying to pull away but his grip around your hand strengthened, as if he never wanted to let you go. 

With a smile on your face, you allowed yourself to lean against him, your arm pressing against his. As you did this, Donghyuck released the hand he held, only to sling over your shoulder. He shifted to hug you from behind, his back bent slightly so he could reach back down to connect your hands again. 

You looked up at him. “Comfortable?”

Donghyuck’s melodic voice hummed in reply and you leaned into his chest as he held you tighter. You held your breath as you felt a bit of his strengthened chest pressing into your upper back. 

When you stood to refill your cup ten minutes later, Donghyuck still held you with his arms circling your waist as you bent and reached across the countertop. Something hard grazed against your butt as you wiggled in his embrace, stretching your fingers to grab onto the half-emptied soju bottle. He emitted the quietest groan and gripped your sides to keep you still. Heat rushed throughout your entire body when the realization hit and a wave of arousal crashed against you.

“Please stop moving,” he said, desperation oozed out of his gentle command. 

The boy couldn’t move you himself, needing you to shield the erection that he was desperately trying to hide. He simply let you out of his hold, long enough to pour yourself another drink, before his arms encompassed you once more. His chin dropped to your shoulder as you sipped on your drink. 

“Sorry, can’t help it,” Donghyuck mumbled into your ear, his lips grazing against your earlobe. The slightest brush sent shivers down your spine and you were sure he felt it. It reminded you of the dare card you received earlier and you wondered if your crush would have the same reaction if the roles were reversed.

“It’s ‘kay,” you hushed back. 

“Is it though?” Donghyuck pushed. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“I would push you away if I was,” you reassured him before offering him a sip of your drink. 

If you turned back, you would’ve caught his eyes widening at your reply. It was a little spark of hope for the boy but then, he couldn’t be too sure. He refused the cocktail, saying that he should stop drinking for the night. He stressed that he needed to be sober by the end of the get-together to make sure you were alright. 

A call of your name brought you back to the game. The card you drew was a relatively easy one: post a picture with someone or something to your Instagram feed without editing with the caption, “you are the love of my life.” Patting Donghyuck’s sweater-covered arm, you requested his help, “Take a picture with me?”

“Am I the love of your life now?” He threw back, not denying the request. 

You handed your phone to the group’s respective Instagram boyfriend, Jaemin, and giggled. Maybe you shouldn’t have taken that last sip. You were far from drunk but a little past buzzed. “Why? You like the sound of that?”

“I like being called yours,” he flirted back.

“Shut up,” you scrunched your nose at him before turning your attention to the camera aimed at you. 

Jaemin, as expected, took a cute picture of the two of you. 

Donghuck was still draped over you, hugging you waist from behind with his chin resting on your shoulder. While you grinned happily for the camera, your hands covering his larger ones resting on your belly, your friend kept his soft stare on you. He wore a tender smile, honey dripping from his lips and his eyes. It looked like the perfect print for a couple’s Christmas card instead of a drunken dare and you knew this was a picture you wanted to keep on your feed, dare or not. You could always edit the caption at a later time.

Donghyuck continued to hover over you, watching your fast fingers type out the text. You waited together in silence as you hit post, waiting for the picture to upload. When the photo appeared on your feed, you turned your phone around to show the onlookers. Like the hype crowd they were, all your friends pulled out their own phones to like and comment on the post–the girls writing unhinged comments on your beauty or how Donghyuck stole you away from them while the guys drew attention to how long it took you to get together. You were sure the people who weren’t a part of your usual crowd would believe the caption on your post–after all, many often commented on how cute you looked as a couple. Without context, you were sure Mark would be pissed about how you didn’t tell him shit. 

“Alright, alright. It’s your turn, Hyuck,” you said.

“Let me run to the bathroom real quick and then I’ll draw.” 

Donghyuck finally let you out of his warm embrace, heading down the hallway of his apartment, leaving you with the rest of your friends. As soon as they heard the door shut, the group turned their heads towards you. They looked like predators, ready to pounce on their prey.

“Y’all really went at it,” Ari said, “you didn’t even come up for a breath.”

“I felt like I needed to leave the room,” Yeri added on.

“And I felt like I needed to gouge my eyes out,” Renjun dramatically rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t drunk enough for that.”

“You want to drink more?” Giselle perked up, already reaching for his shot glass. 

“Sit your ass down,” Renjun scolded while reaching for food,“I’m driving you home tonight so I’m tapping out.”

“Party pooper,” she argued.

“I mean I could drink more and we could crash here but do you want to stay with Y/N and Hyuck with all this sexually charged energy in the air?”

“Excuse me, what?” you spat out your drink, eyes enlarged as you processed Renjun’s words.

“You heard what I said,” Renjun snapped before turning back to Giselle, “if you’re fine with that, you’re on your own kid ‘cause I’m going home.”

Giselle gave you a once-over and then a sheepish smile. “Yeah, on second thought, maybe not.”

Not over what Renjun said, you whisper-shouted, “Sexually charged energy?”

“Oh please, if we didn’t stop you, you’d probably end up on Hyuck’s lap,” Karina said as she sat at the dinner table across from the island bar. You glared at her, taking in her current position. She shouldn’t even be the one talking; her bare legs rested on Jeno’s lap, her flesh covered by the fabric of his hoodie. You eyed the slight movement of Jeno’s large hand under the hoodie, how it caressed Karina’s thigh.

“Is he a good kisser?” Jaemin wiggled his eyebrows at you.

“You’re such a gossip,” you rolled your eyes.

“Well, is he?” Ari pushed, ganging up on you with her boyfriend.

Thinking back to the hot kiss you shared made you bite your lip. “No comment.”

“She didn’t deny it so that’s a yes!” Yeri stood up, pointing a finger at you. 

You fought the urge to bite it as a small rebellious act. Jeno tugged the end of Yeri’s sweater dress and yanked her back down to her seat. 

“He so wants you!”

“You say that like it’s new.”

What?  Where they implying that your best friend actually had feelings for you? “What do you mea–”

It was then Donghyuck returned from the bathroom. Your group went quiet as he approached, making the lot of you appear suspicious. “Were you dumb asses talking about me?”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Donghyuck,” you said while taking your oversized sweater off. 

Being in the hot seat while he was away got you all fired up–you had to find some way to cool you down. Finishing the game in your cropped bra top and skirt would be just fine. 

“Ouch,” the boy clutched his knit sweater right above his heart, the slight tug lifting the material. You caught a sliver of his gorgeous tanned skin and realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. You swiftly reverted your eyes to the thin deck of cards on the countertop. 

When Donghyuck returned back to his position of hugging you from behind, you froze in your spot. His arms fell over your shoulders, fingertips grazing the flesh of your upper thigh and you did your best to keep it together. 

“Can you draw my card for me?” he asked you, his low voice directly in your ear. 

His warm breath and long hair tickled your neck and you shut your eyes closed. “Huh?”

“It’s too far and I don’t want to reach over you,” Donghyuck whined, his hands sliding up your arms to massage your shoulders. 

You gave into his wishes and reached for a new card. Donghyuck’s grip skimmed your sides, fingers digging into your hips to keep you steady while you leaned forward. His thumbs rubbed little circles on your back as you read the card aloud. “Take a body shot with a person of your choice or finish your drink,” you projected to the awaiting crowd. Fuck. 

Jaemin and Ari’s lips formed twin smirks, satisfied with their front row seats while you slowly piece together that particular dare. Donghyuck refused to let you out of his sight or grip. All partner tasks he had were done with you. Therefore, you would be his person of choice for this dare as well. Could your heart even take this?

Like clockwork, Donghyuck swiveled your chair to ask for your consent. His brown eyes dug deep into yours to check in on you. “You okay with this, princess?”

You gestured to the strong cocktail Ari made him. “Would you rather finish that strong concoction or take a shot? I know you said you wanted to stop drinking tonight.”

Donghyuck shook his head, his luscious hair flopping along with his movement. “Don’t do this because of what I said. That’s not what I asked. Are you okay with this–yes or no?” 

“I–” You were shy but you weren’t unwilling. This game had gotten you physically closer than any other attempts that were made. It gave you a little confidence when it came to Donghyuck’s physical touch. 

When Jaemin and Ari mentioned they had something up their sleeves, you didn’t think a little card game would get you this far. You couldn’t deny the rising tension between you and Donghyuck, especially how it skyrocketed during the many rounds of dares. Neither could you deny the gentler moments sprinkled in the middle of the more intense scenes of the wild night. If all of those moments were leading up to this, why run away from it? 

“Yeah.”

That was not what Donghyuck was expecting to hear. “Yeah?”

“Let’s do it,” you nodded bashfully. You turned to face your friends, feigning confidence, “We don’t have tequila so hand me some sugar and the apple mango soju.”

Sweet drinks weren’t really Donghyuck’s thing. He was more of a plain soju and beer person but while you were both out at a barbeque place earlier in the year, he mentioned that he liked the taste of apple mango flavor in passing. Months later and you remembered that little fact. Donghyuck bit back a grin. 

He reached out a hand towards you and you carefully placed your hand in his. Donghyuck helped you off your high stool, looking for a place to set you down. The island bar was filled with the food, drinks, and the card game so that wasn’t in the running. The dining table had all the white elephant gifts piled on top, so that wasn’t a choice either. 

His eyes landed on the low coffee table in front of the couch and led you to it, your hand clasped tightly with his. Your free hand held the bottle of soju, the sugar, and the shot glass. When no one was looking, you took a quick swig before seating yourself on the cold, glass surface. Donghyuck kneeled in front of you, wedged between your thighs. 

Your friends followed, jittery with excitement over what was going to unfold. They planted themselves behind the couch, keeping their distance. 

Handing him the sugar shaker, you braced yourself as his tongue licked a spot on your neck.  Fingers and toes curling at the sensation, you cocked your head to the side while he sprinkled a bit of sugar on your skin. You didn’t dare open your eyes until you felt him more than a breath away. Avoiding any sort of eye contact with your friends, you fixed your gaze on the person in front of you, pouring the alcohol into the glass. When Donghyuck finished, he looked up at you with parted lips and a glazed over stare. 

“Ready?”

Unable to spit out words, you felt your head move up and down. With your approval, Donghyuck placed one hand on your upper back, the other on your thigh, as he guided you down. You winced when the freezing glass met your skin. A gasp followed when the bottom of the shot glass rested on your bare stomach. 

The room was silent as Donghyuck placed his arms behind his back. You stared at the ceiling as he descended. Struggling to keep your inhales shallow to keep the shot glass upright, you dug your nails into the heel of your palm. Panic and arousal flooded your brain when you snuck a peek of his head in between your legs. First came the tickle of his long hair, then the puff of his breath. The sensations they caused ignited the fire within you and a wetness to leak into fabric, the one that was fueled by another person’s touch.

Donghyuck paused for a moment, peering up at you. Eyes locked onto his target, he kept a steady gaze as his mouth wrapped around the rim of the glass. The sight of him was too sensual, too debauched for your heart to take, you broke the connection and rested your head back on the glass table. A bit of the soju spilled on your stomach when he threw his head back to take the shot. You wanted to wipe the cold liquid with the hem of your skirt; however, Donghyuck beat you to it, his wet lips thoroughly slurping up the remainder. 

To end the dare, your best friend trapped you under him, his arms planted on either side of you. You instantly turned your head to give him more access. One of Donghyuck’s strong hands cupped your jaw to keep you in place as his tongue thoroughly traced the stripe of sugar until it was all gone. He started from where your shoulder met your neck, ghosting all the way up until his nose nudged your earlobe. Donghyuck caught the sharp gasp that escaped you, felt how your hand left crescent moons on his wrist.

One, two, three beats passed until Donghyuck retreated, the scent of his strong cologne whiffing past you as he pulled back. You released a trapped breath and grabbed hold of the hand he offered. Using his strength to bring you back up, your widened eyes met his. 

Unbeknownst to the two of you, your friends had already moved on from the dare and deemed their roles as matchmakers a job well done. They moved from their spots behind the couch and began clean up duty. Renjun placed all the used kitchenware and rinsed them in the sink. Giselle and Yeri threw away all the trash and clutter around the kitchen and dining room area. Jeno and Karina moved like two peas in a pod, working together to put away all the leftovers in the fridge. Jaemin and Ari gathered all the cards, disregarding the points earned, and placed them back in the box. No matter who earned the most points, it was clear who the winners were–you and Donghuck won the game and your prizes were each other. 

Even with the hustle and bustle happening throughout Donghyuck’s apartment, neither of you noticed, too entranced by each other. Donghyuck was completely under a spellbinding haze–the glazed over expression on your face, paired with your heavy breaths and your parted lips–that he just couldn’t help himself. Hidden by the back of your couch, no one witnessed how your crush broke himself out of his trance just to kiss you one more time. 

His lips, still damp with the alcohol that spilled from his messy drinking method, connected with yours. This kiss was slower than the one that took place earlier in the night. Slower but needier. You tasted the sweet soju as your tongues converged. Even with others in the room, who could catch you at any second, Donghyuck never increased the pace. He kept you there with him, warm hands holding your face, thumbs caressing your cheek and the back of your neck, as he lightly bit your bottom lip. 

Unable to control yourself, a quiet sigh broke free when his touch ran up to grab a handful of your hair. You instantly felt Donghyuck react to it. With that boost in confidence, his mouth formed a smirk and let out a breathless chuckle that left you desiring more of him. His hips rocked forward just once, something hard swiftly brushing against your privates, and it was enough for you to release a high-pitched mewl at the contact. When Donghyuck pulled away, his deep gaze was still locked on your puffy lips, now swollen from all the damage he’d done to you. Drawing back again, he took in the whole sight of you from his current spot, kneeling in between your spread legs. 

You were so breathless, chest heaving and body flushed with warmth. The stain on your lips was almost completely gone, what was left of it messily blotched around your mouth. Even if you reapplied it thirty minutes prior,  Donghyuck was almost one hundred percent sure it disappeared because it was smudged on him.

So breathless. So taken. So ruined. 

That was the word. You looked ruined and it was all thanks to him. 

Lee Donghyuck did that to you and he was damned proud of it. Even if nothing else stemmed from whatever this moment–this night–was, Donghyuck would take the overwhelming pride he felt to his grave. No other kiss, no other makeout session, and whatever followed would ever top this exact moment for him. 

You released a quiet giggle and swiped your thumb against his lips. He kissed it as you continued your ministrations, attempting to clean off the bright color that now painted his face. 

Would it be so bad of him if he told you to stop? Would it be okay for him to keep those stains, those little specks of you, on his skin? Was it shameless of him to ask? If it was too brazen, he’d do it anyway–Donghyuck would do anything to be at your mercy. 

“Hey, lovebirds, we’re heading out!” Jaemin called from behind the couch with Ari snuggled up at his side.

The two of you spun towards them and spotted all your friends gathered by the door. Yeri and Giselle were slipping on their shoes, using Renjun as balance as they stood on one foot. Jeno held Karina’s coat, fighting the blush that warmed his face while the girl of his dreams clung onto his arm. If you were in your right mindset, you would’ve commented on that but you were far from it. You were far from sober, too intoxicated not by the many drinks you consumed, but by all the kisses Donghyuck gave you. They were addicting in their own type of way–with his little suckles, licks, and nips. 

“You’re sleeping over, right?” Ari asked, “No need for us to take you home?”

In normal circumstances, you would sleep over with no other questions asked. It was an unspoken rule that you had every time Donghyuck and Mark hosted but this was different than the other times. You just kissed your best friend–the one you usually share a bed with–on multiple occasions throughout the night and there was some sort of invisible string drawing you back to him every single time you pulled away. Ari, as a faithful girl’s girl, was giving you a way out, an option if you didn’t want to take it any further. 

As you debated the choice that was given, Donghyuck continued to breathe you in. Although he had a certain look to him, with all the flirtatious methods he had under his belt, the boy was a one girl sort of guy and that girl would always be you. You didn’t know it but he was saving himself for you. 

To him, you were not another girl he could have a one-night stand with. You were the person he wanted to wine and dine, to take care of at the end of a long day. He wanted to shower you with his love, undying devotion, and kisses so sweet that could rival the taste of your favorite dessert. And yes, this was a risk–possibly the biggest one in his short lifetime–but out of all the risks he took tonight, this was the one Donghyuck was most willing to take. 

You faced Donghyuck, a silent inquiry in your features, as you thought it through. He cocked his head at you, “It’s up to you, princess. It’s okay if you don’t want to sleep over this time.” There was a sense of finality in his low tone, ready to accept whatever answer you were willing to give. 

There was the Donghyuck you knew and loved–always putting your comfort before his own. Even when his hardened state was centimeters away from the place it craved the most, Donghyuck maintained his distance out of respect for you. That alone made you want to stay with him, to explore where else the night could take you. 

You leaned forward and pressed your body against his. Resting your chin on his shoulder, you leaned your head on his and Donghyuck immediately coiled his arms around your exposed waist. 

“I’m gonna stay,” you notified the crowd. Turning so that your lips brushed against his sensitive ear, you whispered just for him to hear, “that’s okay, yeah?”

Donghyuck slammed his eyes shut at your whisper, tightening his limbs that settled around your middle. With his body still in between your legs, you locked him in place by crossing your calves against his back. Your core was now in direct contact with the cold metal of his belt and you shuddered. You sensed the contrasting warmth right below it as you shifted. “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay.”

You could barely maintain eye contact as your friends made their way out the door, “Get home safe, you guys! Text the chat when you get home!”

“Why should we? You’ll be too preoccupied to check,” Yeri yelled back as the front door flung shut.

“You think they’ll finally do it?” Giselle laughed as they all bolted down the stairs.

Karina turned back to face her friend, “Do what–fuck? Yeah.”

“Thank fucking God,” Renjun sighed, “I’m tired of seeing them look at each other like lovesick puppies.”

“They better get together after this or all our hard work was for nothing,” Jaemin scoffed. Ari, still stitched to his side as they stepped outside the complex, nodded in agreement.

“I just feel sorry for Mark,” Yeri winced as they made their way to their respective cars. She pulled out her phone to text the group chat—Mark wouldn’t see it until after his shift at the bar but at least it would act as fair warning. 

“Same,” Jeno agreed. He opened the door for Karina, allowing the girl to slide inside the passenger seat before shutting the door and making his way to the driver’s side. 

“He’ll live,” Jaemin laughed with no remorse whatsoever,“see y’all later.”

With their friends gone, they were truly alone. No one was left to bother them and the only thing to fill the silence was the Christmas playlist in the background. Donghyuck released out a deep exhale and nuzzled his way into the crook of your neck. His hands were splayed against your thighs, caressing all the bare skin he had direct access to. The feeling of his warmth was contradicting–it heightened your mood but also made you feel so incredibly safe. 

Deep in your heart, you knew that Donghyuck would accept whatever you had to offer. If that meant taking things one step further, then he would pursue the heartracing chase that has been going on all night, running you down with kisses and ministrations that would leave you weak in his clutches. But on the other hand, if it meant that you changed your pretty little mind and didn’t want anything to occur, he would take it like a champ and accept that too. 

Donghyuck’s subtle touches were light and sensual but never broke the barrier. He just held you, his touch sliding up from your knees to the top of your thighs, fingers skirting around the seams of your bottoms to the curve of your ass. His caress didn’t break through any layers, they just lingered as he continued to keep you in his hold. 

You were the one who crashed through the walls that were made. You were the one who called his name, making him turn his chin to face you. You were the one who looked at him so intensely before dipping down to steal another taste of his addicting mouth. And Donghyuck, with all his might, matched  your level of desire perfectly.

When your limbs encased him in your embrace, arms around his broad shoulders and legs locking around his hips, Donghyuck let out a miniscule noise and you took the chance to lick around his split lips. Your tongue snaked its way in, stroking the tip of his for a second, before teasingly pulling away. He prevented you from completely ending the kiss, his hand firmly gripping the back of your head. 

You sighed out his name, falling more and more into him, and that was it for Donghyuck. He stood up and carried you down the hall. When he stopped kissing you in the middle of the hallway, your brows furrowed and you pulled back in confusion. He wore a sneaky smile on his face as he gestured up with his eyes. 

“Mistletoe,” he chuckled.

“You’re impossible,” you said, turning away to smile. He was so impossibly cute. 

“What’s so wrong about wanting to kiss you under the mistletoe?” Donghyuck asked, cocking his head to meet your gaze again.

“Nothing.”

“Well then, if it’s nothing, then give me another kiss.”

The sweet and light touch quickly turned into something heavier, doused with all the longing you kept locked up deep in your heart. Donghyuck, with the same degree of desperation to love you, matched your intensity. Your back roughly hit the wall as he raised his knee to apply pressure on your center. The slight pain and the definite pleasure blended so well, you moaned loudly. He lifted his knee again to rip another noise out of you and your whimpers were almost too much for him to process.

“Hyuck?”

“Hmmm?” he hummed as he suckled at your neck.

You were practically sinking down the wall, immersing yourself in his kisses. “Room.”

“What?”

You pried him away from your bruising skin from all his nips and kisses to say, “Your room.” Dropping a kiss to his lips, you begged, “Please.”

Completely in sync, you reached for each other again for another round of urgent kisses. It was the blind leading the blind as Donghyuck stumbled through the narrow walkway to find his room. It would have been easier just to let up for a minute or two but the act of kissing him while desperately searching for his space was so incredibly hot. You were sure it was every girl’s dream to be so carnally wanted by someone to the point of never letting go. You were still processing that you were truly wanted this way by the guy who took up permanent residence in your brain.

You faintly heard the door open and close before you were dropped onto his mattress. You let out a surprise squeal at the unexpected action and he laughed as he slowly crawled over you.

Donghyuck always left his LED lights on even when he was out of the room. You scolded him each time he did it, lecturing him about saving energy, but this was the one time you didn’t. You were glad he left his purple lights on because now you were able to see how truly taken he was by you. 

The lights created a halo around his body and yours. Each of you took a moment to soak up your appearances–Donghyuck with purple lights outlining his lean body, light shadows not enough to hide the affection written all over his face and you with your hair spread across his bedsheets, chest heaving in anticipation, and dilated eyes looking up at him.

Your hands snaked up to the hem of his sweater, tugging at it. It was an unspoken question and Donghyuck answered it instantly, stripping himself of the one layer he had on. Unable to resist, your fingers danced across his bare skin, tracing the lines of his lean muscles. You’d seen him shirtless many times before but never like this. You never had him hovering over you with the feeling of desire coursing through your bloodstream.

Sliding your hands up, you tugged at his long hair to bring him closer to you and his arms faltered for a second. Donghyuck collapsed, dropping so that he rested on his knees and arms. The strands that you played with dangled across your forehead and you reached up to close the distance. 

“I’m going to ask you one more time before I can’t stop myself anymore,” Donghyuck whispered against your lips. “Do you want this?”

No hesitation. “Yes.”

He kissed your breath away, his hands resting against your ribs. Dogghyuck squeezed hushed sounds out of you as he stripped you of your crop top and bra all at once. His hands grasped your breasts, fondled them, while the open-mouthed kisses continued. They drifted from your mouth, his lips marking a path down your neck to your cleavage. Donghyuck teased your nipples with his hand and tongue, watching you writhe with each action he made. Your manicured nails scratched at his back as his licks and pinches quickened.

“God, you’re so–” Donghyuck lost his train of thought when your palm added pressure to the growing need in his pants. 

You struggled to get his belt off in between all his distractions. As soon as you did, your nimble fingers unbuttoned his pants and began to shove his tight jeans down his meaty thighs.

Donghyuck reluctantly ripped himself away from you to do the rest of the work. He did a sloppy job of it all, hopping here and there to wiggle out of his jeans but you didn’t care. You kept your eyes on him, your gaze raking from his head all the way down to the apparent tent in his boxer briefs. Crawling your way to the edge of the bed, you looked up at him while you tugged on the waistband of his last remaining layer.

“Don’t look at me like that, princess,” he groaned while you pulled him back towards you. Donghyuck was beyond ready to risk it all for you, no matter the consequences. Logic and friendship be damned.

“Like what?” You blinked slowly.

His hands went to your hair, tugging you up until you were at eye level with each other. The other arm coiled around your waist and pressed your bare, heaving chests together.“God, do you want to be kissed until you can’t breathe?” 

“By you? Please,” you pleaded again. Donghyuck gave in to you, protecting your head as the two of you fell back. He kissed you as your back hit the bed a second time, his tongue passing over every crevice in your mouth. He met his need to be closer to you by grinding his hips, an action you promptly followed. His hands and yours were in absolute synchronization as they tugged the remaining layers off. 

It seemed like all Donghyuck wanted to do was shower your entire body with his undying devotion, to show you how much he loved you. His lips skipped over the apex between your legs, kissed down your extremities, until he was off the bed with your garments in hand and haphazardly tossed them to the side. 

His hand wrapped around your ankle and dragged your body to the end of the bed. Your heavy breathing increased when you realized exactly what Donghyuck was up to. He shot you an animalistic grin as he dived in with a long lick to your velvet skin.

“Hyuck, oh my god,” you cried.

He sucked on one of your lips and then the other with the same amount of pressure. “Again.”

“What?”

“Say my name again.” This time, he swirled his tongue around your clit then added pressure with the tip. 

It pushed another winded call of his name out of you and you felt him smirk against you. Donghyuck traced your folds with one finger with a featherlight touch before it ventured inside your aching need. His digit slid right in and out, showing just how much you craved him. His eyes tracked how they eased into you, the sight never boring him in the slightest. 

Adding another finger made you even more vocal, as did his tongue playing with your clit. Donghyuck never let up. Even when your fingers tugged a little too tightly on his hair, or when you trapped his head in between your legs, he refused to surrender. Not when your sugary sweet voice kept calling for him. 

You grew hot, sweat forming on your skin, as he continued to drive three fingers into you with a speed and depth you could never replicate. The noises you made became more incoherent with each second that passed, Donghyuck couldn’t even process that you were calling his name. He was too into you, eyes rolled to the back of his head, moans buried into your skin. 

“Wait, wait–” you screamed, forcefully tugging his head away from you, even though you were teetering the edge.

Donghyuck was dazed, lips and chin drenched by your juices, as you commanded his attention. “D’you want to stop?”

Tears gathered around your waterline, threatening to fall, as you gathered yourself. “N-no but,” you gleaned at the clock on his wall, “Mark–”

Donghyuck possessively growled when his roommate’s name left your lips. He didn’t want to hear anyone else’s name when you looked so disheveled except his. “What about him?”

“He’s coming home soon. He can’t–” Hear us was what you wanted to say. 

Donghyuck, however, did not give you time to finish that statement. 

Shoving his three fingers back into you with determination, you heard the embarrassingly loud squelching noises over your whimpers. Donghyuck seemed into it, a madden and driven expression taking over his face, as he snarled back, “I’ve waited too fucking long to have you like this. I don’t care if he hears you–let him hear you. I don’t care as long as you’re mine.”

His fingers combined with his god-send of a tongue worked endlessly, never faltering, as they brought you higher and higher. Worries worlds away, all you could center on was the immense pleasure coursing through your entire being. Fingers curled around his hair and played with your breast while Donghyuck coerced more noises out of you. Your insistent jerking at his hair and squirming alerted him that you were almost there, you just needed a little more encouragement.

“Be a good girl and cum for me, baby,” he said before his tongue flicked tirelessly. 

The soft order mixed with the new nicknames and his brazen desire to make you come undone was too overwhelming, you had no chance of warning before it all came crashing down. Stars in your eyes, cries bubbling out of your mouth, and hands gripping onto anything within your reach, your whole body reaction was good but not enough to satisfy the greed Donghyuck had in him.

“You sound so pretty, so so pretty,” he whispered as he kissed your pulsing bundle. He stroked himself with a painstakingly slow pace, feasting on the way you lost yourself.

When you came to, you rushed to stake your claim on him. If he had his way with you, then you needed your time and space to do the same. Leading him onto the bed, you positioned him to lean against the bedrest and seated yourself on his thighs. His fingers sank into your ass, kneading your flesh until you rocked in time with his movements. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any better than that, your fingers gripped his lengthening cock and began to move. 

Paired with the hickeys you planted on his chest and neck, Donghyuck was at your complete and absolute mercy. When your tongue circled a nipple, he released a weak noise. Picking up on how much he liked it, you repeated the action on the neglected partner then kissed your way down to his hardened cock. When you held his gaze captive with your siren eyes, you descended, tongue running along the side of him. Your lips ghosted against the area, never engulfing him, to prolong the teasing. 

“Want you to sound pretty, too,” you said as you licked the cum off his tip. “Can you do that for me? Sound pretty?”

Donghyuck let out a small noise that you struggled to hear. 

Withdrawing your mouth, you allowed your hands to do the work. They bobbed up and down at a slow, menacing pace, twisting at the right times. When he grew louder, more desperate, you nosed and smirked against his length before giving him what he wanted. Hollowing your cheeks, you sucked lightly on the end before deep-throating him. Saliva dripped from your lips as you relax your jaw, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

The action shocked Donghyuck, overloading his nerves, heart, and brain that he almost lost all sense of self. The strong charisma he held while taking care of you disappeared, reduced to pathetic little moans and uncoordinated jerks of his hips. 

You heard through the grapevine that he was a verbal lover but you didn’t think he was that noisy. You didn’t mind it though, you took his whimpers and babbles as incoherent praises. Desperate mumbles of your name fired out of his lips and his hands yanked you away before he finished.  

“Sorry, sorry,” he said when his hands tugged harshly on your hair. His eyes were still closed as his lips covered yours. He lapped at your mouth, tasting himself, as he placed you on your back again. He nibbled at your earlobe, so near that he could hear your strained puffs. “Dreamed about this for years, waited too damn long. Can’t end like that.”’

“For years, baby?” You scratched his scalp.

His brown eyes rolled back. “Fuck, I love it when you call me that.”

“Baby?”

“Yeah,” Donghyuck exhaled. “Again?”

A begging and pliant Donghyuck was a rare sight, you wondered how hard you could push.

“No,” you said firmly, a hint of a smile breaking through when you caught onto his frustration. 

When he bucked his hips, you clenched and resisted the urge to grind back. “Why not?”

“You’re cute when you beg.”

Donghyuck let out the loudest whine, grinding again. You coiled your legs around his hips, tightening them to lock him in place. Desperation leaking out of him, he continued his actions.  The friction caused by his cock rubbing against your folds was so delicious, you almost gave in. 

“You’re a tease,” he groaned deeply.

“No, that’s you.”

“Please,” Donghyuck’s voice sounded so strained. “I want to hear it again.”

Positioning your lips right by his ear, you gave into his request. “Baby.”

Donghyuck showed you just how much he loved that name by bringing your lips back together. His lower body pressed you against the mattress, hasty ruts making his cock slide against your folds. He blindly reached for his drawers, hand crashing against every surface to search for a condom. In his rush, things scattered about, making the task much harder than it should’ve been. He unwillingly separated from you to retrieve the wanted package and slid it on his fully hardened state.

Hushed, nervous giggles took over when Donghyuck inched towards you. He brushed your loose strands sticking to your cheeks away just so he could see your whole face, all flushed because of him. Placing a gentle peck on your lips, he positioned himself and pushed past the barrier of your folds. Donghyuck took his sweet, sweet time sinking deeper into you and your annoyance grew faster than his pacing.

“Hyuck,” you whined, your mind and body obsessing over the way he felt. His cock was girthy, definitely thicker than his three fingers, but just as long. Just one little thrust by him and he’d hit your spot and you were positive it would feel like heaven. You dug your heels into his back and he keeled. 

“Yeah?” He stilled when he was fully sheathed, breathing heavily at how your body clung onto him.

“Move,” you harshly whispered, pressing your heels again. The stretch he caused wasn’t an overbearing one, it was one you were more than ready to handle. You needed Donghyuck in all definitions of the word but he wasn’t budging. 

“I can’t,” Donghyuck choked when you clenched. You were so tight, affecting him too strongly with the tiniest movements, his mind was conflicted on what to do. A part of him wanted to linger and soak it all in, while the other wanted to lose all sense of control. “You feel so good.”

When you clenched around him again, Donghyuck folded. He never had a chance when it came to resisting you. In the past, he struggled whenever you batted your eyelashes at him or gave him the devilishly innocent puppy dog eyes. How was he supposed to resist your requests when he filled you up to the brim, skin pressed against skin, lips just breaths away from each other? He was at your beck-and-call to the greatest degree and this was the ideal situation to prove it to you. 

His first thrust was sudden, interrupting another request spilling out of your mouth. You choked out an elongated groan and it died in your mouth as he moved again. His pacing may have been slow but it was purposeful. You truly felt every little thing–from the way he drew back to the way your body sucked him back in. A part of you wished to get rid of the condom, so you could make out how the ridges and veins swept your walls, but you knew this was the safer, more logical option. (Plus, there was always the next time.)

Your matched rhythm increased as time passed, sounds of skin slapping and pathetic whines echoing within his room’s four walls. His deep plunges hit the target every-time, his cock directly adding a divine pressure to your g-spot and in response, your nails created dents and scratches on his beautifully tanned skin. Your hands explored every crevice of his body, dragging trails down his chest, arms, and abs. His lips traversed the expanse of your neck and collarbone, before coming back to capture yours in messy kisses.

And when you broke away from his kisses to let out neverending whimpers, Donghyuck knew that you were close. His hand lifted one of your legs over his broad shoulder and that new angle alone made you grip and thrash around the sheets. Your motions were frantic at this point, his hips operating at a relentless pace that you could barely chase. His hands on your hips alleviated you of most of the work, your body too spent in the blaring white, starry-eyed high he was providing. 

His fingers reaching down to pinch your pulsing clit was the final move before you came crashing down. Ecstasy rippled through you and once again, he milked out your cum until your body trembled with aftershocks. He pulled out then, his large hand rushing to finish himself off. 

As you were slowly descending from your high, your one thought was to return the generous favor. Donghyuck jerking himself off to completion didn’t sit right with you. Hazingly, you crawled over to him and swatted his hands aside. The boy was lost in confusion at your actions but it all became crystal clear to him when your face plummeted to his now bare cock, the condom disregarded somewhere on his bed. 

Donghyuck’s tip quickly hit the back of your throat as your hands fondled whatever could not fit. He didn’t last much longer, his groans reaching new heights in volume and his once flourished moves turning into an uncoordinated state of frenzy. Donghyuck, with his tight grip loosening through your hair, said your name once more. His mouth slackened and the long-awaited bliss ultimately reached its peak. 

A familiar room welcomed you as you opened your eyes the following morning. You blinked away the sleepiness, adjusting to the light that peeked through the blinds. The clock on the wall read eight thirty in the morning, otherwise known as too early to be awake after drinking the night away. Slumber was calling your name but so was your stupid bladder. You unwillingly wiggled out of his embrace, watching and giggling as his body adjusted to the empty space beside him. 

You muttered complaints about the cold in your head as you trudged to the bathroom, picking up Donghyuck’s knit sweater as another layer of heat on the way. While you were up, you took care of your usual morning routine–washing your face with Donghyuck’s skin care products, drying your skin with the towel set he always left for you, and brushing your teeth with the toothbrush that stood right next to his. 

The domesticity of it hit differently the morning after you were intimate with your best friend. Something in the air had changed and you hoped it was for the better. A small part of your heart, the one that was so incredibly smitten with him,  worried Donghyuck would view their night together as a one-time thing. Another part of you, however, believed the words he uttered last night. After all, he said he waited too damn long for this. That had to mean something, right? 

You quickly nestled back into the sheets, shifting until the blankets were up to your shoulders. The shirt Donghyuck dressed you in was big and comfortable but the thin fabric wasn’t enough to keep warm throughout the night. Neither was the sweater you threw on. Your preferred source of heat was inches away, his body scorching despite being shirtless. 

Donghyuck groaned as you attempted to make yourself comfortable. His arms snaked around your middle, spooning you just like he did the night before. His face dug into the back of your neck, his nose prodding the sliver of skin not covered by your bedridden hair. His low morning voice, the complete opposite of the higher pitch he used around the group, made your heart plummet.“Why did you leave me?” 

“I was gone for five minutes.”

“Five minutes too long, princess,” he whined, his fingers skimming up and down your thighs.

“You’re so needy.”

This touch rose at a snail’s pace. He brushed your underwear then moved underneath your clothes to rest his palms on your stomach. “No, I just missed you.”

“Yeah, needy,” you retorted playfully, turning to face him. 

The fond smile on your face matched the expression on his and you kissed him softly. He gave you a second kiss and then a third that allowed you to get lost in him. You noticed and enjoyed every little thing he did–his hands dragging your hips to meet him, the sound caught in his throat when your leg wraps around his middle, his tongue lovingly caressing yours. 

Donghyuck reluctantly broke away from you, trying to create some distance. He grew a little self-conscious upon tasting the fresh mint on your lips. Covering his mouth, he said, “Wait, shit. Morning breath. Let me just—”

“Don’t care,” you muttered, straddling him so he couldn’t escape your clutches. You pulled him back in, smothering your best friend with all the kisses he deserved. You left one on each of his eyes, the pretty beauty marks sprinkled across his face, and over the hickeys you littered across his golden skin. 

He chuckled in between kisses, “Who’s the needy one now?”

“Shut up, you loser,” you rolled your eyes with fake annoyance.

“I thought I was your baaaaaby,” he teased, palms running up and down your sides. You paused at that and Donghyuck noticed. “Hey, what is it? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s just–” 

You released a drawn out breath. 

“You’re thinking a little loud,” Donghyuck’s voice let up, his concern slipping through his words. He cupped your cheek and your eyes met. “But not loud enough for me to hear your thoughts. Wanna let me into that pretty mind of yours?” 

You basked in the way his thumb strokes your cheek so gently and the stars that were shining in his eyes. Lee Donghyuck was many things—a hard worker, a flirt, intelligent, caring, hilarious, a pain-in-the-ass, a brave soul. The list went on and on. He wore many crowns and carried many titles but the one title he did not claim was being yours. 

Donghyuck was your best friend but he wasn’t officially yours. And you wanted him to be. 

In your bright and rose-colored eyes, Donghyuck was a risk-taker. He took the risks he wanted to last night to get you in his bed. But was that all there was to it? The part of your heart that doubted his actions and feelings took over your thoughts, the questions picking at you with no avail.

If Donghyuck could take risks, then why couldn’t you? Channeling the confidence your best friend usually carried, you asked, “Do you need me the way I need you, Hyuck?” 

You reached for the hand resting on your cheek and brought it back down to his bare chest. Fingers interlacing, the back of your hand picked up on his heart pulsating rapidly against his chest. 

As if sensing the doubt in your head, he tasked himself to send the negative musings away. Donghyuck didn’t answer your question directly but the words spilling out of his mouth were more than enough for you. “You are the only dream that fills my head—nothing else but you.” He said your name so tenderly, your heart grew three times—no, a million times—too big. At this point, the muscle and the smile that you wore bursted at the seams. 

Donghyuck laid out his cards in this game of love and it was time to reveal your hand. You squeezed his hand tightly as an act of courage and then took the leap of faith. “I like you,” you blurted out, “so much. Sometimes too much that it hurts.” 

Amused and overjoyed by your confession, Donghyuck rushed up to kiss you. His lips pressing against you so suddenly caught you off guard, you lost your balance in the act. “You are so fucking cute, I don’t know what to do with you,” he muttered in between pecks that made you laugh aloud. 

“Date me?” you suggested with a shy smile. 

“Princess, I’m going to date the hell out of you, just you wait.” 

His kisses eventually subdued and you found yourselves laying on your sides facing each other. No words were exchanged as your heads rested on their respective pillows. You were happy when his words never stopped flowing and when you stared in silence with matching grins. 

You watched Donghyuck’s face contort into one of concentration, his fingers rising above his head to count something, before he turned back to you. “We’ve spent seven Christmases together—”

“Oh yeah?”

“—and this one is definitely my favorite.” 

His confession was beyond sweet, it’s honey dripping out of his mouth. Over the years, Donghyuck wiggled his way into your holiday traditions. There was a lot you’d done over the years, from ice skating to gingerbread houses to movie marathons and impromptu snowball fights. Many of those moments were core memories you kept dear to your heart. Donghyuck admitting this meant a great deal to you and the space your heart had for him increased tenfold. Your heart was now completely his. 

Although they drove you insane with their obvious scheme, you thanked the meddling kids you called friends and their stupid game in your head. After all, they were the ones who encouraged you to risk it all in an extremely unserious and unconventional way.

With that being said, the risks the game of life had to offer were terrifying. They were difficult. If you never took them, they would forever leave you pondering about the road not taken. But when you did take them, risks big or small, they were always worth it. 

Kissing Donghyuck sweetly on the lips, you replied, “It’s my favorite too.” 

(01:27) Yeri: i’m so sorry marky  (01:29) Jeno: ditto (01:29) Jeno: f’s in the chat for mark (01:30) Karina: f (01:30) Renjun: f (01:30) Yeri: f (01:30) Ari: f (01:31) Giselle: fffffff (01:32) Jaemin: shut up, he’ll be fine (01:45) Yeri: I’ll leave my extra key under my mat if you wanna crash somewhere else, just got home (01:50) Giselle: home, gnite everyone (01:51) Ari: we just got home too, night night <3 (01:55) Jeno: home, rina’s here too (01:56) Yeri: oh??? (01:56) Karina: shut up (02:35) Mark: wtf i just got home, why are you sorry (02:35) Mark: what happened (02:36) Mark: bro hold up i hear noises from hyuck’s room, who else did you invite?? (02:36) Mark: did y/n get sexiled??? where is she??  (02:36) Mark: she’s not in my room, i thought she was sleeping over?? (02:37) Mark: wait—OH MY GOD YOOOO WTF IS THAT Y/N IN HIS ROOM  (02:37) Mark: …oh my god that’s her let’s GOOOOOO (02:38) Mark: omf they’re so loudddddd dude wtfffff (02:38) Mark: fml yeri im coming over 

AUTHOR'S NOTE. I know it's past Christmas now but I hope you enjoy this holiday fic. It ended up being longer than I thought it was going to be but it's done! My first full fic in quite a bit. The games and hilarity that ensue in this fic are based on one of my drunk game nights with friends. Every time I hang out with this group, something inspires me--we're like sitcom worthy at times lol. Fic worthy even. I hope you all enjoy it and let me know what you think.

Happy Holidays and Happy 2024! <3

TAGLIST. @nctsworld @johtenrecs @emmybyeakitty @sokkigarden @hyuckworld @baekhyuns-lipchain @yutaholic-main @moonctzeny @suhnnyskiess @smileysuh @everloving-avenue @justalildumpling @tywritesstuff @mikalovesicecream @carelessshootanonymous @emvrd @taelme @fairyiene @dreamy-carat @smwhrinthehaze

© sehunniepotwrites, 2023

[sakamoto-hey]

OMG THIS IS a gem and TY like best thing to have read this Christmas season

1. Omg the TENSION STOP I whenever haechan says princess i squealed i cried I literally went whatever you want i will give it to you

2. Consent is so✨💞✨.

[highvern]

endpoint

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader

Genre: fluff, smut, angst, FWB to idiots to lovers

warnings:  cumshot/facial, unprotected sex, multiple sex scenes, oral sex (m & f receiving), rough sex, breath play (choking), mentions of exhibitionism, face fucking, virgin wonwoo mentions, idiots in love, edging (emotionally), impact play, sir kink (brief), alcohol consumption

Length: ~19.5k

Note: thank you to @gyuswhore my love, my life, for suffering through this with me. this fic is set in the same universe as her gyu fic for this collab so check it out (threat). also thank u @haologram and everyone else who beta'd this for me bc im sensitive. follow @camandemstudios for more fics!!! i will come back later and tag the people who commented on the teaser but rn im getting day drunk hehehe

summary: Senior year of college is meant to be full of celebration and smooth sailing. Years of work culminating in the final semesters that will send you off into the real world where clubs, sports, and weekends packed with hungover volunteering to pad your resume no longer mattered. It’d be a piece of cake if it wasn’t for your fuck buddy turned coworker having the same plan. But only one of you can get the department’s most coveted recommendation that all but guarantees your acceptance. Tension rises and the nearly four year thing you’ve had with Wonwoo approaches its endpoint.

collab m.list || m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

“What’s the difference between a proton and an electron again?”

“Shoot me in the fucking head,” Wonwoo whispers harshly.

He’s a seat over, a laptop covered in gaming stickers and a coffee cup containing a lethal amount of caffeine occupying the space atop the narrow lecture desk. It’s a feign to productivity. His screen is split between thesis notes and a countdown to a new video game release that unfortunately hits 0 in the middle of lecture. 

Dr. Wagner’s intro to chemistry  course isn’t difficult – freshman aside – which is why you and Wonwoo agreed to be her teaching assistants. Easy money and a way to get in her good graces come grad school application season. You’ve TA’ed the same course since sophomore year for different professors but it’s all the same; the metaphorical killing field before hopeful freshmen become cannon fodder in the real trial of will: O Chem. 

“Me first,” you whisper back. 

Wonwoo slumps in his chair, opening the shared drive keeping track of problem areas to touch on in lab hours, and typing “check for basic brain activity” under the class To-Do list. 

Fair enough. If they can’t understand the basics this far into the semester then you two are in for a world of hurt for the next practical. You're in for a world of hurt come next study hall when half of them will complain about failing their quiz this morning despite having the answers spoon fed straight from the notes.

[09:48] You:  be nice

[09:48] wonwoo: if they were smarter, id be nicer

[09:48] You: maybe they’re scared stupid

It wouldn’t be too far off. One time a freshman burst into tears while asking Wonwoo to check their practice work during lab hours. Wonwoo swears he didn’t say anything and the kid looked on the verge of a mental breakdown if the wind blew the wrong way.

[09:48] wonwoo: from what?

[09:48] You: the fact ur trying to kill them with your mind

[09:49 ]wonwoo : i wouldn’t kill them

[09:49] wonwoo: just maim or seriously injure so they dont come to class and say dumb shit

Dr. Wagner fields more questions in front of the powerpoint. More ‘dumb shit’ Wonwoo rolls his eyes at with such obvious disgust even you feel chastised. Luckily, no one can see his face from the front row besides you.

[09:49] You: you wonder why they like me more

[09:50] wonwoo: i know why they like you more

[09:50] You: oh?

Stifling an eye roll of your own you throw a glance his way as the next message comes through,

[09:50] wonwoo: nice ass

“Alright, Y/N and Wonwoo will be passing out the study guide for the next exam. We still have a few weeks so don’t worry about the back half but try and review the modules we’ve done so far and bring questions for them during study hours,” Dr. Wagner prattles off.

The gigantic stack of printouts is split in half for you and Wonwoo to disperse around the massive lecture hall. Over one hundred students sit in this lecture; the unfortunate ones who were forced to take a 9 AM course three days a week. Half look like their brain is melting out of their ears, other’s clearly haven’t paid attention at all, and a few are sound asleep. It’s Friday after all. They probably didn’t get back from their Thirsty Thursday night out until a few hours ago.

You wouldn’t even be here if Wonwoo wasn’t a built in insurance policy.

Dr. Wagner collects her things and heads towards the front exit with a cheery, “Have a good weekend!”

“There's a party at Sigma tonight,” Wonwoo shares as you both pack your own bags. The next class is already shuffling through the doors to claim their seats.

“I have work until eleven.”

“After?”

Shouldering your bag, you head towards the door where the next class is already trickling in to find their seats. “Don’t you have a tournament tomorrow?”

“I only have to be at the party for like an hour. I can come and walk you home.”

“Fine,” you nod. “But bring your laptop. I think Chan fucked up the last set of results and we need to fix them.”

It’s not unusual for Wonwoo to spend his Friday nights with you; or another night for that matter. He lives in a dingy frat house on the edge of campus with twenty other guys. It’s an act of mercy. A long standing tradition from the week before freshman year when you two were the only chemistry majors in your orientation group and that turned into a clumsy hook up at an upperclassman’s party. You didn’t know he’d be a virgin and he didn’t know your high school boyfriend dumped you less than twenty four hours before you left for college (but not before you lost your own virginity in the backseat of his car). 

It’d been…not good. 

Wonwoo was awkward and you were unsure. But he was sweet under the bravado; walked you home that night, pretended he wasn’t interested in the fact your roommate never moved in, leaving the suite empty. But he wasn’t a good enough actor to feign nonchalance when you invited him upstairs. Turns out sex was a lot better the second time around, in a bed that didn’t belong to an unknown upperclassman who could’ve burst in any minute. 

Wonwoo isn’t your boyfriend. You’re too busy piecing together the ten year plan concocted since junior year of highschool to even think about such frilly ideas. There’s barely enough time as it is; you’ve got work, a full class schedule, TAing, and all the random clubs you’ve wiggled your way into to pad your resume. 

And he’s busy too. Navigating a sports scholarship and one of the hardest majors left barely enough time for him to wipe his own ass, let alone date. Then came research hours and TAing and the fact volleyball, apparently, wasn’t just a one semester sport, there were scrimmages, workouts, and tournaments out of season. 

It’s been over three years of your arrangement which works best because you don’t have to spend precious brain power deciphering if some random guy you went out with once is playing hard to get or just straight up not interested. You have Wonwoo. He’s simple. 

So what you have now, friends. Who hook up. And work together. Who also happens to be applying for the same PhD program for next year. Not together but at the same time.

The application website stares back from your laptop with horror. 

It’s still too early to submit any materials but it’s been highlighted in bold red in your calendar since two years ago. Everything is ready to go the second it opens—except Dr. Wagner’s recommendation. It’s the sole reason you (and Wonwoo) agreed to be her TAs this semester; she’s one of the program’s most notorious alum, her words as good as gold in securing a spot. 

Someone hacks a cough and shatters the eerie silence of the library. The backtrack of sparse typing and the custodian shuffling around to have been the only company throughout your shift. No one would choose to rot at any of the weathered study tables late on a Friday night so early in the semester. 

With the abundance of free time, you fixed Chan’s mistakes in his set of trials easily, no thanks to Wonwoo who still hasn’t shown up. It’s good though. Your stoichiometry homework is submitted three days before the deadline and the mountain of emails clogging your inbox from hopeless undergrads is in the single digits. Half the labs from last week are graded for Dr. Wagner’s approval, the other half can wait until Sunday night. A long weekend of sleep awaits once the clock hits eleven and you’re free to run home.

Wonwoo stumbless in five minutes before the clock runs out. His duffle for tomorrow is slung over his shoulder and he’s already dressed for bed, rumpled sweats and a hat he definitely wore to the party with high hopes to cut out early. 

“You’re late,” you acknowledge, cramming your belongings back into your bag. He’s close enough to get a whiff of. “And you’re drunk.”

“I am not drunk,” he argues.

The lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips says otherwise but it isn’t an argument worth having. All you want to do is get home and pass out.

He shoulders you bag, presenting his hand when you insist you can carry it on your own. The dry warm of his palm against your cold is pleasant enough you don’t argue as you tug him towards the automatic doors.

“Have a goodnight, Mr. Lee,” you call towards the security desk.

The guard, old enough to be your grandfather, calls back, “You too, sweetheart.”

Out in the balmy night, you tug Wonwoo down the street in the direction of your apartment. Two blocks and then a right turn leaving you outside the dowdy building with hallways that constantly reek of weed and new paint smell.

A pack of freshmen girls heading somewhere, marked by their matching uniform of jeans and black tops of various coverage, crowd the sidewalk straight ahead. Someone is crying, one is on the phone, and a few others stand dumbly waiting for their next movie like zombies — all incredibly wasted. You barrel through them without acknowledgement. A few drunken bitter ‘bitch’s hit your back but you ignore them to focus on the man struggling to push through the crowd without accidentally shoulder checking any of them.

On the other side, you ask, “Have fun at the party?”

“Some pledge puked on Jihoon’s stuff,” he huffs, nose scrunching.

“May he rest in peace.”

Wonwoo sways from side to side from the weight of your bag but also whatever radioactive mix was served at the party. The stairs provide an extra challenge since the elevator has been broken for weeks but thankfully it’s a short trip to the second floor.

He presents your belongings with routine ease once the front door of your apartment looms ahead. Music from the floor above shakes the walls; hopefully you can make up for the lack of sleep tomorrow morning.

There isn’t much space inside the four walls you call home – the ‘kitchen’ which is a single counter with a stove and fridge you’re barely around to use, fifteen feet away your bed in the corner, bordered by your desk at the foot cramped with a spray of errant papers and books you’ve been too busy to deal with. The monitor doubles as a TV and finally a tiny loveseat with a broken leg replaced by a stack of hard covers completes the room.

You beeline for the bathroom to wash away the filth of a long day and Wonwoo, keeping on trend, follows into the cramped space.

“Can I help you?” you ask, shirt tossed into the bin in the corner.

Wonwoo’s shirt goes the same and then his pants after a brief struggle. “You know I sleep better when I shower.” 

True.

“And I doubt you're gonna let me in your bed if I’m dirty.”

Even truer.

The water is still cold when you step in but the man glued to your back fights the worst of the chill away. Goosebumps prickle along your skin but have nothing to do with the vent that points directly into the stall (whoever designed the apartments must have had a sick sense of humor) and everything to do with Wonwoo’s mouth tracing the curve of your shoulder.

Forcing the heat blooming between your legs down to a simmer, you focus on washing up and getting into bed before it rolls into a boil and you do something stupid that’ll only leave you and Wonwoo struggling for balance. 

Shower sex is a dangerous sport. Shower sex with Wonwoo has left you both with bruises. Drunken shower sex with Wonwoo will get you both killed.

Soft hums tickle your neck as you clean up. There isn’t enough room for two people to stand in the spray at once so you take turns hogging the steamy water and braving the frigid cold until the last bits of soap swirl the drain.

Even when drying off you stay in each other’s orbit until the need for clothes and sleep drive you both out of the bathroom and back into the equally cramped space of your room.

It’s not until you’re laying on the mattress, darkness snug on all sides, that you feel Wonwoo roll atop you with purpose.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Wonwoo hums into your stomach, fingers crawling up your bare legs.

“That,” you inhale at the nip of his teeth on the curve of your thigh, “doesn’t feel like nothing to me.”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer but gives you plenty of time to brush him off while bruising your skin. You don’t. Instead you sink deeper into the blankets and let him push your shirt up until you're bare once more.

The fuzziness of alcohol lingers in his veins – just enough that he smiles into the strip of skin above your panties as you sigh and arch under the delicious weight of wandering hands and mouth at your nipple.

“Wonwoo,” you sigh and he’s up and kissing you with eager clumsiness.

A familiar prod at your core through his boxers crashes bubbles through your veins. You felt it in the bathroom but now is when you finally get to indulge with subtle grinds Wonwoo meets in his own search for friction. 

“Don’t you need to be up—ugh—early tomorrow?”

He kisses you slowly, tongue dragging along your bottom lip until your mouth opens under his. It burns you from the inside out. Mindlessly you shift your legs to frame his hips better but Wonwoo kisses deeper and all you can think about is giving in to whatever scheme he’s working up to have you both naked and panting.

He leans back a fraction to speak, giving in when you chase his lips before ducking to nip at your ear and mumbling a response. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I will worry about it when you snooze twenty alarms and your team hunts me down because I smothered their star player with a pillow,” you snort but heat under a squeeze of his fingers at your sides.

“Sleep when I’m done with this.”

“And what is ‘this’ exactly?”

A harsh suck at your jaw has your stomach tight. heavy and thick until need drips down your spine to coil in your gut and the emptiness between your thighs becomes unignorable. He hides pleased groans in the curve of your neck until you force a hand under the band of his underwear. Eyes opening, you watch the muscles of his back tense and flex as he rocks against you, fucking your fist greedily.

It doesn’t last long. Wonwoo gets antsy under the taunting pressure of your thumb and descends back down your body with burning lips. “Take your shirt off.”

“It’s cold,” you complain but do as he asks. 

He traces your figure clad in nothing but your glasses and a soiled pair of panties; damp at the crotch from his attention and Wonwoo slips a finger under the hem to tease you that inch closure to depravity.

Wonwoo laves against the hickey on the inside of your thigh from a week ago, it’s yellowed and perfectly shaped like his mouth. It’s tender under his attention, even the gentle tracing on his nose forcing you to wince in discomfort. 

He coos, kissing it before skating back to the hem of your panties, lips vibrating against your skin. “Sorry I didn’t come earlier.”

Why he brings it up now is a mystery. Or the fact he brings it up at all. Life happens. You’ve blown him off more than once for a late night in the library; no hard feelings.

“It’s fine,” you sigh as he tugs the last scrap of fabric off your body and pushes your knees up to display you like a meal.

Spreading you apart, he lands a wet kiss at your entrance before teasing with the heat of his tongue. 

In a beg for sanity you twist a tight grip in his hair; a tangled mess from his drunk endeavors. Wonwoo pushes harder, drowns in your taste with enthusiasm as you moan and sigh. 

“F-fuck.”

He won’t ask if it’s good. He knows it is. Nearly four years of hook ups attunes him to your pleasure, a well rehearsed routine that has you both ache in the best way. 

You lose yourself in shaking breaths, feet planted to drive up into his mouth for more. He sucks your clit and nearly gets his head crushed by your thighs. It doesn’t take much and he knows it. 

You chant ‘gonna cum’ in choked groans that almost die at the edge of your teeth but Wonwoo hears and takes it as permission to pull out the stops, hand at your thing with a harsh grip and fingers sinking home.

He’s memorized all the signs of your want; the wrecked echo of your throat and the sounds he pulls from you a clear tell. He flattens his tongue, holding steady as grind straight into mindless bliss. Spit pools and drips and slips down onto the sheets. Wonwoo hums praise, unintelligible but you vaguely know it’s something that’d make you blush you could hear it over the pounding in your ears.

Back arching, your vision flares white at the edges and when Wonwoo realizes what's happening he makes it last until your fist ball up and you’re floating.

Wonwoo backs down as you twitch through the tail end, sloppy kisses to your clit that could knock into another fit if he isn’t careful. But even as you tremble the only thing you want is the weight of his cock in your mouth, or inside you. You aren’t picky as long as you get to feel him cum too.

You finally manage to pry Wonwoo from between your legs with an ankle to his ribs. You’re not done with him despite the fatigue hanging around your shoulders like dead weight. He angles over top of you for a kiss that tastes too much like pussy for your liking but it’s hot knowing he’s covered in you so you push until his shoulders meet the sheets and you can claim his lap.

His dick strains through his underwear, preening when you rock back into the heat. His nostrils flare when you grab for it, stiff enough to sink onto easily. 

“Oh god,” he groans, head digging back into the pillows to watch you like a goddess.

His fingers web across the tops of your thighs, a harsh grip keeping you flat as he grinds up into the wet heat of your pussy. You whimper and sigh for him; all the sounds he loves to hear. You squeeze your chest, taut nipples framed between the slants of your fingers to entice him until he reaches around and knocks you forward for the sole purpose of taking one in his mouth.

Your eyes roll back, jaw locked open, drowning in the stretch and the bite of his mouth and the hands squeezing your ass so hard it hurts. Wonwoo groans, throaty and desperate. “Gonna cum. Wanna cum in you. Holy shit.”

He gets you on your back. Too absorbed in his own end, he’s dead weight with his tongue between your lips and harsh thrusts that take him right to the edge. It gives that grit against your clit that means you’ll come too, soaked in cum and spit and sweat.

You wish he’d flip you on your front and fuck you with a hand between you shoulder blades and the other tangled in your hair. That’s the kind of fuck that’d leave you satisfied the entire weekend he’s busy but he’s running out of steam just doing this, picking up speed in his thrust, the clap of bodies filling the room.

Chanting his name like a broken record, ‘Wonwoo, Wonwoo, Wonwoo’ breathy but loud enough your neighbors will leave another passive aggressive note on your door come morning, all you can think about is his cum. On you, in you. A sick part wants him to pull out and cum on your face – he hasn’t, not in a long time because priorities and responsibilities and you're usually lucky to have even five minutes alone before someone needs either of you. But you want it. God do you want it.

“Cum on my face,” you whimper. There’s drool on your lips and sweat in your hairline. Even if he doesn't, you'll need another shower anyway.

A strangled noise escapes from between his teeth at your neck. Then he’s driving forward so hard you burn; painfully so, mouth locked in a silent choke. Your orgasm rips through your insides, jagged at the edges where Wonwoo fucks himself into your guts. 

“Fuck yeah,” he grunts, pulling away and replacing the grip of your pussy with a tight fist as he straddles your chest. 

The taste of cock floods your tongue, heady and intoxicating. You get one, two drags against the stiff head and then he’s cumming, dripping his spend over your lips, then your cheek, then your glasses because he’s a sick freak. Even in the dim light from the window he twitches at the sight. You open your mouth and replace his hold, moaning as more comes to the surface. You swallow down as far as he’ll go which isn’t much in this position but it’s the thought that counts.

Wonwoo grinds to halt with an occasional kick of his hips that leaves you choking – rigid limbs locking in place until he melts with sticky satisfaction. 

He’s up and off, your glasses in hand for a thorough cleaning, not even bothering to flick on any of the lights but you hear the sink running in the bathroom before he comes padding back.

“God,” you whimper in disgust. “That’s so gross.”

“You’re the one who asked for it,” Wonwoo snorts, soft passes of a damp cloth on your skin focused on getting you clean enough to sleep.

“Because it’s hot but you aim for shit.”

Wonwoo tosses the rag somewhere, flopping down and pulling you close as possible with a kiss on your forehead. “Next time I’ll aim for your hair.”

“Bitch.”

The sound of music from upstairs pulses through your head as you drift off, Wonwoo asleep on your chest, fingers laced together on the sheets beside your indecipherably intertwined bodies.

Your week is divided into a simple pattern. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you wake bright and early to attend Dr. Wagner’s chem lecture and then stay on campus attending every other class you could find to fill the gap between your evening shift at the library. Tuesdays and Thursdays are void of responsibility until your afternoon lab with the freshman near tears while learning basic titration for four hours, followed by office hours where said freshman finally come to actually cry about their grades. Those are the nights you, Chan, Wonwoo and a handful of other lab techs work on research that carries the same threat of waterworks. 

It’s there Dr. Wagner pulls you and Wonwoo aside.

“I know you both are applying to Dr. Collins lab for your PhD studies,” she starts. 

Her office reflects the same disarray as her personality; warm and lived in. Papers and exams are organized in chaos, thick stacks lining her desk waiting for you and Wonwoo to enter them into the online grade book. Books, some leather, some paperback, some the glossy cover of a textbook with cracked spines and yellowing pages are crammed into the bookshelves lining the walls until they threaten to collapse from the weight. It smells like coffee, plants, and the candle she always has burning. It’s a cozy hovel overlooking the rear courtyard of the science building that resembles the sterility of a hospital. 

Wonwoo occupies the other barrel chair with worn upholstery. You’ve barely seen him in the past three weeks, too busy with volunteering and working and classes while his own responsibilities keep him so exhausted it’s truly a miracle he’s even here. Dark stains ring his eyes beneath his glasses and he looks paler than usual. You’ll ask about it tonight when he comes over to work on your most recent stoichiometry project (which will be forgotten in favor of passing out during a movie while you play with his hair if history is anything to go by).

“I don’t think I’ve ever met two students who belong more in his lab,” she continues.

You try not to preen, but academic validation is a hell of a drug to caffeine addicted undergrads. Wonwoo perks up too. Three and a half years of barely being people for this moment and it’s finally in reach.

“However,” Dr. Wagner clasps her hands atop the dark wooden desk. “I’m writing only one recommendation this semester. It might seem unfair but I want to commit to the student that deserves it the most since my schedule doesn’t allow me much free time.”

It’s like being underwater. You hear her words but nothing registers, blinking rapidly in case this is a hallucination from falling asleep in the lab again.

“I know it might not be the news you hoped for but I know senior year is a lot, especially for students as involved as you all, and I thought this could alleviate some of the stress. You two are the only students I’m considering. So please, keep up the incredible work and we can talk again at the end of the semester when I have a more holistic evaluation of your progress.”

She stands to leave, snagging her purse and blowing out the candle with finality before abandoning the shit storm in your lap for whatever else she has to do on a Thursday night. Probably retell the events of the last five minutes to other professors in the department, laughing at the way you’ve turned purple from holding your breath.

“Have a good night you two! See you tomorrow!”

The office, once warm, feels hollow. You feel hollow. 

“What the fuck?” Wonwoo hasn’t moved either, glued to his seat as he stares at Dr. Wagner’s now vacant chair with his mouth wide in shock.

“Did that just happen?” you scoff in disbelief. “Is she serious?”

Wonwoo collapses over his knees with his hands scrubbing at his face like he also might be hallucinating. “I needed that recommendation.”

“Well, so do I,” you argue.

“I know. This is bullshit.”

“Did Changkyun say anything like this happened last year when she wrote one for him?”

“No, all three people who asked her got one.”

“Oh, so it’s just us she hates. Great!” you throw your hands up, sinking deeper in the chair. Maybe it’ll swallow you whole and the entire ordeal will cease to exist.

“She’s probably just trying to get in our heads so we don’t slack off this semester.”

“Have we ever slacked off any semester? I’ve been on the President’s Honor List since freshman year. You’ve been on the President’s Honor List since freshman year. We’re those people.”

Since starting college, since that one night during orientation where you and Wonwoo became a ‘we’. Not in the relationship sense, but in the way two lines merge. Same path, same goals, same classes, same PhD program prospects. There was plenty you two did separately but more you did together. Neither competing, but working together. 

But now that’s over.

Because only one of you can get into Dr. Collins lab, only one of you can get the recommendation, and only one of you can have what you both worked tirelessly for over the past three years.

“Listen—” you stand up and scrub at your own face. “It’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out.”

“We? Only one of us can get her recommendation. What’s there to figure out?”

Your face goes hot. He’s right. “Well, I need that recommendation.”

“So do I,” Wonwoo argues, eyes cold.

“Fine.”

That recommendation is mine.

“Fine!”

We’ll see about that.

Wonwoo stays in her office, flinching as you slam the door and flee.

The issue with fighting with Wonwoo is that as mad as both of you are, there are a million responsibilities you share that require close proximity.

Presently, it’s grading the last batch of exams. Seventy eight packets. And because Dr. Wagner doesn’t believe in convenience, it all has to be graded by the hand of two TAs running on nothing but caffeine and spite.

Which means it’s past midnight and the couch has a permanent impression of Wonwoo’s ass while you both silently fume and scratch through wrong answers with a heavy hand in red ink.

The weather reflects the atmosphere; pouring rain and thunder loud enough to shake the windows. The power has flickered in and out since the rain started but you're both too stubborn to call it quits – if there is nothing to keep you occupied then you might rip his throat out.

Wonwoo doesn’t even ask if you want more coffee before he snags your empty mug and moves to the kitchenette. You don’t look up when he sets it back down, and only grab it and take the first sip of perfectly steaming hot sweetness when he flops back on the couch without another word. 

Then the power goes out again, and doesn’t come back.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Using the flashlight on your phone, you search the drawers of your desk for candles. There nowhere to be found amongst the stacks of unopened sticky notes and tangled cords. 

Wonwoo shuffles behind you, papers landing on the coffee table completely abandoned. “We’ve been at this for hours. Let’s just go to sleep.”

“I have them in here somewhere,” you bite, another handful of chargers and a stapled you’ve never used and other things you didn’t even realize you own fill the drawer. You move to the second. “There’s only a few tests left.”

“We can do them tomorrow. It can wait.”

“No,” you spit like a curse.

Whatever Wonwoo was planning to say dies on his lips. “Fine.” 

His shirt lands over your head, you rip it off only to find him half naked in the dark, huddling under one of the throw blankets you keep on the back of the couch. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sleeping.”

“On the couch?” 

“Yep.”

“You’re too tall.”

“Well,” he draws like a pouty kid. “I don’t feel like sharing the bed with you.”

In a way it’s safer to argue about something trivial like this versus the entire reason you’ve iced each other out since that day in her office. Because at least like this, you won’t lose him. It’s stupid and petty but at least you’re speaking to each other; breaking through that wall of silence that’s been steadily growing more and more unnavigable as the inevitable draws nearer.

“Fine, then I’ll sleep on the couch and you take the bed.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. N. O.”

Fine.

It’s difficult to navigate in the dark. Your knees end up a victim to the edge of the coffee table and you trip over the edge of the rug, but you find the couch. Reaching down, you find his chest, then his shoulder. And once you’re sufficiently oriented you sit on him.

“Ow,” Wonwoo grunts as you flop down, elbow in his gut and his chin hitting your forehead. “What are you doing?”

You wedge in closer, slipping between his body and the cushions, bracing to kick him off by force if needed. “Sleeping.”

“Here?” he asks. Too aware of your plan, he turns as well, grabbing the back of the couch overhead to stay put.

“You’re too tall to sleep here.”

“And we’re both too big to sleep here together. Take the bed.”

“No,” you huff.

“No?”

“No. N.O. I believe you’re familiar with the word,” you spit.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“If you keep talking then neither of us will sleep.”

“Neither of us are gonna sleep anyway. You move too much to be comfortable like this.”

He’s right of course. Your hips already ache but if you move then he’ll find some way to pull you off. “I’m fine.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

You do the mature thing and bite him. 

The muscles corded around his pec twitch under your mouth as he flinches. “What the hell was that for?” 

You do it again.

“Stop.”

“Or what?” you ask, muffled in his skin as you move to leave another bite.

Wonwoo also does the mature thing and pins your wrists in one hand, maneuvering until you're sandwiched between the couch with his chest flat to your back.

“I can’t breathe like this,” you muffle into the cushions.

“Oh, how tragic.” You feel his words tickle the back of your neck rather than hear them. 

Wonwoo releases your wrists pinned to your stomach. His hand finds its way under your shirt, his shirt from some stupid frat fundraiser you’d been coerced into attending, flat to your belly with soothing circles. His calf hooks over your own to tangle your bodies together. He kisses the back of your neck, a simple brush of his lips that lingers.

It’s easier to feel everything in the dark. Your annoyance and frustration forged over the past weeks melts away and all that’s left is the need to have Wonwoo close. Just like this. Where there are no deadlines, or responsibilities. Where you both can drown in each others’ presence and everything else is washed away in the heavy drops pounding the windows outside.

Here, everything is uncomplicated.

The next rumble of thunder is loud enough to send you both in the air. Unfortunately, Wonwoo drags you backwards off the couch and to the floor. You land relatively unscathed but he knocks his elbow into the coffee table.

“Are you okay?”

Wonwoo groans and curses, cradling his elbow.

“Aw, tell the doctor where it hurts,” you coo, prodding his side.

He snatches your hand and pins it to his chest but not before lacing his fingers through your own. The gentle rise of and fall of breathing and the thud of his heart reverberates down your arm and straight into your own chest where something frozen softens. “Has anyone told you you’re annoying when you’re tired?”

“Yes. You. Lots of times.”

“Good. Wanna make sure you’re aware.”

Lighting turns everything white, a quick flash highlighting the room. There and gone and leaving you more disoriented than before. Rolling over, you hook a thigh over his lap which he welcomes, tugging you closer and absorbing the proximity like second nature. You’re a glutton for warmth –  Wonwoo’s warmth specifically – even in his sweater and his sweat shorts and his shirt, you still want more of him.

“We can’t sleep like this.”

You don’t want to move – laying like this, in the dark, nose dug into his chest as you twisting your fingers in his, squeezing and glowing pathetically when he squeezes back – all you want is to drown in him a little longer. Until you're forced to come up for breath.

But the sore spot between you two is still raw like a fresh bruise.

“Then sleep in the bed,” his lips drags over your knuckles as he speaks.

“No. You sleep in the bed, you’re too tall to sleep on the couch.”

“Fine.” Wonwoo jumps up from his place on the floor, grabbing your hands once again before dragging you around the coffee table towards the opposite side of the room. It’s ridiculously childish, especially in the dark where he bounces off the desk and the rug roughens the back of your legs.

He shimmies you around a corner and a cloud of laughter puffs between your lips. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sleeping in the bed, and you’re sleeping in the bed with me.”

“What if I don’t want to sleep next to you?”

“Then I’ll cry. Like that time we watched Steel Magnolias.”

“Have mercy,” you whimper.

“Then get your ass in bed.”

Deflating like a balloon, you stand. Wonwoo keeps his hands on you the entire time, guiding you down to the mattress and covering your body with his own just in case of an escape. He bunkers down in the safety of your neck, dragging your hands to his hair, mimicking the motions he craves until you take up the action and gently comb through the tangles.

A part of you wants to cry. Preemptively mourn the end of this – whatever this is. Late nights with Wonwoo, whispering in the dark about clueless underclassmen and annoying professors. Taking turns scrolling through adoptable cats at the local rescue. Cooing over them, rolling your eyes when Wonwoo finds Pixel still listed as available for adoption, a sign to him that he’s meant to have her except he lives in a frat house. Or the nights neither of you can sleep and take a trip to the local diner and tuck yourselves away in a corner booth to watch drunk people cling to consciousness over waffles and hash browns. 

There will be no more of that. Not by the time winter break comes. One of you is getting the gold ticket and the other will be up in the air with the hundreds of other people competing for the same handful of slots. And if one of you doesn't get in? 

“Was that so hard?” he whispers into your collar.

When you don’t answer, he looks up at. In the cast of lighting coming through the window he’s the same Wonwoo. The one you’ve been best friends with for years now. The one who is practically glued to your side whenever possible. 

The one who you’ll have to say goodbye to.

He meets your kiss lazily. Like he still thinks you have all the time in the world.

It makes the urge to cry that much worse.

The rain is gone by morning. 

The room glows from the orange light of the first minutes of sunrise. Sometime in the night you rolled to your side and Wonwoo pressed tight to your back. He’s awake, drawing shapes on your hip beneath the fabric of your shirt.

“Morning.” 

You hum and roll over to burrow in his chest, the crown of your head digging into his neck and away from the sun. “Morning.”

The warmth of his hands trace the curve of your back, pulling you closer; hiding his own discontent with such an early break in the tentative truce that only seems to exist in the late hours of night and earliest minutes of dawn. Days of sleep deprivation with nothing but sterile lighting in the lab leaves you both needy and vulnerable. So he hugs you tighter and sighs when you do the same.

He’s hard against your thigh. Clearly a result of biology more than need because he’s snoring against your hairline. Flashes of dreams rush forward – him beneath you, on top of you, behind you. It’s been weeks since you two last fucked. When you called him an idiot and he called you stubborn and next thing you were on the table with your legs spread for Wonwoo’s hand in a clumsy bump and grind while arguing about which one of you fucked up the biosensor callibration through gritted teeth and needy whimpers.

You’re wet. With his thigh pressed between your own the fact becomes more evident as the urge to curl into it nags.

Taking advantage of the exposed curve of skin beneath your mouth, you kiss and suck with lax intent until Wonwoo tips his chin up and gives a silent green light.

A heavy hand drags down his front, nails scratching bluntly through the fabric until it can slip beneath the waistband of his sweats and the curve of his cock sits pretty in your palm. Commando for convenience and comfort. More the latter because there’s no shot in hell he’s been getting laid lately.

His breath is sticky in his throat, vibrating beneath your teeth from thin pants as you work him through a loose fist. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Yes.”

Slouching down, your head rests on his stomach, sweatpants bunched around his thighs. The first lick sends his hips up in search of more and you eagerly supply the soft suction of your mouth; lips catching around the flared head. A hand on the back of your skull keeps your hair from interfering as he plumps against your tongue. 

Eagerness fails to penetrate this moment slowed down by the greater need to drag this out. To savor every second because who knows when you’ll both stop being petty enough to just enjoy one another’s presence again.

“Might cum—fuck— don’t stop,” he grunts.

With the sun filling the room even more you’re running out of time, the warmth growing to leave sweat at the small of your back. He pushes harder into the curve of your throat and you let him, gagging wet with a lewd mix of spit and pre-cum that has you both moaning at the choked sound. Jaw slack, Wonwoo fucks your mouth with slow ruts; stomach tightening and the hand in your hair fisting tight enough you moan.

“Shit, babe—c-cumming,” he whines with a pathetic groan you’d make fun of him for later but all you can think about is the thick taste of cum and if there’s enough time for some attention between your own legs before life becomes unignorable. Not enough time for a real fuck but Wonwoo has a few tricks up his sleeve that promise satisfaction.

You bounce back down next to him and Wonwoo pounces, rolling on top of you, thing between your spread legs. He doesn’t shy away from your tongue against his teeth, dips a thumb beneath your chin and slips his tongue right along with it, sucks your lips until the swell, backing off only to bunch your shirt up. Lazy drags of his mouth on yours – not the ‘I need you’ kisses after a late night but the ‘I miss you’ ones after weeks of passive aggressive silence.

He licks down your front, goosebumps blooming from the draft as he sucks a nipple until you arch and twist a hand in his hair. You give a lax stretch and sigh while his hand slips beneath the edge of your panties.

Taking the morning for what it is, you fall into the motions until the blare of the alarm clock signals the beginning of the end.

You push away and swipe blindly at the night stand to make it stop but Wonwoo has other plans. 

He pins your hips down, tongue flat to the crotch of your underwear with a pant. “Ignore it.”

“What?” You look at him and find tired eyes watching back from over the edge of your wrinkled shirt. His hair is a mess, stuck to the side of his head from sleep and your eager hands and all you want to do is comb the tangles out while he pulls your strings like a puppet master.

But you can’t.

“We’ve got class,” you gasp through a hot kiss on your clit.

A groggy groan of, “skip,” vibrates on your skin.

Fingers curling in the sheets, you grasp for disagreement only to find a moan as he pulls your hips closer and works a finger where you need it most.

“We can’t.”

“We can,” Wonwoo grunts, focusing on peppering greedy kisses to the sensitive insides of your thighs. “We’ve been early every time this semester.”

The hand not curling in your guts runs down the back of your calf, bending until it hooks over his shoulder.

“Fuck, Wonu,” you whine over the crude sounds of his mouth. You want to. God, do you want to. But you open your eyes again and they land on the stack of exams on your desk. Ungraded. Because Wonwoo said you could do them this morning. And now he wants you to skip class despite how important it is. 

You close your legs only for Wonwoo to take it as a challenge, pinning your hips in place and celebrating his perceived victory with a throaty moan as he rocks against the bed.

“Stop.”

He pulls back, mouth wet and brows furrowed. “Huh?”

The alarm on your phone pings again. Swiftly silenced this time as you roll out from beneath him and land beside the mattress on unsteady feet. “We can’t skip. We have to give exams back.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he argues, flopping down into the warmth you left vacant.

The room is too bright, a clear sign your morning routine is behind. “You think now is the time to start slacking off?”

“It’s not slacking off.” Wonwoo snags his glasses. He looks more annoyed with them. “It’s a break. You clearly need one.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Just forget it. I’m not arguing with you about stupid shit.”

“And what's stupid shit? The job we signed up for? With the professor who controls our futures?”

Wonwoo fixes his pants and rolls out of bed. On the opposite side. As far away from you as possible. “Whatever.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

“Good!”

“Good!”

You slam the bathroom door shut with finality. When you come back out, any trace of Wonwoo is long gone.

There aren’t many people in class. A benefit of Halloweekend is the partying starts Wednesday and doesn’t stop until the following week. Even with last night's rain plenty of students are battling hangovers which leaves a third of the usual lecture attendance to witness you and Wonwoo go head to head while Dr. Wagner sits at home with a mysterious illness she announced in an email three minutes after nine AM.

The few that are there snag their papers, lips curled in disgust at the plethora of red ink spilled on white pages. Their own faults for not paying attention during lecture but maybe the scarlet gashes were a little dramatic. Wonwoo’s jaw is tight, pointedly ignoring you except to hand exams over that someone is waiting for with dread in their eyes. 

You could’ve skipped. It wouldn’t even count as skipping because class is canceled and there’s no award for hauling ass at the crack of dawn when your advisor isn’t even here to see it. You could be tucked away in your apartment with him under your skin; firmly in the place between dreams and waking where you liked him best, nothing but warm skin and rough hands with his lips on your hairline and your head burrowed in his chest. 

There are too many witnesses to just drop the act and wrap your arms around him from behind until he gives in. Apologize for the stupid shit he rightfully called you out on. But as your courage grows with each student’s exit, Wonwoo makes to leave before you can make use of it. 

Barely an hour of fighting and it already feels like an eternity.

“Hey,” you call.

He freezes by one of the desks near the back of the room, like he’s shocked you’re even there in the first place. But he doesn’t turn around; just tilts his head so you know he’s listening even if he doesn’t want to.

“Sorry about this morning. I-I think the stress is getting to me.”

And the fact that I can’t be mad at anyone besides the universe for this incredibly shitty situation. And I miss you. Even when you’re right next to me.

“Okay.”

“That’s it?” you fidget with the strap of your bag; a million pounds heavier even without the weight of ungraded tests that Wonwoo snatched before you could divide the remaining work.

He turns around, eying you with an exasperated look. “What else should I say? You called me a slack off and implied I don’t do my job.”

“I didn’t,” you argue but it’s salt in the wound because—

“You did.”

“But—”

“It’s fine. I’ll finish grading the exams over the weekend.”

And then you're alone.

You’re alone in the study room you both usually occupy to work on the Nanochemistry project due at the end of term. The shared document has updates, the blink of his cursor mocking your from wherever he hunkered down. Away from you. The temptation to type ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again disappears once he logs out barely a minute after you logged on.

You’re alone at the circulation desk of the library through your shift, head whipping around to every squeak and cough only to find someone who isn’t Wonwoo. There’s an email from him, to Dr. Wagner with you CC’ed, about class averages and exam questions that should be thrown out.

You walk home alone. Other students in various states of dress and intoxication crowd the sidewalks, a few you recognize but they feel a million miles away.

Alone in your apartment, the two mugs from last night clean in the sink.

The good part of being alone is when you start crying, no one is there to see.

It’s near midnight and the chill of the breeze whipping down the street bites at your exposed skin. Already the should-be-condemned frat house pulses with life, the promise of a long night ahead thrumming through the symphony of drunk screams and music.

It’s not unusual for you to attend frat parties. Wonwoo’s favor guarantees free booze and a perch at the top of the staircase where underclassmen are barred from entering. But you’ll settle for watching drunk underclassman stumbling over the front lawn from one of the couches on the front porch (which are so broken in, no one sinks into the cushions – they just fall straight down until the worn springs catch them) because the inside of the house is too hot, and too crowded, and far too loud. 

A hail Mary apology is the only thing on your mind. Yesterday had been the nastiest spat in recent history between you two; notwithstanding sophomore year when Jeonghan asked you for tutoring and Wonwoo insisted on helping. “Helping” meant cutting off every question Jeonghan dared ask with a series of snorts and huffs until you left and refused to talk to him for a week.

He’d apologized in the most Wonwoo fashion – completing your Thermodynamics assignments for the rest of the semester and before going down on you until you threatened to kick him in the head through sensitive sobs.

Wonwoo is here – somewhere. Shuffling up the past, past the line of eager party goers looking for a way in, you scan the front porch, he’s not in his usual waiting spot to whisk you upstairs where the older members hang out with better drinks and better music. Not that he would be. He doesn’t even know you considered coming to this.

Instead, poor Chan, dressed in yellow and black stripes, mans the door with pilot Jihoon by his side.

“Jihoon,” you greet, before looking at the younger man. “Speed bump.”

Chan mumbles something under his breath but lays on the ground regardless. When Wonwoo went through the same hazing you only got a few chances to enjoy the ridiculousness before he dragged you upstairs and shut you up himself.

“Can you not torment the kids?” Jihoon grunts.

“I could. But, where’s the fun in that?” 

“Your boyfriend is inside. If you see Jun, tell him it’s his turn to watch the door.”

“Got it.”

Stepping over the underclassman still laying on the ground, you head inside and straight for the packed kitchen to get a drink. There’s barely any space between the hoard of bodies, forcing you to shuffle forward everytime there's a gap in the crowd; but it’s more like swimming against a rip tide. 

It’s difficult to see with nothing but a few strobe lights and some strings of Christmas lights to clear the dark. One glance up towards the upper landing of the staircase is all it takes to find him right next to Mingyu. Matching costume, two bean poles standing out from the crowd of shorter men. Mingyu makes a brief nod in your direction but before you can see Wonwoo turn you’re off into the kitchen.

It’s an even tighter fit in here. A pledge pours drinks from a cooler, for a brief second you’re tempted to indulge. The last time you did, freshman year, you ended up crying in Wonwoo’s room mid-hookup. You scan the slim pickings and settle on an unopened beer. The shots you took while getting ready are already catching up.

Forced between anxious isolation and drinking, a few of your friends come up and briefly make conversation. You feign interest, eying over their heads for a familiar mop of dark hair without success.

A few guys stop to compliment your costume. They give themselves away in glazed heavily lidded stares, single minded focus on your legs. They ask what your major is, boast their status as pledges to your disinterested grimace, and move on when you finally put them out of their misery and fib about your “boyfriend” being “president or something” but “I don’t pay attention to those things,” and they all disappear significantly paler than when they first appeared.

You bite the bullet of your pride and turn to leave, only to find Wonwoo barely an inch away.

His eyes burn over your figure, the short toga covering just enough for you to avoid public indecency. Good. It’s the entire reason you wore this stupid costume in the first place. He’s a horny loser for nerdy shit and this is the best thing you could’ve worn other than one of those video game character costumes forcing your boobs in your throat and leaving you at serious risk for public indecency.

It’s not the first time you’ve wrapped yourself in barely enough fabric to constitute an outfit for the sake of his forgiveness and it probably won’t be the last.

Wonwoo pins you to the counter with his hips, hands bracketing your figure on either side. The green hat with an ‘L’ is lopsided on his head but at least he didn’t wear the fake mustache. “So, what is your costume?” he hums into the space just below your ear with a kiss.

“Guess.” You tilt your chin, cocky.

“And if I get it right?” he asks, lips at your ear.

Heart pound, you ditch the beer and reach for his hips with purpose. “Whatever you want.”

“Dangerous words.”

“Think of it as my apology for being a huge bitch yesterday.” 

He sighs into your neck, arms tight around your waist in a loose semblance of a hug. It’s a farce. Your ass meets the counter with minor effort and Wonwoo claims the space between your legs before you can pretend to object.

He still hasn’t kissed you.

You want more than kisses. You want to feel him, all of him. Want to drag him to the living room serving as a makeshift dance floor and sink into the heat of his body pressed flat against your own for everyone to see. You want to pull him into that closet off the main hall, familiar from that hot night of freshman year when a drunk make out turned into a timid fingering and eventually Wonwoo handing over his first time on a silver platter. Or even run back to your apartment, pluck through the leftover Halloween candy you bought on discount and watch whatever horror movie has become his recent obsession. You just want him.

“Mingyu thought you were Socrates.”

Pressed this close on the sticky counter, his body is the only thing protecting what little of your dignity is left. Even then, there's enough of the slippery warmth of alcohol to tempt you into rutting against him right here for those stupid pledges to see. “Mingyu is an idiot.”

“Clearly,” he chuckles. “The rubber chicken gave it away.”

You shake it at eye level. “Behold, man.”

“Lame,” his kissing gets bold down the shaft of your neck, teeth scraping your collarbone.

“Oh please, I feel your boner.”

He doesn’t resist you when you nuzzle along the bare parts of his neck, a tease of soft kissing usually reserved for quiet moments tucked away in your apartment. Even in the chaos of the party, body heat turning the air uncomfortably warm, you crave more of his closeness. 

His hands feel nice on your legs. None of the timid gentleness of years prior when he’d touch you like it’d burn if he wanted it too much; trailing higher and higher but never under the short hem of the bedsheet turned dress. His fingers flex into the muscle at the outside of your thigh, hook behind your knees and drag you to the edge of the counter. 

You're sweating through your own skin when he kisses you. 

The need in your gut blooms at full force. Your mouth loosens, welcoming his tongue and teeth and whatever else he’s generous enough to give while you tug at the loose fabric around his hips to force more close proximity; the zipper of his pants is hot against your core and if you fucked him right here it wouldn’t look that different than the PG-13 make out happening right now. 

“Wanna show me your room?” You blink like some moony eyed freshman, glassy, pupils blown from vivid images of all the possibilities in the solitude upstairs. Wonwoo is fine with the game of whatever your apology entails even if it means you throw cheesy lines like that.

He ushers you off the counter, flat to your back as he pushes through the crowd with you ahead. Even in a drunken haze people part out of his way because of the mastery of resting bitch face only he seems to have despite the complaint putty that lies behind it. A private smile splits your lips. He can’t be that mad. Not with how he pulls you closer, in the protective way he so often does in the buzz of a single minded crowd with more alcohol in their veins than blood. 

Mingyu is standing on the landing. Girls in scraps of fabric eye him up and down, even in his stupid costume with the mustache but he ignores them in favor of pouting straight into a red cup.

“Why is your boyfriend moping?” 

“Fuck if I know.” Wonwoo focuses on sucking another bruise on your neck like no one's watching. 

You’re loose enough not to care about Mingyu’s annoyance as Wonwoo ushers you by. “Cheer up buttercup, I’m sure there’s a Peach here into charity fucks!” 

It’s meant to be encouraging, but Mingyu looks like he’s torn between strangling you and throwing himself over the banister.

Maybe you did lie about being Wonwoo’s girlfriend, but he is president and his room is the biggest and furthest away from chaos. Up on the top floor where the music isn’t as loud and the only people on this floor are other members and their guests for the night.

Wonwoo pushes you inside, kicking the door shut loud enough you wince before crowding you against the wood. You throw his hat away somewhere into the darkness, hand twisted in his hair as he kisses you. Sloppy and gross until he rocks into the softness of your stomach, gasoline on the flame.

“Turn around.”

He barely gives you enough space to do so, pressing you flat once again, cheek squished to the door and a rough pull at your waist. 

“If you’re thinking about touching my asshole, don’t. I have shit to do tomorrow,” you warn. 

On the other side of the door you hear footsteps but they pass by without stopping.

“Noted, but not what I’m going for,” he jokes. 

Your skirt flips up and a draft against the damp crotch of your panties sends a tremor straight through your core. “Share with the class.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I’m shaking in my toga.”

“And you call me a loser.”

“I can call you some other things,” you grit, pushing back into the heat of his covered cock. “They aren’t as nice though.”

“Yeah, yeah. Take your panties off.” 

He’s a little bit of a freak. Sometimes he enjoys fucking you in nothing but your underwear and others he wants you in everything but. Maybe because of how this entire thing started; when you wouldn’t even take your bra off and he survived on the barest flash of nipple.

The flimsy soiled fabric barely passes your knees before he’s on you again, easily tempted by the arch of your spine. You hum content as he presses a finger into your cunt, then two. His other hand forces the neckline of your dress down and lo-and-behold your lack of bra delights like you knew it would.

Whatever bright idea that fluttered in Wonwoo’s brain is forgotten as he spins you back around for an eyeful of naked skin; a mouthful of your chest and your leg hooked around his hip for a pathetic dry hump into the heel of his hand.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan with extra emphasis and a caved stomach because there’s teeth and he makes it hurt. “Kiss me.”

Another rut into your thigh and his teeth are back at your bottom lip. It’s not exactly what you anticipated when you showed up tonight but there are far worse places than having a doorknob in your back while Wonwoo leaves a hickey below your ear; a perfectly good bed ten feet away but neither of you can be bothered to move much more than forcing Wonwoo’s pants down enough his cock leaks in your grip, head nestled at your entrance.

You surprise him by sinking to your knees. Head tipped back against the door, you tilt your mouth open to welcome him on your tongue. Wonwoo stares down at you; tits out, hand between your legs as you suck his cock in quick motions until he takes over and fucks into the curve of your throat. 

“Holy s-shit,” he hisses and you flatten your tongue to help him along. It feels good; seeing him reduced to so little just from the wet suck of your mouth on him. 

A choked gag forces Wonwoo back into his body, hips curving away so you can swallow air before leaving a sloppy kiss on the tip. Seizing him in a tight grip, you use the spit to jerk him off until he cringes with another pathetic moan. 

Someone giggles in the hallway, close enough you both hear. They’re far enough away you can still whisper to Wonwoo. “Remember that time we fucked in here last year?” 

“When you almost got us killed?”

Last year, at the same party, when you showed up in a skin tight Shego costume, Wonwoo pulled you to the only available room: Seungcheol’s. It’d been hot. Fucking when you aren’t supposed to, having Seungcheol pound at the door while Wonwoo came down your throat (no condoms and no hope to clean up).

“Do it again.”

His hand creeps into a loose collar around the base of your throat. You keep rubbing between your legs, working up a slick slide until your nails dig into the skin of his thighs.

“Really?” There’s no need for muffling the noise when it's his room and the only people at risk of hearing anything have done far worse. He pulls you to your feet, forces your cheek against the door and slides right behind you. Like he was made for you.

“Choke me,” you gasp before digging into the sick part of your brain that likes seeing him strung out, extra breathy just to see his eyes go wide. “Sir.”

Your skin sticks to the door, shamefully squeezed as he drags his cock through the mess of your pussy. “You can’t just say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

“Because what?” you goad. “Gonna punish me?”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you? Show up wearing this,” he grits, tugging at the white fabric bunched around your waist, using the hand on your throat to squeeze your cheeks tight with authority you drool for.  “Asking to be choked and now you probably want me to spank you and call you a good girl.”

You grunt through the raw thrust at your gut, sending your head back from sheer enthusiasm. “N–not my fault you fuck me so good.” 

Wonwoo almost can’t control himself, hearing nothing but praise fall from your mouth as he fucks you limp against the door. “God.”

Someone screams, “Leave room for Jesus!” from the other side of the door and you almost rip it open to kill them if Wonwoo wasn’t dragging you to the bed. 

He folds you onto your front, both standing at the foot of the bed. A deep roll of his hips and you’re filled completely. 

“O-oh, fuck me,” you moan, uncaring if the idiot outside the door is still listening. Wonwoo has a hell of a hand and puts it to use against the curve of your ass. The coil in your gut pulls taunt as he delivers one after another.

He fucks deeper, a the hand not burn against your bottom between your shoulders. “You look so good— ah —taking my cock like this.” His voice waivers with the same stunted rhythm of his hips. 

“W-want,” you choke on spit, drooling into the comforter. “Wanna taste you.”

The animalist need to suck both your flavors off his cock nearly sends you into a fit but Wonwoo’s there, hooking his hand back around the front of your neck with a subtle squeeze. You want the stupid dress off, you want Wonwoo’s clothes off, you want to fuck him where there’s no one around to catcall in the hallway like twelve year old boys. Want. Want. Want.

What you get is enough pressure from his fingers that your mind blanks. Wonwoo gets a tight enough squeeze on his cock that he’s forced to a grinding halt. 

Then his rhythm goes deeper, harder. Course curls against the resistance of your ass until you almost collapse against the edge of the bed. His cock hits that spot like it was made for your body. “Touch yourself.”

You comply without further command. You’re wet, soaked, arousal smeared down your thighs from Wonwoo’s treatment. Your fingers bump against his length as you match the pace of his strokes. “Fuck, Wonwoo — hmmm.” 

“Tell me how it feels,” he gasps like it’s his first breath in hours.

“Wet, so wet,” you croon, arching harder, joints locking. “Gonna cum. Oh my god.”

He reaches low, grabbing your hand from between your thighs and pulling it to his mouth for a taste. His tongue slides between your digits, liquid slick with a soft suction your crave on your clit. 

“Beg for it.” Wonwoo bites your shoulder hard enough you cry. 

Stuffing your hand back between your legs, you play with your clit clumsily. Until pink crowds the edge of your vision and it hurts. “Please, please! I need—Want it. Wanna come for you. Please, sir.”

Wonwoo strains to hear your pleas over the clap of bodies. He’s worked you near the middle of the bed, practically laying on top of you as he fucks in quick succession. 

“Harder, fuck me,” you demand. “Yes, yes, y–yes!”

If you were on top you’d fall straight off, jerking tightly under Wonwoo’s weight, turning your face to greet his tongue between your teeth and mewling sensitivity. He doesn’t show mercy, continuing to fuck you through the worst of it.

“Holy shit,” you whimper, head throbbing. Wonwoo forces you back on your knees and you fight through sore muscles and sensitivity to preen under the weight behind his hips. 

“Can I come in you?” he asks in a shivery breath.

You nod with closed eyes, tugging the hand around your throat to your lips and sucking his fingers like it’s a cock. He finishes with a choked breath, flooding your insides with sticky warmth you’ve never gotten used to in all the months you’ve fucked without condoms. 

His breath fans against the nape of your neck, another swivel of his hips from the sensitivity. Your walls squeeze as Wonwoo pulls away. 

You roll onto your back with a bounce, Wonwoo jostling you when he joins. Shoulder to shoulder, you stare up at the ceiling while catching your breath. “Do you think you’ll pop a boner when your students call you a sir next year?”

Wonwoo heaves a long breath, amusement in his voice. “I come inside you and that's the first thing you think of?”

Immediately you regret the joke. Since Dr. Wagner’s announcement weeks ago neither of you had broached on the topic of what happens after graduation. Mostly from fear. But also because it’s a long discussion you’re not exactly sure what you want out of.

“Answer the question.”

“I hope not.”

The bed shifts beneath your knees as you crowd over Wonwoo, laying with his arms behind him to keep from sinking flat. The tired lines of his face look deeper in the lamp light. He’s nothing more than a big softie that wants to cuddle half naked in his bed while you play with his hair until sleep finds its place.

“It’s our last Halloween party.”

“Wow, just like old times,” you snort. “Should I start crying? Then it’ll be just like freshman year all over.”

Wonwoo laughs, his hand snatching yours and lacing your fingers together. “You wore a bra and bunny ears freshman year so if you’re gonna whip that out too – by all means.”

“God, we were so lame,” you announce matter of factly. Crying in lingerie and animal ears in one of the supply closets downstairs all because—

“Don’t rope me into that, miss ‘crying-because-she-didn’t-know-how-to-suck-dick’.” Wonwoo rolls on top of you, hoping to silence whatever argument bubbling in response with a teasing press of his lips. You're still sticky with sweat and spit and cum, nipples and pussy out and the thought of his dick, limp against your thigh, makes you sensitive all over.

“That’s former miss ‘crying-because-she-didn’t-know-how-to-suck-dick’,” you trail off into his mouth. “And you’re one to talk. Remember the time you cried about how happy you were that we were friends.”

He bites your lip in retaliation. “I didn’t.”

“You did. I have the video from Mingyu.”

“I thought he was an idiot.”

“He is but he’s good for blackmail.”

You might consider staying the night if he keeps tracing his nose along the arch of your collarbone. But a shrill giggle and some pornographic moans ring through the walls of the neighboring room. Not the side Seungkwan occupies. Hoshi’s. And it’s only the start.

“We can’t sleep here.”

Wonwoo collapses, tugging you with him. “I can’t ditch again, I’m on pledge duty.”

“You’re hiding in your room with me.”

“Okay, technically I’m on pledge duty.”

He wouldn’t stay here if he wasn’t required. Wonwoo hates party nights, especially Halloween. Too many variables requiring all hands on deck; too many needy people demanding his presence for some issue that could’ve been handled if they used their brain to think farther than the tip of their nose. Rarely, if ever, does he sleep in his own bed when you have a perfectly good one tucked away in a private apartment without thirty other men tripping over each other. 

“Well, I’m not sleeping with that.” On cue, another whimper, clearly a man’s, breaks through the tentative silence. Are they fuck against the shared wall?

Wonwoo sighs, scrubbing his face before moving for his phone. “I’ll send one of the kids to walk you.”

“Wow, a pledge escort. How thoughtful,” you sneer.

He huffs again, unwilling to start a fight that’ll leave neither of you satisfied. “Text me when you get home.”

You don’t.

There is an unspoken habit between you and Wonwoo that Sunday mornings are spent at the only reasonably priced coffee shop just near your apartment. A charming hole in the wall, with hanging shelves displaying layers of tchotchkes, paintings lining whatever free space between them, and wobbly tables with equally unbalanced chairs. It’s always packed because the coffee is decent and they have outlets. After last night, you hope he’s too exhausted to even think about showing up.

Mugs click against dark lacquered tables, the dull murmur of conversation churns over the music swelling softly through the speakers. The smell of pastries and espresso wake you enough to slide into a vacant table in the corner and set to work. 

Or you would’ve if someone didn’t sit down first.

“Oh.”

Wonwoo already has a mug and a little brown bag as he looks up at where you stand dumbly.

“I can just go…sit somewhere else…” You turn to leave, except there are no other tables. Couples and groups claim every single seat except the one across from Wonwoo.

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know, probably because I’m mad at you.”

He unpacks his laptop, shaking his head. “You’re not mad at me.”

“Yes, I am,” you emphasize. 

“You’re a bad liar.”

Neither of you are good at lying. Even worse at fighting. Incapable of committing to real anger when it takes all your energy to stand up straight and not fall asleep in a pile of ungraded papers and half finished assignments. Besides, you're only pouting because he passed up a night at your place to clean up pledge vomit. 

You can’t tame the annoyed grin cracking your face.  “Fine, I’m not that mad at you. Buy my forgiveness in the form of coffee.”

“Too much caffeine will kill you.”

“I can only hope,” you sigh, arms cradling your head against the hard wood of the table while he joins the queue at the register.

Wonwoo orders your drink and a cheesy pastry the size of your head, the smell of greasy carbs first thing in the morning softening the ice in your veins. He knows your weaknesses too well. 

“Is this penance?” 

“Something like that.” He tears the crispiest corner off and pops it into his mouth.

“Did you look at the study guide for Calc yet?”

Two hours later you approach the counter for a second round of coffee and snag one of the jammy tarts Wonwoo likes but rarely buys for himself. Whatever chaffs between you two melts under the constant stream of note checking; Wonwoo’s hand on your knee under the table helps too. 

“If I look at this anymore, I’ll run into traffic.”

“We’ve got the Nano project that needs some work,” you suggest. 

He stretches wide, a sliver of skin visible between the hem of his sweater and the band of sweat pants. “I’ve got practice in an hour. We can do it tonight when I’m done.”

You try not to stare and instead return to focusing on the screen of your laptop burning your retinas.“I’m tutoring Seungkwan.”

“After?”

“He’s gonna be a bitch and the last thing I wanna do is look at more school stuff.”

“Then no school stuff,” he decrees with finality. “I’ll bring mushroom pad thai from that place on Market.”

“Are you trying to bribe your way in?”

“Is it working?”

You hum a dismissal but watch him through your lashes. He looks good – washed in late afternoon glow, hair a mess with glasses and a sweater that hangs off his shoulders. It all screams ‘drag me to bed and nap the rest of the day’ which is trouble for you because you still want to be mad at him if only to see how fair he’s willing to go for your forgiveness.

“We can watch Yellowjackets,” he barters, packing his bag.

Another group eyes your table with hope to claim it the second it’s available. Sadly, your ass is firmly planted for the rest of the afternoon. With or without Wonwoo.

“You’re really trying to butter me up, aren’t you?”

“I cannot sleep in that house,” he deadpans. “Please take mercy.”

“Oh, so you’re just using me for a place to sleep. Even after I wore that stupid Halloween costume?”

He pauses, eyes glazing like it’s a distant memory and not less than twenty four hours ago. “You looked hot.”

“You made that pretty clear.”

“Anyway, I’ll come over after practice. You can bitch about Seungkwan until you pass out.”

“Fine, but if there is no pad thai then don’t come.”

“Whatever my woman demands,” he snorts, dropping a kiss to your lips before turning towards the door.

Two hours and another coffee later, Seungkwan occupies Wonwoo’s abandoned chair. There’s no reason for him to be taking an intro chem class as a Creative Writing major other than the fact he’s a bit of a masochist. He’s not half bad at it and doesn’t really need any tutoring but you get paid for showing up even if it’s complete silence as you pick your nails until he needs something.

You’re marking through his latest attempt when he finally speaks up, “You're dating Wonwoo, right?”

Red pen scratches through the edge of the paper. “What?”

“You and Wonwoo.”

What is the absolute configuration of the two carbon atoms in this compound? More red ink.

“What about me and Wonwoo?”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes with exasperation, like you’re on the outs of some obvious joke. “Dating.”

If an alkene has 24 hydrogen atoms, how many carbon atoms does it contain? Another X.

“No.”

“Oh, I thought—”

“We’re just friends.”

When 10 g of 90% pure lime stone is heated completely, the volume (in litres) of is liberated at STP is… Wrong, again. Which makes no sense because Seungkwan is good at this level. He’s fucking with you on purpose.

“Huh,” he comments, grabbing the worksheet back from your claws.

“‘Huh’ what?”

“I heard a rumor he had a girlfriend last night, that’s all.”

It's not the first time someone assumed there's more between you and Wonwoo then there actually is, your fib last night clearly fanned the flames of even more speculation. But neither of you date; not enough time, willpower, or patience to entertain someone around packed schedules. If you and Wonwoo didn’t have the same life within the chemistry department then you’d never see each other. It’s convenient as it can possibly be. 

Maybe at one point there was. Summer of sophomore year when he studied abroad in Spain and the usual substance of correspondence morphed from memes and jokes to something softer; I miss you’s and you’d like it here’s. Late night phone calls that lasted hours, refusing to hang up first until one of you fell asleep and the other finally canceled the call. 

But the opportunity to tip over the edge came and went without coalescing into whatever was on the other side. 

Seungkwan can pretend it’s an innocent suggestion but he stares you down until you crack with your own curiosity. “Who told you that?”

“Some pledges said they accidentally hit on his girlfriend. I don't even think he knows another girl beside you. Plus you were at the party last night.”

Stupid fuckers, you mutter under your breath. “We’re not dating.”

“But you guys are always together.”

“We work together. You and Vernon are always together, are you two fucking?”

“My room is next to his and it doesn’t sound like work to me.”

“How does me failing you sound?” you spit. 

Seungkwan doesn't so much as flinch at the threat but returns to the practice sheet with a smile nonetheless. 

Typically, fall break is spent hidden away in a pile of blankets with you and Wonwoo alternating movie choices throughout the weekend. Dead Poets Society (him), When Harry Met Sally (you), Over the Garden Wall (him), Fantastic Mr Fox (you), and so on and so on.

This year, you have a strong feeling Dr. Wagner’s favorite pastime is seeing her TAs squirm. It’s the only explanation for the unique brand of humiliation she subjects you and Wonwoo to. Tonight, Friday and technically your first night off for the long weekend, she decides to engage in a new sort of torture. A fancy dinner that neither of you could ever hope to afford, and even as her treat, you still eye the menu prices nervously. 

But Dr. Collins sits across the table, in the flesh, so you pull out the skills you learned in the ridiculous theater class you took freshman year to “diversify” your transcript and smile through the anxiety. 

Wonwoo does a little better; in a button up you’ve only seen him wear a handful of times when his usual wardrobe is sweatshirts and free shirts from campus events, he looks more comfortable than you feel.

“Jill, tells me you both work on Epitranscriptomic mapping in her lab?” Dr. Collins asks after another sip of his drink. Two whiskeys at dinner. 

It’s not an official interview. Not anything close to it, according to your advisor. Nothing is set in stone, even if Dr. Collins laughs at Wonwoo’s awkward jokes and nods enthusiastically to your stories about working in the library (he also worked in the library in undergrad, but used it to nap more than actually work). But it feels like a step in the right direction. 

“Yes, sir.” Wonwoo and you nod in tandem.

Dr. Wagner’s research focuses on how different RNA modifications vary across various cell types and states. It’s high level stuff that no one but Wonwoo understands when you rant about the broken Cellraft machine. And his complaints about NovaSec’s constant crashes that leave him without work fall on deaf ears except when they’re directed at you. 

Half the reason you two started speaking during orientation is because the overly enthusiastic intern asked what people were looking forward to the most during school. You and Wonwoo were the only ones who seemed to think she meant school-related and not where to buy a fake ID. Apparently, the best person to get a fake ID from was a junior in Dr. Wagner’s lab that year. Go figure.

“I’ve seen you two listed down the line as co-authors,” he nods. 

The waiter brings dessert, spiced toffee cakes and ice cream. You’re starving but the knot in your stomach from when you sat down is even tighter and all you can do is pick at the plate.

“Well, Y/N does a lot of the troubleshooting for the RNA degradation issues,” Wonwoo shares. 

Your face heats at the unexpected but not undeserved compliment. Dr. Wagner’s work isn’t cheap and the thought of wasting valuable money, money that could line the pocket of an extra set of hands, forced you to run a tight ship. The other researchers in her lab could say what they wanted behind your back but Dr. Wagner nods with fondness and you try not to preen.

“We’d be a mess if it wasn’t for her,” Dr. Wagner agrees. “The lab techs should write her a card.”

Not wanting to leave him out, you shoot a look to your left where Wonwoo pulls at the napkin in his lap. “Wonwoo is the one that made sure the parameters made sense for the last publication.”

“Also true.” Dr. Wagner smiles. “I told you, Harry, they’re my best students. Excel a mile past my TAs last year. They work together exceptionally well. If I could keep them both for next year, I would.” She says it with finality. There might very well be an opportunity to stay here and continue in her lab, even if your ambition has outgrown the place you’ve called home for four years.

The table is cleared, your plate full of mashed cake and melted ice cream with not a single bite missing. You’re exhausted. Mentally, emotionally; physically from the three all nighters you’ve pulled this week. There’d be an earful from Wonwoo about the dangers of sleep deprivation (hypocrite) but he looks like he’s seen a ghost tonight and won’t sleep himself.

Dr. Collins glances at his watch with a muffled yawn, “My, my! Look at the time! My apologies I didn't mean to keep us all out so late. I know you two probably have far more interesting things to be doing than spending the evening with a couple old timers like us.” He winks at Dr. Wagner, who rolls her eyes and hands the check back to the waiter who can’t be more than nineteen. “It looks like I’ll have some tough decisions to make in the upcoming weeks. Best of luck to the both of you.”

Hands shakes all around, and an awkward shuffle at the door and Dr. Collins and Dr. Wagner disappear into the night, leaving you and Wonwoo alone on the long walk back to campus.

You don’t beeline to your apartment for a debrief. Or even to ignore the obvious awkwardness cracking between. A bench to the side of the campus green is where you find yourselves, across from the fountain that upholds the tradition of drunken seniors taking a dip during finals when they’ve given up. 

You want to drown in it.

“Wonwoo,” you whisper. “What happens if one of us doesn't get in?”

“I–I don’t know.” He peers down at you with what you think is grief and the white noise that follows his quiet admission chokes painfully. There’s no plan B for something like this

If you got in, then Wonwoo did too. An unfounded assumption that wherever you went he’d be there too, based on almost four years of something between you. Too much to be friendship but too scared to call it something else. Something more. All the stereotypical college firsts had been with him or witnessed by him, you assumed grad school would be the same.

But it can’t be.

“Then we should end this.”

The words are out like shaken champagne, a dramatic explosion you can’t take back; a mess in the slimmest inches of space between your bodies on the bench in the freezing air.

“What?” he says.

You can’t swallow back down the idea. Wonwoo won’t let you. Maybe you don’t want to. You stare at the fountain across the green with a twitch in your jaw. 

“One of us is gonna move to Boston and the other is gonna have to figure it out and I’d rather not hate you or you hate me when it happens.”

You won’t take it back but you won’t look at him either. 

“You think I’d hate you?” 

He’s staring at you. You can feel the burn of his gaze on your cheek where embarrassment heats as well.

“I would.” You ignore the break in your voice at the complete lie. “I’d hate it if you got in and I didn’t. Even though you deserve it and I couldn’t be mad about it. I’d hate it. All I’ve wanted since freshman year is to go there, and I won’t ruin it for you just because I can’t have it.”

For a painstaking moment, he doesn’t say anything. His shoulders are still rigid and he props his weight into his knees, head bowed so you can’t even see his face in the stark street light. He doesn’t do anything until you do, until you slump with utter defeat.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Your voice pinches in your throat.

“What else is there? You’ve already decided for the both of us. That stupid fucking program matters more to you than—”

You heat close to explosion.“It’s not stu—”

Wonwoo rushes off the bench. “It is! It is because we’ve been dating for the past three years but you won’t even fucking admit it! You’ll tell some stupid pledge I’m your boyfriend but everytime I think we’ve worked it out – that you’re finally ready to talk about it – you pretend nothing is happening.”

“That wasn’t—” you shake your head.

“It’s fine. I’ll get over it.” 

You move quicker than he does and find his hand, but he doesn’t want to stay and you can’t stop him from leaving. “Wonwoo.” 

“Stop.” His voice is stoic, whatever emotions previously controlling him locked up tight behind faux dismissal. “Just…stop.” 

If you’re going to lie then the smallest favor you can do is obey his command. You hide your face in your hands, cheeks hot and eyes stinging. Because if you look at him then you’ll break into a million pieces. You’d admit to lying to his face; that you could so much as entertain the idea of hating him.

Wonwoo waits but you say nothing. No argument, no final comment. 

When you finally look up he’s far enough down the sidewalk that the pathetic croak of his name is unheard.

Endpoint: a critical moment in a chemical process where a specific change indicates that the reaction is complete. 

Two days later, when you finally get the balls to call Wonwoo and apologize, to tell him he’s right and that you’re an absolute idiot, he’s already blocked your number.

In a game of passive aggressive pettiness, Wonwoo takes gold.

He won’t talk to you outside of class and lab hours. Even then, he refuses to look at you; talks straight around you. Any form of correspondence you receive has Dr. Wagner’s name attached and anything you send without it is loudly ignored. 

Other people notice too.

In study hours, the students notice, whisper to each other when Wonwoo snubs your attempt to discuss a batch of graded homework in favor of focusing his attention on a cowering freshman who looks like he might piss himself when Wonwoo calls him by name. All the others bury their heads in their textbooks in fear he’ll pick them next.

In Nano, when he shows up just in the nick of time to leave his self-assigned seat next to you empty, and instead sitting next to the door. You feel the eyes on you, hair standing on end at the back of your neck when Dr. Lim stutters through his intro with wide eyes at the scene.

Seungkwan shows up to tutoring significantly less interested in your love life. Or he pretends he isn’t. He doesn’t ask outright and there’s pity in his eyes, thick enough you want to burst into the tears you’ve waited to come for the past two weeks. Instead you feel hollow. 

Even Mr. Lee, the night guard at the library, eyes your solitary exit with something like concern. Even going so far as to call campus public safety to escort you the short walk home.

Your other friends try to take you out, get your mind off the tilt in your world axis. You go. Sit at bar tables and laugh when you're supposed to, make empty conversations with strangers but you don’t care. You want to go home and curl up in your own misery like a blanket and cry until your eyes swell shut and pass out from exhaustion. Eventually, they stop asking if you want to come and just leave ice cream and bottles of wine on your doormat as support.

Your grades don’t suffer, and that’s the only thing you can cling to right now.

In Dr. Wagner’s office, an impromptu meeting under the guise of setting final exam expectations and tinkering the schedule, Wonwoo continues the harsh coldness of silence; content to pretend you don’t even exist. 

You work through it easily enough. You and Wonwoo have the same finals so there's only two schedules (Dr. Wagner’s and your shared one) to coordinate for extra study hours. The entire ordeal takes ten minutes to complete the shared calendar, pack it full of final lab meetings and deadlines for grading.

And when it’s over, you move to rise but Dr. Wagner stops you short.

She looks sheepish which is an odd sight. Immediately, you go to the worst. You grit and swallow and sit back down in the same upholstered chair from the last time she dropped a bomb in your lap. 

This is the bandaid rip you’ve waited for all semester. Whatever is at the end of this meeting means you finally know if you’re good enough or not. If karma does justice and gives Wonwoo the spot in Dr. Collins lab next year because you committed the sin of wanting it too much, sacrificed too much.

“It seems my attempt at friendly competition had some…unintended consequences.”

Where sizzling anger would once flourish and bloom, nothing but empty exhaust stutters to life. “What?”

“Last year, the second my TAs found out I’d recommended them, they slacked off. Missing class, incorrect results in the lab. Now I know you two are hard workers but I was afraid senioritis might set in and I’d have to lay down the law. I don’t like being harsh with my students, not directly anyway. I want the best out of them, and I knew I could anticipate the best from you two. I was always planning to recommend both of you to Dr. Collins. I told him he would regret it if he even thought about not making space for you both next year.”

“What?” you repeat again.

There’s a weight on your knee. You don’t even need to look to know it’s Wonwoo’s hand. He doesn’t look before flipping it over when you place yours on top, fingers knotting together; holds it tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. You unconsciously squeeze and he mimics without thought.

“So what does this mean?”

“Dr. Collins can’t outright say it but he’s on the admissions board and decides who gets to join his lab. He was adamant that both of you join him in Boston.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“I know, but the application is a formality at this point.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Your work speaks for itself.”

Wonwoo is still there, clenching your hand for dear life. Waiting for the other shoe to drop because there is no way – no way – it’s this easy. Months at each other's throat from the tension and for nothing. You’re sweaty, heart thumping loud enough it might break from your chest and skitter on Dr. Wagner’s desk. She keeps talking and you still haven’t looked at Wonwoo.

“I’m so proud of you both!” she beams. “And I’m sorry if I’ve…complicated things…for the two of you. It was never my intention. Now, go! Rest! Take the day off and celebrate. Send me the links to your applications and I’ll do my part so you can finally relax before finals.”

The pair of you shuffle outside like zombies. In broad daylight, the world keeps spinning and someone drops their coffee a little further down the street and curses a storm; a car honks at a biker, there's packs of students shuffling around where you stand dumbfounded. Your sweater does little to block the chill of late November wind.

Wonwoo still hasn’t let go of your hand.

“Did that just happen?” he asks.

“What the fuck.”

“What the fuck.”

Your laughing, deranged and fatigued cackles that earn several looks but on the cusps of finals it’s not uncommon enough to stop anyone out of concern. “What the fuck!”

You’re not sure what to do. Celebrate? Cry? 

It’s a little bit of both as Wonwoo swoops in, wrapping his arms around you tight enough to squeeze a surprised scream from your lungs. He’s not done, lifting and spinning you around in a quick circle before crying, “What the fuck!”

You laugh, snorting ugly cackles as he almost drops you with both of you gasping for breath. Completely deranged but what just happened that the rift between you momentarily heals.

Wonwoo sets you down gently but keeps close, his hands your waist like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s missed you just as much as you’ve missed him. You finally look at him, and it’s the first breath of air after drowning for hours. The creases around his eye, the happy wrinkles around his nose. His hair is long enough it brushes your skin where your foreheads almost touch. His hold is like a cocoon of warmth.

“I’m sorry!” you blurt. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m stupid and stubborn and I’ve been so caught up in this program that I—”

“No,” he shakes his head, arms tightening as you squirm in his hold.

“Let me finish.”

“No,” he says. “I like that you're stubborn and a pain in the ass. And it wasn’t fair that I expected you to just push aside something like grad school for me. I was being selfish and—”

“I love you.”

You might say it again just to see the way he chokes and turns purple; pulls you closer. He’s at a loss for words and you capitalize on the moment.

“I’ve thought about what would happen if I didn’t get in, like a million different possibilities and never once were you not there. I felt like…I don’t know, honestly. Like I was losing you and it was easier to be upset about the program than admit that. It was stupid and I’m stupid, and I’m really bad at speeches so…feel free to shut me up or whatever.”

You wait for him to process what you’ve said – a million emotions swiping across his face. Ridiculous some people act like he’s the embodiment of stoicism because if you know what to look for then they’d realize he’s terrible at hiding the way he feels.

“You love me?”

All that crying you did in the past few weeks means nothing because you could cry right now. But you don’t look away, you don’t ever want to look away from him again because you’d miss the way his face softens.

“Well, we’ve been dating for the past three years. It’s about time I told you.”

Wonwoo doesn’t speak, facing morphing into confusion before he scoffs with disbelief. “You’re so annoying.”

“Hey!” you stomp but Wonwoo pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck and squeezes so tight something feels on the verge of popping in your spine. His ears burn red as he whispers those three words back quietly enough you strain to hear them. He bites your shoulder just to be an asshole.

“What the hell was that for?” 

He does it again.

“Stop biting me you freak, we’re in public.” You pinch his side for good measure and only then does he smash the side of his face to yours and begin walking you backwards, in the direction of your apartment.

“Whatever, you love me.”

He lets you walk normally at the cross walk, your hand in his, both tangled in the warmth of the pocket of his sweatshirt because it’s fucking cold and the wind isn’t helping. Wonwoo drags you straight home, up the stairs, and crowds you against the door and kisses you until you can’t breathe.

“Why are you crying?”

You are. You don’t even realize it had started until you reach up and feel the dampness on your cheeks.

“Probably because I haven’t slept in two days and I missed you, idiot.” Wonwoo kisses you flat on the mouth again at the confession, smiling big enough it’s less of a kiss and more of teeth pressed together. But it’s good. You like it. You speak into his mouth, “I promise I would have really ‘sloppy I love you sex’ but I’m so tired I think I might throw up.”

“You missed me.” he hums, more of a statement than a question.

“Yeah, big head, I missed you. Now let’s sleep.”

“God,” he moans, biting his lip in mock pleasure. Maybe even real pleasure at the idea of a Friday afternoon full of nothing but hazy dreams in silence rarely found in a frat house. “I love you too.”

You undress straight down to your underwear. Cotton with a conservative cut because in no universe did you think you’d end the day with Wonwoo back in your orbit. Wonwoo who loves you, Wonwoo who you love back. But he eyes you like you’re a grand prize and all he wants is to touch you. But the rush of adrenaline keeping you conscious is burning out quickly.

He strips too, nothing but boxers and circles under his eyes but he’s happy. It radiates off him in waves and if you weren’t part of it, you’d throw something at him because it’d be annoying. You might just be glowing too.

You slip under the covers and Wonwoo snuggles up behind you, a second skin with his hand flat to your stomach to keep you from going anywhere. Not that you would. You don’t even remember falling asleep. 

When you wake up, it’s dark outside; which could mean it’s been minutes or hours since the winter sun likes to deep beneath the horizon early in the afternoon. It’s the best sleep you’ve had in weeks.

Everything is warm; your body beneath the comforter, where sweat sticks at your back, the lips dragging across the curve of your neck, Wonwoo’s crotch firm between your legs.

“Good morning to me,” you sigh.

He hums in happy agreement, tongue traces the shell of your ear before kissing across your cheek and chin and finally landing on your mouth with a kiss that can only be described as sappy.

“Got started without me?” Your hands press under his underwear, two palms full of his ass holding him still enough to grind up into. Something about a sleepy make out has you hungry to lay there and take whatever he’ll offer.

“I’ll catch you up, don’t worry.” 

You snicker, “No wonder those freshmen have crushes on you.”

“What do you mean?” He traces your naked sides with his fingers.

“I’ll catch you up,” you mock, then wince from a razor of his teeth as he shifts down your chest. “If you were my TA, I’d try to fuck you.”

“I’m trying to have’ sloppy I love you sex’ and you’re trying to goad me into some student teacher shit?”

He bites your side, just a nip but you flare and blush anyway. “Ooooo, tell me I’m bad.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You love me.”

“As I was saying,” he whispers into your stomach, fingers tugging your panties off. “Sloppy I love you sex.”

“Okay, okay.” You sink a hand in his hair only for him to tug it away, fingers laced together over your sternum as he strokes you to life. “O-oh, that’s—fuck.”

He hikes a leg up over his shoulder, out of the way for the fingers that satisfy the empty squeeze in your gut. Your tongue prickles with another goad but Wonwoo senses it first and swiftly works to silence you with a hot kiss to your clit that makes your vision bleed red.

The cold of the room works in his favor, pinching your nipples tight until you cave to the need to touch yourself. If the light was on then he’d watch and you get the urge to pause the action just for the chance to watch him watch you.

“Don’t stop,” you grunt. 

He eats it filthy, spit and arousal forming a wet mess slipping down your ass. The way his tongue lashes is nothing short of despicable and you know you’re the one that taught him that and you can’t help but flare with pride. “I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m—” you chant blindly.

The warmth between your legs surrounds, suffocates until your thighs go numb and your shoulders pull away from the mattress with a groan rivaling porn; but you mean it. Wonwoo means it too. 

You clench harder, revitalized in the stretch of another finger and a clip of teeth on your clit.  You tug at your still clasped hands on your chest, bite into the meat of his palm and let the flood consume you with stiff legs and tears in your eyes. “Oh, Wonwoo – u-ugh. Fuck. Fuck.”

Wonwoo takes it, mouth waiting for every eager roll of your hips; completely unphased until you melt back in the sheets with a pathetic mewl.

He kisses up your body, mouth and cheeks wet and warm. When he reaches your mouth you resist the urge to lick him clean. Something about that feels decidedly unlike sloppy I love you sex. So you slip your tongue between his lips instead and spread your legs until his crotch is level with the raw sensitivity of your own.

“Roll over,” you pant.

Like an asshole, he laughs. And then he drops his weight behind his hips and you actually see stars. “Wanna do it like this.”

“Make love to me,” you croon.

He doesn’t even pretend to stifle the obnoxious snort. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“What happened to sloppy I love you sex?” 

“Getting to it. You like it when I come inside you?” Now he’s the one goading and you’re blushing like you’ve never fucked him before. To be fair, you haven’t fucked him as the man you’re in love with so it’s a first time for the both of you. Wonwoo’s drunk on the power of having you stutter through something so familiar yet new.

“Love it.” 

“Good,” he agrees with a saccharine peck to your nose that makes you feel like a doe eyed virgin again. “I love you.”

Your need for games and pretense dissolves. You just want Wonwoo, all of him, until you can’t take it any more. 

Wonwoo senses the change, noses against your cheek before kissing you. He’s still holding your hand, the other cupping your jaw, thumb tracing the curve of flesh. It’s vulnerable and soft and something you probably could’ve experienced years ago if you weren’t willfully blind.

“I love you, too.”

You whisper the confession so quietly it doesn’t even make a sound but Wonwoo figures it out because he surges into action, pulling you to the center of the mattress in all your naked glory. The flood light from the side of the building reflects back in through the slats in the blinds and Wonwoo sits up to soak in what he can see in the limited light.

Twisting a hand in his hair, you pull him down for a kiss; forcing all the emotions you have to the surface. He doesn’t make you wait. Instead, he drops flat, flat together from head to toe as he slips inside. You’re still tight and sensitive, squirming at the feeling of being stretched so thin with Wonwoo wrapped tight in your arms.

“W-wonwoo,” you mewl. You know he loves the sound of his name, any time, in desperate moans and sleepy coos. You’ll say it as much as he wants to hear if he kisses you like he is now – with something new at the edge. Something needy. “More.”

He wraps your legs around his hips, folding you clean in half with a heavy rut into your pussy you’ll feel for days. You both want to drag this out – take hours to come apart and come together again and again – but Wonwoo is already working a hand between your bodies; stroking you over hot coals just to hear you moan his name again.

In record speed, you feel that familiar burn creeping along your spine. He fucks you into a wet mess and it’s all you can do to hold on and claw up his back. Breaks you into something limp and pliant, hands twisted together over head; tugs at that loose thread over and over until you unravel beneath him and Wonwoo watches like it’s magic.

“Oh- oh, Wonwoo–” you cry. Actually cry. Tears he swipes away with a thumb before pressing his mouth to yours.

You’re swollen and stiff, muscles taunt while they twitch from a rush of complete bliss.

“M cumming, baby – oh my god.” Wonwoo bucks into the tight squeeze of your legs, deeper, harder, more. “Love you—fuck.”

He hides with soft sighs in your neck, skin sticky where you both slide together. You cradle him to your chest, fingers rushing through the sweaty tangles on his hair gently. A kiss to his head, his brow, his nose that wrinkles from pure content.

But you’re not done yet.

You wiggle from beneath him, peeling yourself off the pillows, lower half still numb from one hell of an orgasm. But you want more, insatiable and doped on years of repressed fondness. “Can you go again?” 

Wonwoo looks like you asked him to run a marathon. “You want me to die?”

“Worse ways to go,” you coo, sinking low enough to take his cock in your mouth. It tastes like you and him and it makes your eyes roll.

“God. I didn’t know sappy sex meant you’d try to kill me,” he moans airly under your ministrations, a hand at the back of your head when you show off with a nose to his crotch before sliding off. “You’re evil.”

“I’m in love with a sexy nerd and I'm horny,” you sigh dreamily, thrilled with the way he pulses in your hold.

“Yeah, well…” he gives up on whatever rebuttal under the weight of your body on top of his. Nothing he can argue with in that statement anyway so you tease him with a kiss, smile when he chases your mouth, roll when you realize he can taste the mix of you both off your tongue.

“You know…I’ll need a roommate in Boston.”

“Huh,” Wonwoo feigns. His focus is on the way your tug at his cock, spit and cum webbed between your fingers. This isn’t the best way to have this conversation but you’re both high on sleep deprivation, love, and orgasms and it encourages loose lips.

“Know anyone interested?”

He shudders back into the pillow, leaving his neck open for your teeth with a choked, “Yeah.”

“Who?”

“Me.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah —fuck—wanna wake up to you every morning.”

“Even if I’m a cranky bitch?” Your knees bracket his hips, cunt split on his cock as you grind against the underside.

His stomach caves as he responds with a thin voice, “yeah.”

You like waking up to him too. Falling asleep with him tangled in your body, listening to him hum in the shower when he thinks you aren’t listening. Sometimes he even sings with a little encouragement like those times you were sick and the only thing that got your mind from exploding like thunderclaps was the lullabies from his childhood that he cooed into your hairline.

Starting and ending everyday with Wonwoo sounds nothing short of blissful.

“Okay.” You tangle his fingers with your own, rising on your knees to distract from the sheepish smile splitting your face in two.

“Really?”

“I like having you around,” you admit, sinking down on his cock. “Makes me feel better.”

Weird conversation over the back track of slapping skin and pathetic muffled sobs but you like it. Feels well overdue.

“A-about?”

Everything.

He gives a tender squeeze to your thigh, cradles your face in both hands, eye contact that you fight not shutter away from because it’s terrifying he can see you clearly. 

He’s lost; completely mesmerized by the way you bounce on the length of him, grind back into his lap like you’re possessed.

“Can’t last—” he chokes.

“S’okay,” you press the words into his cheek, his jaw, the bones jutting from around his collar. “Just wanna feel you.”

You bend and strain for his pleasure, to watch it dance across his brow as he cums inside you again, his hands heavy on your ass, your thighs, whatever he reflexively grips in a bid for grounding, nails leaving streaks of color. Twitching and jerking in sensitive painful bliss, his eyes roll back with a quick exhale. “Fuck-k.”

You're sticky and used between the legs but you take comfort in the feeling and bask in the glow on top of him. Nothing but a pile of satisfied boneless goo where you lay with sweaty skin and heat you feel from the top of your head to your toes. “Good?”

“Great,” he hums, pulling into one last toe numbing kiss. 

When feeling returns to your bodies, you spend the rest of the night eating greasy pizza on the couch in nothing but his shirt, drinking wine straight from the bottle in celebration. You kiss Wonwoo whenever you want, which, admittedly, is a lot; a flurry of sappy pecks over his face leaves him blushing and dewy. When you fall asleep after making love once again, the last thing you hear is him saying he loves you too.

Epilogue

4 months later…

There’s a certain level of comfort that comes with receiving an official acceptance email. The words you’ve been waiting to hear since Dr. Wagner all but confirmed your future in a fifteen minute meeting last semester.

On behalf of the Chemistry department, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted as a part of…

The big envelope in the mail today helped too.

Wonwoo sends a photo of his, unopened, because you promised to open them together tonight. On your date; which is nothing more than grading assignments and eating leftover take out on the couch like so many nights have been spent already. But this time he’s your boyfriend. And after all the worksheets are graded, and you get to cuddle deep into the worn couch cushions, you get to tell him you love him and he’ll say it back and the flutter in your veins at the thought is nothing short of magical. 

And this time you have a surprise waiting for him and he might just cry. Or you hope so. You’ve got $50 riding on the possibility.

You’re sweating through your shirt from putting the new piece of furniture together for the past three hours by the time he shows up with a bag of takeout, Thai food from the place on Market where they know you by order, and a kiss you’ve been missing since the morning when he left for one of his stupid workouts. 

Wonwoo sets the bag on the counter, immediately pulling you into his arms before sagging like a deflated balloon. “Pixel got adopted today.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He’s moping. He accepts your placating kiss with a pout, and starts unpacking the food.

You feel the smallest flutter of guilt but it's worth it.  “That sucks.” 

“She needed a good home.” Wonwoo confirms and that's the end of the conversation.

Even in your final semester, your schedules are still packed. Crammed full with meetings, exams, work, Wonwoo’s volleyball stuff that you attend with posters and sit near the other girlfriends. It’s weird but not because its the same stuff you two were doing for years. But it’s exhausting.

So you don’t blame Wonwoo for not noticing the newest addition to your apartment until he’s inhaled his food and the last third of yours.

“Babe.”

“What?” you ask, focusing on cutting another red slash into the white paper.

“What’s that?”

He points at the gigantic cat tower in the corner next to the couch. It’s cramped in tight but in two months you’ll both be in Boston with a bigger apartment with real bedrooms so it’s only temporary.

You shrug and make another mark. “Oh, just something I picked up.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

“Huh. Weird.” Your eyebrows furrow in mock confusion but you keep grading papers or else it’s game over and the need to watch him puzzle together your plans is all you want. “Then what’s the thing in the bathroom?”

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” you confirm.

Wonwoo stares open mouthed, between you and the bathroom door and back to you. He might pinch himself but he flies off the couch with childlike eagerness and your face hurts from smiling already.

Pixel spends the rest of the night curled up asleep on her new dad’s lap and you’re $50 richer. Mingyu’s girlfriend is already offering to catsit despite Mingyu’s pouts about losing money.

Taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie

@gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire

@missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @prettygyuuu @sliceofwoozi

@writingbarnes @dokyeomkyeom @christinewithluv @minwonfairy @idkjustlovingbts

@wobblewobble822 @futuristicenemychaos @seungkw1 @horanghaezone @jespecially

@scoupsjin @isabellah29 @luvseungcheol @crisle19 @iamawkwardandshy

@lukeys-giggle @aaa-sia @tinkerbell460

[thejournallo]

ME MANIFESTING THAT EVERYONE WHO SEE THIS POST GETS WHAT THEY WANT.

[yms1]

The fact that tumblr is my primary social media is proof that I’m far gone

[chateautae]

risk management | kth. (m)

➵ summary : you have one rule; you don’t date investment bankers, point blank period. but when your best friend invites you to her over-the-top housewarming party to meet her husband’s co-worker, kim taehyung, you don’t expect the night to take a wild turn; and risk bending your own rules. 

➵ pairing: investment banker!taehyung x f. reader

➵ genre : non-idol!au, s2l, smut, pwp

➵ rating : 18+

➵ word count : 9.4k

➵ warnings : alcohol consumption, swearing, sexual tension, heavy making out, mentions of exhibitionism (nobody sees them), big dicc!tae, against a window sex, unprotected sex (you’re smarter than this guys), ass, breast and pussy fondling (the holy trinity <3), sir kink!!, dirty talk, brief hand-jobbing, oral (m. and f. receiving), panty sniffing, denied orgasm, marking, riding, ass smacking, scratching, cum swallowing, 

➵ a/n : as always, your feedback means the world to me <3

➵ playlist : take a slice by glass animals 

Walking into Nabi’s home was the equivalent of waltzing into a bakery shop. The warm, aesthetic lighting provided a sense of homey comfort, the woodsy, though elegant furnishing and indoor pieces added an exquisite touch of sophistication, and the heavenly smell of freshly baked cherry pie welcomed you into a cozy paradise. 

The front door shuts behind you, and you’re privy to at least three dozen people chattering and mingling away. Some clink glasses of liquor together. Others pick off the appetizers in the opulent kitchen while a handful smoke outside on the lawn. 

Eyes surfing the crowd of people, you attempt to spot your best friend. Some familiar faces indeed catch your sight, though it’s the amount of new ones that settle some anxiety in the pit of your stomach. It’s not that you’re bad with people; you can actually be quite interpersonal, though the idea that many of these people are strangers leaves you slightly displaced, taking a deep breath. 

Exhaling, you’re suddenly interrupted by a familiar cheery voice latching onto your arm. 

“Y/N, you came!” 

Keep reading

[sakamoto-hey]

being called sweetheart 🤝 sir kink

[antontual]

MINGYU / MAESTRO 240503

[etherealyoungk]

@writingmeraki look