pairing: brother's best friend!haechan x fem. reader genre: smut, bit of crack wc: 7k summary: you send a spicy photo to the wrong lee and suddenly your brother's best friend is at your door with mulled wine and a space heater talking about "keeping you warm" content warnings: christmas/holidays setting, explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, accidental sexting, mild language/profanity, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, lingerie kink, references to bruising/scratches from sex, banter & relentless teasing, mild reference to soreness/discomfort, hae is actually a simp and down bad, reader is a bit of a tsundere lowk, the bells stayed ON during sex a/n: merry xmas besties !! accept this last min gift from me because i honestly don’t know how to thank you enough for all the love this year. ngl this was definitely a bit rushed bc i wanted to post it on time for xmas so it is pretty fast paced. also, if you spot any mistakes lmk i will fix them eventually hehe. anyways enjoy!! ps: take a shot for every time you see the words "jingle bells" lol
There is a strange calm that comes over the city on Christmas Eve. Fewer cars line the roads, lights go out behind shop windows, and it seems as though all the apartments in your street have the same deep orange glow, as if the city has put a blanket around itself and turned on a reading light.
Your place is a different story altogether.
The heater has given up on you yet another winter, and you exist in thick socks and oversized sweaters for the duration, fogging the air with your breath as if you’re holidaying in a downbeat ski lodge rather than your zone 2 apartment.
Your mother has already called three times, each a frantic ninety-second sprint through holiday plans: Will you bring the extra chairs? Are you still pescatarian, or just being difficult about red meat? Can you pick up the right cranberry sauce, you know the one in the glass jar, not the jellied monstrosity from the tin?
You agree to everything, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, trying to sound composed while your teeth threaten to chatter. You’re still perched on your bed, half-naked. Your thighs and shoulders ache with cold, and you’re painfully aware of every square inch of exposed skin.
Not ten minutes ago, you’d spent the better part of an hour contorting into increasingly improbable angles in red lace and utterly humiliating jingle bells, all in the name of looking effortless for Jeno, of course.
Jeno: there’s a name your pulse seems to know better than your own. Three months of teasing pictures from him post-workout, with nothing but a towel slung over his hips so his abs take center stage. The subtext has never been subtle. Tonight you’d planned to stop being subtle in return.
Now, while your mom lists off a litany of tasks, you’re scrolling through chats ready to finally send the photo that’s taken nearly an hour (and a year’s worth of courage) to create. The cold had made the whole thing an endurance exercise, goosebumps rippling over your arms as you tried to ignore how the bells jingled with every movement. The best photo sits ready on your screen, the last thing you snapped before your mom’s ringtone interrupted.
She’s still talking about napkin colors, whether the buses are still running, and remindng you to bring nice pajamas for the inevitable Christmas morning photos. You’re only half listening as you thumb out a quick “Merry Christmas x”, attach the photo, and press send, so practiced in the gesture you don’t bother double checking.
There’s a satisfying whoosh.
Then your blood runs cold when you read the name at the top of the chat.
Lee Haechan.
Not Lee Jeno.
Not the man with gym selfies who’s been circling your DMs like a hawk.
No. You’ve just sent a very curated, very intimate, very jingling photo of yourself to Lee fucking Haechan—your brother’s best friend. Eternal nuisance. Long-time gremlin. The boy who once told your crush that you still slept with a stuffed animal named Mr. Toast when you were fifteen.
The phone buzzes in your hand.
Haechan: holy. shit. Haechan: is this what you’re wearing to dinner tomorrow or…?
Your mother's voice becomes white noise as you watch those messages appear. The phone nearly slips from your suddenly nerveless fingers.
"—and don't forget the wine, the Pinot Grigio not the Sauvignon Blanc, you know how your father gets about—"
"Mom, I have to go," you interrupt, voice strangled and hysterical. "Emergency."
"What emergency, dear—"
You hang up. She'll forgive you eventually, probably after three glasses of the wrong wine, but right now you have bigger problems. Catastrophically bigger problems.
You: THAT WASN'T FOR YOU You: DELETE IT You: DELETE IT RIGHT NOW You: HAECHAN I SWEAR TO GOD
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Haechan: you know, when you said you were bringing dessert tomorrow Haechan: i assumed you meant cookies or something
You're going to die. Actually, physically die. In your freezing apartment, still wearing the stupid lingerie.
You: it was meant for someone else You: obviously You: please just delete it and we never speak of this again
Haechan: someone else??? Haechan: so you’re just spreading holiday cheer randomly Haechan: i'm devastated
Your apartment feels even colder now, or maybe that's just the mortification freezing you from the inside out. You scramble for your oversized sweater, yanking it over your head while trying to type one-handed.
You: this isn't funny
Haechan: it's a little funny Haechan: do i say thank you? is this a secret santa thing?
You: how much
Haechan: ?
You: how much money to pretend this never happened You: name your price
You can practically see him in his apartment, probably sprawled on his sofa in those ratty joggers he refuses to throw away, grinning at his phone in glory.
Haechan: bold of you to assume i can be bought Haechan: but also Haechan: 50 dollars
You: done
Haechan: per day
You: WHAT
Haechan: do you want my silence or not Haechan: this is premium blackmail material Haechan: i could dine out on this story for years
You pull the sweater down properly, the wool scratching against your skin where the lace still sits underneath. He's literally coming to your parents' house tomorrow for Christmas. You'll have to sit across from him at dinner, pass him the potatoes, pretend everything's normal while he knows exactly what you look like under your ugly sweater.
Haechan: although i'm curious Haechan: who's the lucky recipient supposed to be Haechan: anyone i know?
You: none of your business
Haechan: it literally became my business Haechan: when you made it my business
Your phone starts ringing. His contact photo fills the screen with that stupid selfie he'd taken with your phone on Mark’s birthday last year, mouth full of roast potato, eyes crossed. You'd never bothered to change it.
You decline the call.
He rings again immediately.
"What," you answer through gritted teeth, pulling your knees up to your chest, trying to conserve what little body heat you have left.
"You sound cold," is the first thing he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.
"My heating's broken."
"Again? Y/N, it's literally freezing."
"Yes, well, I've had other concerns tonight."
He laughs and you can tell he’s delighted by the sounds of it. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all year."
"I'm so glad my humiliation brings you joy."
"I wouldn’t call it humiliation," he says. "More like... revelation."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that I didn't know you owned anything that wasn't either stolen from your brother or three sizes too big."
You pull the sweater over your knees. "I contain multitudes."
"Clearly." There's a rustling on his end, like he's shifting position. "So who's the guy?"
"I told you it's none of your business."
"Come on, I'm going to find out anyway. Your mom tells me everything."
He's right, which is infuriating. Your mother treats Haechan like the son she never had, even though she literally has two sons already.
"It's just someone from class," you mumble.
"That Jino guy? The one who looks like he irons his underwear?"
"No." You lie. Another con from knowing Haechan for that long is that he knows most of your situationships.
"Thank god. I was concerned about your taste."
"My taste is fine."
"Debatable, considering you just sent me—"
"That was an accident!"
"A fortunate one," he says.
You're about to respond when your phone buzzes with another message. For one horrible moment you think it's Jeno, somehow cosmically aware of your failure, but it's worse.
Mum: Did you hang up on me? Mum: Haechan says he'll pick you up tomorrow since the buses aren't running Mum: So helpful, that boy
"Did you just text my mother?" you accuse.
"She texted me first. Apparently you're being difficult about the wine."
"I hung up because I was having a crisis!"
"Past tense? Crisis over?"
You look down at yourself in the giant sweater, exposed legs slowly turning blue, hair probably resembling something from a horror film. "No, it's very much ongoing."
"Want me to come over?"
The question catches you off guard. "What?"
"Your heating's broken, it's Christmas Eve, and you sound pathetic. I'll bring mulled wine."
"Absolutely not."
"I'll even delete the photo."
You pause. "Really?"
"I don’t know, but you can try to convince me."
"I hate you." You groan.
"I know," he says, and you can hear keys jingling on his end. "See you in twenty."
"Haechan, no—"
He hangs up.
You gape at your phone in disbelief. This night has already careened so far off the rails that him showing up feels almost inevitable.
You look around your freezing apartment, at the poorly decorated tree leaning precariously in the corner, at the mountain of unwrapped presents for tomorrow, at yourself in your ridiculous combination of grandma sweater and inadvertent festive lingerie.
Your phone buzzes once more.
Haechan: might want to put on some pants before i get there
You pad to your bedroom, feet freezing on the hardwood floors, and catch sight of yourself in the mirror. The sweater hits mid-thigh, the red lace barely visible underneath, and your face has a flush that comes from both the cold and mortification.
The bells jingle mockingly as you search for pants.
You manage to find a pair of shorts and yank them on just as your doorbell rings. The man has never been on time for anything in his life except, apparently, your personal disasters.
You check the peephole and immediately groan. He’s standing there in a perfectly tailored coat, scarf knotted at his throat, holding what looks like two bottles of wine and a carrier bag, looking infuriatingly put-together for someone who just invited himself over at half nine on Christmas Eve. There’s a glint in his eye that you recognize all too well. He’s about to make your life miserable.
“I can see your shadow under the door,” he calls. “Just let me in before your neighbors think I’m casing the place.”
You open the door, and he breezes past you, bringing a swirl of cold air and the scent of cinnamon and clove. He sets everything on your counter, shakes snow from his hair and surveys your living room.
“Christ, it’s colder in here than outside,” he says, setting down the wine. “How are you not dead?”
“Layers,” you mutter, though the truth is you’ve barely stopped shivering since your little photo shoot. He starts unpacking his bag: two bottles of red, a battered thermos emanating the smell of mulled wine, a packet of mince pies, and—
“Is that a space heater?”
“Borrowed it from my next door neighbor.” He’s already crouched by the outlet, plugging it in and aiming it at the sofa. “He has his girlfriend over, so he won’t need this.”
You roll your eyes at his suggestive tone.
“Plus he felt bad when I told him about your situation.”
“You told him?”
“Relax, I meant your heating situation. Not your…” He glances at you, eyes skimming a bit too long over your form, “…other situation.”
You tug your sweater lower, warmth prickling up your chest for a different reason now. “Stop saying situation.”
“Would you prefer predicament? Circumstance? Mistake?”
“I’d prefer you forget it ever happened.”
He fiddles with the heater settings, then stands and looks at you.
“Bit difficult, that,” he says.
“Why?”
He turns away, busying himself with the wine. “Because in all the years I’ve known you, that’s the first time you’ve ever texted me something that wasn’t a complaint or a threat.”
“That’s not—” You cut yourself off, frowning. “... True.”
He grins, handing you a mug which you take with a scowl.
“Come on. You’re shivering over there.” He sits, patting the spot beside him.
You hesitate, but the heater and the wine conspire against your self-control, and you find yourself sitting next to him, careful to keep a gap. You wrap your hands around the mug, breathing in the spiced steam as the heat seeps into your frozen fingers.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Want to see something funny?”
“If it’s the photo—”
“No.” He scrolls. “It’s Jino—”
“Jeno”
“—whatever. His Instagram.” He tilts the screen your way. Row after row of gym selfies, every caption worse than the last.
“‘Grind never stops,’” you read, making a face. “‘Discipline is my love language.’ Oh my god.”
“That’s who you were sending nu—” he gestures, one eyebrow raised.
“Festive greetings. Shut up.”
He grins, holding the phone just out of reach when you lunge. “‘Muscles are built in the kitchen’? Come on, Y/N.”
“He’s nice!”
“He refers to himself as an alpha unironically.”
“How do you even—” You scramble closer, grabbing for the phone, nearly spilling your wine. The movement makes the bells under your sweater jingle faintly, and you freeze, feeling a flush creep up your neck.
“You're still wearing it?” His voice drops half an octave.
You freeze, caught like a goddamn rabbit under a hawk’s shadow. “I forgot it was there,” you lie.
He lets out a soft laugh. Not his usual smug, shit-eating grin. Darker.
“Yeah?” he says. “You forgot you’re sitting next to me in fucking lingerie?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. There was nothing to say.
He says nothing either, elbow on the back of the sofa, wine in one hand, and staring intently. His eyes drag across your face, your flushed cheeks, down to where your sweater bunches at your thighs, as if he could see the garter strap underneath. Like he remembered exactly what was in that photo, and now he was imagining it all over again—except this time, two feet away.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair and looking away.
You want to make a joke, deflect, do anything besides sit there.
“Stop,” you say quietly, when he tilts his head and opens his mouth again. “Don’t make this into something.”
“Make what into something?” he asks, far too innocent.
“This. The... situation.”
His smile is sharp. “You mean the one you told me to stop saying out loud?”
You put your mug down before your hands could betray how hard they were shaking. “Yes.”
He glances at your knees. Then at your fucking sweater again, and the way you were pulling it lower, as if it could somehow shield you from how naked the air between you had become.
“Okay,” he says, sitting up, setting his own wine down. “Let’s not make it into something. Let’s just sit here, like we’re normal people, sharing some warm wine by a borrowed space heater. Let’s not talk about the fact that you’re wearing lingerie underneath that. Let’s pretend I didn’t spend the entire ride here wondering what the fuck I was walking into.”
You swallow. “You came over to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself further.”
He smiles.
“No,” he says. “I came over because I couldn’t stop picturing it. Because every time I blinked, it was just you, in that red fucking lace.”
A silent gasp leaves your parted lips. What’s with the sudden tension? Why is he saying these things?
“And then I get here,” he continues, “and you open the door like nothing and you’ve got this little sweater on, acting all flustered and innocent. Meanwhile—” his eyes drop again, “—you’re jingling every time you move. Teasing me.”
“Stop,” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.
“Why?” he asks, leaning forward now, elbows on knees. “You don’t want to talk about it? Fine. But I’m losing my goddamn mind, and you're pretending this is some kind of accident.”
“It was.”
“You didn’t take that picture by accident. You didn’t pick out that set by accident. You didn’t forget to change.”
Haechan's gaze sharpens, pinning you in place as he leans back against the cushions. His eyes flick downward, catching the subtle movement under your sweater, and a smirk curled his lips.
The wine buzzes in your head, turning his words from mortifying to... intriguing. You feel a spark of defiance ignite, the alcohol stripping away your usual hesitation. Instead of shrinking, you meet his stare, tilting your chin up just a fraction. “What if I didn't forget,” you say, your voice steadier than you expected. You uncross your legs, letting the bells chime once more. You watch as his smirk falters for a split second, his pupils dilating.
Before you realize, he’s shifting closer until his knee presses against yours, the heat of his body radiates through his jeans. “Oh yeah?” Haechan's tone dips lower, teasing, turning predatory as his fingers brush the hem of your sweater, tracing the edge where it meets your thigh.
“So you sent me that photo on purpose, so I could what? Imagine peeling it off you all night?” His thumb grazed the skin just above your knee, circling slowly, sending sparks up your leg.
Emboldened by the alcohol’s warmth spreading through you, you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in a little, your hand resting on his thigh, fingers pressing into the firm muscle there.
“Maybe” you whisper, the alcohol making your inhibitions dissolve like sugar in hot liquid. You can feel the dampness building between your folds, the thong growing slick as his words paint vivid pictures in your mind.
Haechan's eyes darken, his free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering at the nape of your neck.
“Then you're playing a dangerous game.” His breath is warm against your skin as he leans closer. He tugs gently at the collar of your sweater, exposing the strap of your bra, the lace edge peeking out.
The heater drones, the bells jingle, and for a suspended, ridiculous instant you register every outrageous detail at once: Haechan’s palm splayed hot over your ribcage, the hiss of his breath against your sternum, him moving to kneel between your legs.
“Wanna play Monopoly instead then?” you blurt, because your default coping mechanism is apparently panicked jokes while half-naked.
He huffs a laugh against your skin, mouth still hovering indecent inches from your bra. “Pretty sure you I’d bankrupt you in ten moves.” His thumbs stroke slow circles over the lace, coaxing goose-bumps you feel all the way down to your calves. “And I’m more of a chess man anyway. I like long games.”
Long games. Wonderful.
You plant a shaky hand on his shoulder and manage a breathy, “You’re terrible at chess. You always forget the knights move in L-shapes.”
“Correction.” He kisses the edge of the bra, voice muffled. “I know exactly how the knights move. I just prefer a—” another kiss, lower, “—more aggressive opening.”
God. “Aggressive openings are u-unnecessary.”
“I can be patient.” He nips your sternum lightly, then leans back just far enough that cool air hits the damp spot his mouth left behind. “Though my patience has limits.”
You intend to reply but the sight of him kneeling between your knees steals the alphabet from your tongue. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown, but there’s wicked amusement still glinting at the edges.
He runs a fingertip down the center of your stomach, like marking squares on a board. “Here’s the thing… Every time these bells go off”—he flicks one, soft chime echoing—“I’m picturing exactly how you looked in that photo. Except now you’re warm under my hands”
“That’s… not helping,” you manage, hips tipping forward of their own accord. The bell rings again and he hums approval deep in his chest, as if the sound feeds him.
“Wasn’t trying to.” He nudges your knees wider, the gesture almost gentlemanly, except for the promise simmering beneath. “But since you’re so invested in fair play—”
He slips his free hand behind his neck, drags his scarf loose, then shrugs the coat off with theatrical slowness. Button by button, layer by layer, until the sofa swallows the fabric and he’s stripped to a black T-shirt that clings to lean muscle. You swallow. Hard.
“Your move,” he murmurs. “Want me to stop?”
It’s a genuine offer, a clear exit, but you can’t drag your gaze from the vein flexing in his forearm, can’t ignore the ache blooming low every time your garter shifts.
Instead of answering, you hook your fingers under the hem of your sweater and tug. Cool air kisses your ribcage, then warmer air, then Haechan’s stare, molten and adoring all at once. His lips part on a silent expletive.
“Shit—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Definitely a dangerous game.”
He stares at the red lace hugging your breasts, squishing them together so deliciously they seem about ready to burst from the confinement. The sight is a million times better than in the picture.
He leans in again, one palm settling on your knee, sliding upward with delicious inevitability.
“I thought you were a skilled player, show me then.” You breathe, and if he was restraining himself before, the words shred the leash.
He’s on you in a second, mouth reclaiming your lips, tongue tracing the seam until you open willingly, hungrily. His other hand skates up your spine, pushing you closer to him.
When he pulls back, both of you are gasping. “You realize,” he says, thumb brushing your kiss-swollen bottom lip, “there’s no walking this back.”
You catch the thumb with your teeth, bite just hard enough to watch his eyes flare. “Then let’s walk it forward.”
His laugh is low, reverent, almost incredulous. “Forward it is.”
He coaxes you onto your back, clothes discarded beside the lingerie, bells chiming faint approval.
“These bells,” he murmurs, thumb dragging against your skin, “are ridiculous.”
Your hand slides up his thigh, brushing the growing bulge in his jeans. “Don’t act like you don’t like them now.”
He inhales sharply, and his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek like he’s fighting a smile.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, voice rough with desire. “Keep that up, and I won't be able to stop at just teasing.” He hooks a finger under the garter, snapping it lightly against your skin.
You press your palm flat against his erection, feeling it twitch under the denim. “Who said I want you to stop?” you shoot back, your words slurring just a touch from the alcohol, but laced with intent.
The bells jingle as you move closer, your free hand tugging at his shirt to pull him toward you.
Haechan's control cracks then. He captures your mouth in a fierce kiss again, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours, tasting of spiced wine.
His hand delves under your sweater, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then up to cup your breast through the lace bra, thumb rolling over your hardening nipple.
You moan into his mouth, arching into his touch. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your neck and nips at the sensitive skin while his other hand plays with the garter belt and the bells that dangle teasingly.
“These are fucking distracting,” he murmurs against your collarbone, his fingers plucking at one bell, making it ring out as he kisses lower, his mouth hovering over the swell of your breast. He tugs the bra cup down, latching onto your nipple with a wet suck that draws a sharp cry from you.
Your hands fumble with his belt. Boldness surges as you pop the button on his jeans and slide your hand inside to wrap around his thickening cock. He feels hot and hard in your grip, the veins pulsing under your fingers. You stroke him slowly, matching the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.
“Shit, yes,” Haechan groans, his hips bucking into your hand. He releases your nipple with a pop, his eyes locking on yours, wild and intense. “You're full of surprises tonight. That wine’s turning my good girl into a tease.”
He pushes you back against the sofa cushions, his body covering yours as he kisses you again, deeper this time, his fingers slipping between your thighs. They brush the edge of your thong, finding the soaked lace clinging to your core.
“So fucking wet already,” he teases, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric. You grind against his hand, feeling bolder still, your free hand tangling in his hair to pull him closer.
“More,” you demand breathily, the wine stripping away any shyness. Haechan chuckles darkly, slipping the thong aside to trace your slick folds with two fingers, spreading your wetness without entering you yet.
He teases your entrance, while his thumb presses firmly on your clit, building the pressure until your thighs quiver. The bells ring out in a frantic melody as you writhe, your strokes on his cock growing faster.
He captures your wrist gently, pulling your hand away just enough to shed his shirt, revealing the lean muscles of his chest. Then he kneels between your legs again, hooking his fingers on the edges of the thong and pulling it properly to the side.
“Let's hear those bells one more time,” he says with a wicked grin, positioning you so your legs drape over his shoulders. His mouth descends, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit in long strokes, while his hands grip your ass, thumbs parting your cheeks slightly for better access.
You cry out, nails digging into the sofa, feeling every wet slide of his tongue, every suck that makes you clench around him. He delves lower, tongue thrusting into your entrance, fucking you with it shallowly as his nose bumps your clit. The tension coils tighter, your boldness shining through as you rock against his face.
“Haechan… don’t stop,” you gasp, one hand reaching down to tangle in his hair.
He growls in approval, the vibration sending jolts through you. Rising up, he frees his cock fully, stroking it once as he lines up with your dripping pussy. “You want this? All of me?” he asks, rubbing the head along your folds, coating himself in your arousal, prolonging the tease.
“Yes, please!” you urge, guiding him in with your hips.
He thrusts forward slowly at first, inch by inch, stretching you until he bottoms out, both of you groaning at the fullness. He pauses there, his hips flush against yours, letting you adjust to the thick length.
His eyes lock on yours, dark and intense, as he rolls his hips in a slow circle, grinding against your inner walls and brushing your clit with his pubic bone.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmurs, voice rough, before pulling back almost all the way out, the drag of his cock against your sensitive spots making you whimper.
He slams back in with a sharp thrust, the impact jolting the sofa and setting the bells to a sharp chime. You arch up, meeting him, your hands clutching his shoulders as he finds a steady rhythm of deep, measured strokes that have him withdrawing to the tip before plunging back in.
The pace builds gradually, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you slightly, changing the angle so he hits that spot deeper inside you with every push. You moan loudly, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, urging him deeper. Sweat beads on his chest, glistening under the Christmas lights, and you can’t resist leaning up to lick a stripe across his collarbone, tasting the salt of him. He groans in response and speeds up, his thrusts turning harder, more insistent.
“Like that? Fuck, you take my cock so well,” he pants, one hand moving to pinch your nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he fucks into you relentlessly.
The coil in your belly tightens, pleasure sparking with each grind, but it still isn’t enough. You need more, the edge hovering just out of reach. You buck your hips up to meet his, clenching around him deliberately, drawing a hiss from his lips.
“God, yes—keep doing that,” he demands, shifting his weight to hook one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider. This new position lets him drive even deeper, his cock stretching you to the limit with every brutal snap of his hips.
The sofa creaks beneath you, the bells a constant, erotic soundtrack, and you feel the pressure building, layer by layer, as he alternates between fast, shallow pumps that tease your entrance and long, slow drags that fill you utterly.
Your breaths come in gasps, bodies slick and sliding together, the room filling with the obscene sounds of your coupling, the squelch of your pussy gripping him, his grunts mingling with your cries. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as he swallows your moans. Breaking away, he nips at your jaw, your neck, marking you with light bites while his free hand slips between your bodies to rub firm circles on your clit.
The dual sensation pushes you closer, your walls fluttering around his pistoning cock. “Haechan, I’m—fuck,” you whine, nails raking down his back and leaving red trails that make him thrust even harder in response.
He is close too—you can tell from the way his rhythm falters, his cock twitching inside you—but he is holding back, drawing it out, wanting to shatter you first.
“Come on, baby, let go for me,” he urges, voice strained, his fingers working your clit faster now, matching the relentless pace of his hips.
The bells chime wildly as your body tenses, the orgasm cresting slowly at first, then exploding in a rush that has you screaming his name. Your cunt clamps down hard, spasming in rhythmic pulses that milk his cock. Waves of ecstasy rip through you, making your vision blur and toes curl.
He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a final, deep thrust, his release flooding you in hot spurts. “Shit—yes,” he groans, body shuddering as he pumps through it, prolonging both your highs until he has nothing left.
Only then does he collapse beside you, both of you panting, chests heaving. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your thigh, and the bells are finally quiet.
You wake up to several immediate regrets:
1. Your muscles are screaming in an everything-hurts-and-I-know-exactly-why kind of way.
2. Haechan is humming "All I Want for Christmas Is You" in your kitchen way too cheerfully for someone responsible for your inability to sit cross-legged ever again.
3. The bells are still on your floor, glinting like mocking little ghosts of choices past.
"Stop that," you croak from the sofa, your voice demolished. Wrecked. A casualty of making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.
He appears in the doorway holding two mugs, wearing your "Grinch Don't Kill My Vibe" pajama pants that sit criminally low on his hips. "Morning, jingles."
"Do not."
"Bells."
"Haechan—"
"My little Christmas miracle." He's grinning now. "My festive angel. My—"
"I will throw this pillow at you."
"Didn't get enough violence last night?" He sets the mug down, dramatically rubbing his shoulder. "I think you bit me at one point."
You take a shirt from the floor (his shirt, you notice) and put it on, trying to look like someone who isn’t sore in muscles they didn't know existed. "I can't go to dinner. I'll die. I'll burst into flames at the door. My mother will take one look at me and know."
"Know what?"
"That I—that we—" You gesture helplessly between you.
"Had athletic, boundary-destroying sex that made you reconsider your stance on atheism?"
"I hate you."
"You really don't." He sips his coffee. "Your neighbors might, though. Pretty sure Mrs. Chen heard you calling me—"
You slap a hand over his mouth. He licks it. You shriek and wipe it on his chest.
"Also," he adds cheerfully, "I texted your mom. Told her we'd be late because you had a 'wardrobe emergency.'"
"A what?"
"Well, I couldn't say 'your daughter can't walk properly because I rearranged her spine,' could I?" He flops next to you on the sofa, bouncing once to make you wince. "Though technically, the emergency is that you're not wearing much of a wardrobe."
"HAECHAN."
Half an hour later, you’re sitting in his car, gripping the door handle like you're about to jump out at a red light. He's connected his phone to Bluetooth and is purposely playing "Jingle Bell Rock" at low volume.
"I will end you," you mutter.
"You already did. My back looks like I fought a tiger." He shows you a glimpse of the scratches behind his shoulder, looking far too proud. "How do I explain these? 'Oh, these? Y/N just really loves Christmas?'"
"Tell them you fell."
"Into what? A wood chipper?”
You didn’t dignify his attempt at a joke with a response, already feeling less than willing to express any kind of positive emotion in this supposed jolly day.
Truthfully, you were not upset at Haechan. You were upset with yourself for letting things get to this point, and even more for actually enjoying it to the point where you keep replaying every moment of it in your head.
Suddenly you’re pulling up at your parent’s driveway and Haechan is turning to you with dancing eyes. "Here we are! Ready?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” He leans closer. “Try not to make that face when your mother asks how we slept.”
"LALALA CAN'T HEAR YOU." You scramble out of the car.
Your mother opens the door before you reach it, and Haechan immediately transforms into the perfect guest.
"Mrs. Y/L/N! You look radiant! Is that a new apron?"
"Oh, Haechan, you charmer!" She's beaming, completely taken in. "Come in, come in!"
He follows you in, and as you pass, he whispers, "You're walking like a baby giraffe."
"And you're about to die," you hiss back.
Haechan has positioned himself directly across from you at the table, which was a mistake because now he's making eyes at you over the roast potatoes.
"So Haechan," your father starts, "how's work going?"
“Great, sir.” He keeps his voice spotless while rolling a green bean in gravy in the filthiest way imaginable. “Just got promoted.”
Your mother claps. “Y/N, did you know Haechan was promoted?”
“No,” you say flatly. “We don’t update each other on our lives. That would require me speaking to him voluntarily.”
"I don't like to brag," Haechan interrupts smoothly. "Y/N's been very supportive though. Very... hands-on with her support."
You kick him under the table. He catches your foot between his legs and holds it there.
"That's nice," your mother says. "You two have been getting along better lately."
Mark snorts into his wine. "Since when?"
"Oh, we're getting along great," Haechan agrees, running his thumb over your ankle. "Really found our rhythm, haven't we, Y/N?"
You're trying to pull your foot back but he's holding it hostage. "R--right. Yes."
"In fact," Haechan continues, now massaging your foot under the table while maintaining perfect eye contact with your father, the absolute sociopath, "just last night we were discussing how well we work together."
"You were?" Mark asks suspiciously.
"Yes," Haechan continues cheerfully, now eating mashed potatoes in a way that brings back vivid sense memories of his tongue doing things to you, "we had a very thorough discussion. Covered all the angles. Really got into it. Deep into it."
Your wine glass shakes as you set it down.
"Multiple positions," he adds thoughtfully. " I mean on the subject, different positions on the subject."
"What subject?" your father asks, bless his oblivious heart.
"Life," Haechan says philosophically. "Passion. The importance of... tension and release."
You stand so abruptly your chair screeches. "BATHROOM."
You’re standing by your mother’s frost-covered roses, pressing your cold fingers to your burning cheeks, trying to make sense of the last eighteen hours. The marks on your neck throb faintly. Your thighs still ache. And somewhere between last night and this morning, Lee Haechan has completely rewired your brain chemistry.
This is the same boy who put green food coloring in your shampoo and called you “Grinchey” two Christmases ago. Same one you’ve spent years cultivating a careful, sustained annoyance toward, like tending to a particularly bitter garden.
So why can’t you stop thinking about him?
“Plotting your escape?”
You jump. He’s standing there with two pieces of Christmas pudding, looking unfairly good in his stupid Christmas sweater, the one your mom bought him two years ago that he actually kept. You’d made fun of him for it then.
“Plotting your murder, actually.”
“Aw.” He holds out a plate. “Peace offering?”
You take it, careful not to let your fingers touch his. Can’t trust yourself anymore, apparently.
“What was all that ‘we found our rhythm’ crap?”
"We did, though." He takes a bite of pudding, considering. "We should try more next time."
You turn to glare at him, but he’s not looking at you with his usual teasing smirk. Instead, there’s something softer in his eyes that makes your stomach drop in a way that has nothing to do with last night’s activities.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing. Just…” He sets down his plate, runs a hand through his hair. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”
“Have sex on my broken sofa? Weird kink, but okay.”
“Y/N.” The way he says your name makes you look back. “I’m being serious.”
“Since when are you serious?”
“Since you walked into your parents’ house freshman year wearing that ridiculous reindeer onesie and told me my haircut looked like a hedgehog had died on my head.”
You blink. “That was ages ago.”
“Four years, three months, and roughly two weeks.” He’s studying the frozen roses now, purposefully not looking at you. “But who’s counting.”
“Why… why do you even remember that?”
He tilts his head, looking faintly amused at your confusion. “Why do you think?”
“…You’ve liked me since then…”
“Liked is a generous word for what I felt when you were being a pain in my ass.” He finally looks at you, and that vulnerability is back, the one that makes him look younger.
“But— but the girls you’ve dated are so different. I mean I’m not your type at all.”
“God you are so blind.” He chuckles incredulously.
Suddenly, you’re thinking about all the moments you’d dismissed. How he always brought your favorite snacks. How he remembered how you take your coffee and always made it better than anyone else. How he terrorized every guy you dated but played it off as "brotherly" concern.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “You’re in love with me.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, trying for casual but failing entirely. “Surprise?”
“You’re in love with me and you let me send you that photo—”
“I mean it was an accident.”
“—and you came over and you brought wine and you fixed my heating—”
“Technically, I didn’t fix your heating—”
“—and then you fucked me on my sofa knowing you’ve been in love with me for FOUR YEARS?”
He winces. “When you put it like that, it sounds weird.”
“It sounds insane!” You’re pacing now, the pudding forgotten. “Who does that? Who just… sits on feelings for four years?”
“Someone whose best friend would murder them for touching his sister?” He catches your hand, stops your pacing. “Someone who was terrified of ruining the only excuse he had to see you? Someone who was willing to take whatever he could get, even if it was just annoying you at Christmas dinners?”
You stare at him. Past the jokes and the smugness and the playful torture. There’s Haechan, who drove over at 9 PM on Christmas Eve because your heating was broken. Who made sure you were warm and safe and… oh.
“I think I have feelings for you too,” you say, and it comes out accusatory. “Which is frankly inconvenient.”
His whole face changes. “Yeah?”
“I mean, I hated you twelve hours ago.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I strongly disliked you.”
“I don’t even think you believe that.”
“I…” You think about last night, how easy it was to let him in, how right it felt when he kissed you, how you’d wanted him to stay even after the sex. “You’re annoying and insufferable and you eat all my good snacks and—”
He kisses you, cutting off your spiral. Which you were secretly glad for because you were starting to miss his lips when they weren’t on yours. What the hell was happening?
“And?” he prompts against your lips.
“And I can’t stop thinking about you,” you admit. “Last night was… but even before that, you were everywhere. In my head. Under my skin. It’s extremely annoying.”
“Oh no,” he grins, “are you admitting you love me back?”
“I’m admitting you’re less horrible than anticipated.”
“Practically a declaration of love from you.” He pulls you closer, and you realize you’re not cold anymore. Haven’t been since he came outside.
"By the way, I still have your underwear in my bag."
"WHAT—"
He pulls back just enough to see your face. "Mark asked if I had a cat toy in there because of all the jingling."
"I'm taking everything I said back. And moving to Antarctica. I’m gonna be a penguin scientist."
"Penguins mate for life, you know."
"Not the kind I'll study. Mine will be commitment-phobic penguins."
He laughs softly and kisses you again. Soft and sure and nothing like last night's desperate heat. This is a promise kiss. A Sunday morning kiss. A forty-years-from-now kiss.
"Your family's taking bets," he murmurs against your lips, "on how long before we admit we're together. Your dad has Valentine's Day. Your mom's betting on New Year's. Mark, pessimistically, has next Christmas."
"And you?"
He grins, that playful grin that started this whole mess. "Oh, I already won."
"How?"
"Bet on Christmas Eve." He kisses you again softly. "I always had good timing."
From inside, Mark's voice carries: "ARE THEY KISSING?"
Your mother's response: "Leave them alone, they're having a moment!"
"WE'RE NOT HAVING A MOMENT," you shout back.
"Speak for yourself, jingles" He says loudly, "WE'RE HAVING A VERY EMOTIONAL MOMENT!"
"I swear to god—"
"Come on." He tugs you toward the house, fingers laced with yours. "Let's go inside before you freeze. Can't have you catching cold before our New Year's plans."
"We don't have New Year's plans."
"We do now. You, me, and the bells."
"I'm burning those bells."
"Please don't. They're sentimental to me now."
You let him pull you back into the warmth, where your family is pretending very badly not to stare, where Mark looks like he needs several shots of whiskey, where your mother is already planning what is clearly a wedding in her head.
You understand with perfect clarity that you're completely fucked. You're going to fall stupidly in love with Lee Haechan. Probably already have.
thank you for reading! any feedback is greatly appreciated! <3