pairing: bff!hanbin x fem!reader || wc: 1.9k || cw: smut! mentions of alcohol, both are tipsy (not drunk, everything is consensual), they flirt so much, kissing, making out, grinding, fingering, oral (f rec.), clit play, p in v, protected sex, marking, light biting and hair pulling, use of petnames, dirty talk, praise, a tiny bit of teasing, strong language || warnings: +18 content, mdni!!! || a/n: this man’s tattoos are the hottest thing ever
the room is warm. you’re sprawled across hanbin’s couch like you own it, legs thrown over the armrest, head lolling against a cushion that smells exactly like him — clean laundry, faint cedar cologne, and something warmer that’s just his. the peach soju bottle on the coffee table is nearly empty, a thin ring of liquid glowing amber under the lamp. your cheeks are flushed, your limbs loose, everything soft and hazy around the edges.
hanbin’s on the floor, back pressed to the couch, one knee drawn up. he’s in that black tank top that should be illegal in this heat, sleeves cut just enough to show the full spread of ink on his arms. the overhead light keeps sliding across the lines like it’s showing off for you. you’ve seen those tattoos a thousand times — traced them with lazy fingers during movie nights, fallen asleep with your cheek against the sun-star-moon on his collarbone — but tonight the alcohol has stripped away every polite pretense. you can’t stop staring.
“you’re doing it again,” he says, not even looking up from his phone.
“doing what?”
“staring at my arms like you want to sink your teeth in.”
you snort, nudge his shoulder with your bare foot. “maybe i do.”
he finally tips his head back, upside-down smile lazy and dangerous. “you’re so fucking obvious when you’re tipsy.”
“shut up.” you flick his forehead. “i’m appreciating art.”
he laughs low, sets his phone aside, and turns to face you properly. the movement makes the tank ride up, just enough to flash the sharp v of his hipbone disappearing into low-slung shorts. you swallow. hard.
“which one is your favorite tonight?” he asks, voice dipped in honey and teasing. he flexes his right arm slow, deliberate, letting the thin script curl around the muscle. 'don’t regret what you do'. the ink looks alive when he moves.
you push yourself up on your elbows, knees knocking together. “that one,” you say, pointing. “always that one.”
“yeah?” he lifts the arm higher, turns it so the light licks every letter. “tell me why.”
“because it’s hot,” you say, too honest, the soju burning away your filter. “and because it’s you. you really don’t regret anything. not even the stupid shit. not even—” you wave a hand between you, “this, probably.”
his eyes go half-lidded. something shifts in the air, heavy and electric.
“and the other one?” his voice is quieter now. "do you like it?"
your gaze drifts to the delicate line of sun, star, moon just under his collarbone. you’ve kissed that spot before. once. more than a year ago. cheap vodka. a dare you both pretended was funny afterward. you remember the way he’d gone perfectly still, breath caught, like the world had narrowed to your mouth on his skin.
“yeah, that one’s pretty,” you whisper. “makes me think of you when i can’t sleep. like you’re all three at once. bright and far and quiet.”
the teasing melts off his face. he looks at you like you just handed him something fragile and priceless.
“come here,” he says.
you slide off the couch without hesitation, knees hitting the carpet between his. you’re close enough now to taste the peach on his breath, to see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. your hands find his shoulders like they’ve always belonged there.
“you’re really drunk,” he murmurs, but his thumbs are already slipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing the skin just above your waistband.
“tipsy,” you correct, leaning in until your forehead almost touches his. “big difference.”
“is there?”
you nod. “tipsy means i still know exactly what i want.”
his hands settle fully on your waist now, warm and sure. “and what do you want, baby?”
you don’t answer with words. you close the last inch and press your lips to the sun on his collarbone — soft, then open-mouthed when he exhales like you punched him. you drag your mouth to the star, then the moon, tasting salt and summer and him. his grip tightens, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re gonna kill me.”
you smile against his skin, teeth grazing the curve where neck meets shoulder. “good.”
that’s all it takes.
he surges up, hands sliding to your thighs to yank you into his lap. you go willingly, knees bracketing his hips, and the second you settle you both groan — he’s hard, thick against you, only two thin layers of cotton between you. you roll your hips once, slow, just to hear him curse.
“you’ve been thinking about this,” he says, voice wrecked. “please, tell me you have.”
“every time you wear one of those stupid tank tops,” you admit, tugging at the hem. “take it off?”
he yanks it over his head in one motion and then he’s bare-chested and the tattoos are right there. you can’t help it — you lean down and lick a long stripe up his bicep, right over the words you love. the muscle jumps under your tongue.
he shudders hard. “you don't know what you're doing to me.”
“don’t regret what you do,” you whisper against the ink, then bite down gently.
that breaks him completely.
he flips you so fast the room spins — your back hits the couch cushions, cushions that still smell like him, and then he’s on you, mouth crashing into yours. it’s not soft. it’s years of "almosts" and "maybes" and what if poured into teeth and tongue and desperate hands. you arch up, nails raking down his back, and he growls into your mouth.
“bedroom,” he mutters, but neither of you move. too far. instead he shoves your shirt up, mouth closing over your breast through the thin lace of your bra. you whine, high and needy, fingers twisting in his hair.
“hanbin—”
“i know, baby,” he says, voice shredded. “fuck, i know.”
clothes come off in frantic pieces — your shirt caught on your elbow, his shorts kicked somewhere towards the kitchen, your panties snagging on his wrist when he tugs too hard. you end up naked beneath him, legs spread wide, and he just stops. looks. eyes black.
“you’re so fucking pretty,” he says, like it hurts. then he drops between your thighs without another word.
his mouth is hot, wet, perfect. he licks into you like he’s starving, tongue curling just right, two fingers sliding in alongside and crooking immediately. you cry out, hips bucking, but he pins you down with one hand splayed over your stomach.
“stay still, baby,” he murmurs against your clit, and the vibration makes you sob.
you come the first time embarrassingly fast, thighs clamped around his head, his name cracked in half in your throat. he doesn’t stop — keeps licking softly through it until you’re twitching and begging. only then does he crawl back up, kissing you slow and filthy so you taste yourself on his tongue.
“condom,” you manage, reaching blindly toward the coffee table.
he laughs, breathless, nearly knocks over the wine bottle fumbling for his wallet. you watch him roll it on with shaking hands, and the sight of him — head tipped back, throat working, cock flushed and heavy — makes you throb all over again.
“look at you,” you whisper.
he glances down, smirks crooked. “like what you see?”
“shut up and fuck me.”
and that's what he does.
he pushes in slow, eyes locked on yours, watching every inch disappear. you’re tight, wet, still trembling from your orgasm, and he groans like it hurts. when he bottoms out you both stay still for a second, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.
“move, please, binnie,” you beg, legs wrapping around his waist.
he moves.
hard. deep. the couch creaks beneath you, springs protesting. his hand braces beside your head so he can watch your face fall apart. you reach up, trembling fingers tracing the bicep tattoo again.
“say it,” he pants.
“don’t regret—” your voice cracks as he hits that spot inside you, “what you do—”
he snarls and fucks you harder, like the words are gasoline. the angle’s perfect, every thrust dragging over your g-spot until your eyes roll back. you come again clenching around him, sobbing his name into his shoulder, nails leaving half-moon marks on his back.
he follows seconds later, hips stuttering, burying himself deep and spilling with your name on his tongue. you feel him pulse inside you, moaning your name.
after, you stay tangled, sweaty and sticky and perfect. he’s half-hard still, and neither of you move to separate. his face is pressed into your neck, lips brushing your skin.
“so,” he says eventually, hoarse, “still just tipsy?”
you laugh, shaky and wrecked, and bite the moon on his collarbone just because you can.
“shut up, hanbin.”
he hums, content, and rolls his hips lazily. the drag makes you both gasp.
“round two in my bed?” he asks against your skin. “bigger surface area. more room to make you scream.”
you clench around him involuntarily and he groans.
“yes,” you breathe. “god, yes.”
he pulls out slow, ties off the condom, and then scoops you up like you weigh nothing. your legs wrap around his waist automatically, arms around his neck. he carries you down the hallway, mouth on yours the whole way, bumping into walls because neither of you can stop kissing.
his bedroom is darker, just the city glow through half-open blinds striping the bed in silver. he drops you onto the sheets and follows immediately, crawling over you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
this time is slower.
he kisses every inch of you — collarbone, breasts, the soft skin under them, down your stomach, the crease where thigh meets hip. he spends forever between your legs again, licking you open until you’re writhing and begging, until you come on his tongue a third time with his fingers buried inside you and his name a prayer.
when he finally slides back in — after putting another condom this time — he groans like he’s coming home.
“fuck, you feel even better in this angle,” he whispers, hips rolling slow and deep. “i’m never letting you leave this bed.”
you laugh breathlessly, arching up to meet him. “we’ll die of dehydration.”
“worth it.”
he fucks you like that for what feels like hours — slow, then fast, then slow again, drawing it out until you’re both trembling. you lose track of how many times you come. at some point he flips you over, pulls your hips up, and takes you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other rubbing tight circles on your clit until you’re screaming into the pillow.
when he finally comes again, it’s with his chest pressed to your back, your name muffled against your shoulder, arms wrapped around you so tight you can barely breathe.
you collapse together, his weight a perfect blanket. he doesn’t pull out. just stays inside you, softening slowly, lips brushing lazy kisses over every tattoo you praised earlier.
“still no regrets?” you mumble into the pillow, voice shot.
he laughs, low and wrecked, and bites the shell of your ear.
“never,” he says. “told you the ink doesn’t lie.”
outside, the summer night keeps humming, warm and sticky and endless. inside, you fall asleep tangled with him, hearts racing in tandem, skin marked by his mouth and his hands and the quiet promise that tomorrow you’ll do it all again.
[ author's scribbles ! ] i am so normal about hands. very normal. normalest.
[ extras ! ] @kstrucknet + wc 244.
gyubin is busying himself, watching something on his phone. you too are busying yourself.
with his hand.
his palm is laid flat, the inner side up for you to trace. ever since you started dating, gyubin noticed your fascination with his hands. but he didn’t mind, quite the opposite. sure, it boosted his ego, but also he simply enjoyed your touch.
your finger traced the lines on his palm, feather-like touches. it tickled him a bit but he got used to the feeling by now.
his hand was huge. you mindlessly tracked the lines, only to start moving your hand around his fingers. as if drawing an invisible outline, you felt the roughness of his skin, the small bump on his middle finger from writing. even his nails: short but clean. you travelled down to the valley between his index finger and thumb. drawing a crescent with your fingertip, you returned back to the middle of his palm.
gyubin looked at you, soft smile on his face.
you slowly placed your hand flat on his palm, aligning fingers. they looked tiny on the background of his big hand, as if a giant’s grasp was to trap you.
and, quite frankly, it did.
gyubin closed his hand, fingers finding his way to rest next to yours. a giggle left your lips as you rose your interlocked hands up.
“look!” you kept grinning, amused at the ridiculous size difference.
boyfriend!ricky who is so soft spoken and gentle with you, even during your disagreements. he doesn’t want to be mean to you, ever. it makes his heart ache if the anger he’s usually so good at covering up slips through his calm demeanour and causes him to say things he would never mean; spends so much time gently mending your heart after fights, whether he was mean or not, just because he hates fighting either way.
boyfriend!ricky who is so particular about his skincare and hygiene products but will always steal your shampoo if he can. pretends he doesn’t know what you’re talking about when you jokingly pester him, only for him to slip up with a giggle. says he likes the smell to be around him all day, because it feels like you’re with him (he’s a charmer)
boyfriend!ricky who gets soooo cocky when you compliment him, cheesy grin on his face as he eggs you on to say more about him. oh you like his hair? what else? you think he did well on stage? great, anything else?? it’s so endearing, the way he’s shyly smiling to himself while your praise him, it’s hard to not pepper his face in kisses and tell him every little detail you love about him. the way his ears turn red is just another bonus to the lovelicky phenomenon 🫶🏻
boyfriend!ricky who sends you details for upcoming dramas, asking which one you want to watch with him. it’s a commitment and not a suggestion, which means you’ll have to either be cuddled up right next to him every time a new episode comes out, or you need to make time so you can facetime and watch the episode together that way if you can’t be together in person. loves to share his unwinding time with you <3
boyfriend!ricky who is, contrary to his looks, the softest man to ever grace your life. sososo soft at heart and so genuinely in love it almost hurts. very in tune with your feelings and while he does sometimes struggle with communicating or expressing his feelings, you can count on him to always try and offer you the best version of himself. wants to be someone you can rely and fall back on. very much the enamoured type :(( 🫶🏻
boyfriend!ricky who has the money to buy you all the luxuries in the world — which he does — but he loves surprising you with little trinkets he finds on his shopping tours. he loves gifting you things, big or small, and there’s something so inherently lovely about receiving small, seemingly unimportant gifts that are actually so well thought out. ricky knows you incredibly well, so he doesn’t need to break the bank to make you happy, even if he likes to do just that just as much. one day he’ll come home with matching bracelets that cost him hundreds, and the next he will silently hand you a matching keychain he got from a little diy stand, all while he has that adorable, shy smile on his face. 🫶🏻
❪ 融点 ❫ angst hanbin x f!reader 645 cw ノ attempted suicide (reader) not mentioned in a ton of detail but still please read with caution, bruises and needles (iv) mentioned, not proofread 〃 @lexeees for hanbin + save me, kill me for the 4k event ⸝⸝⸝ here i am writing angst for hanbin yet again big big sigh / 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄
You're asleep, softly snoring with your head propped up against the hospital pillow. Hanbin knows how uncomfortable the hospital beds are, so it wonders him how you look so peaceful lying there. When he sees you like this, he can almost forget about everything going wrong. Almost.
Because he can still see the tear stains on your face, and if he lets his eyes wander a little lower he'll catch the IV hooked up to your arm and the bruises that litter your body, and reality comes crashing back to him like ocean waves. Hanbin sometimes feels hopeless when he looks at you, because no matter how much love he pours out, it's never enough to change the way you feel about yourself or the cruelty that others treat you with.
Some days he blames himself, and other times he wishes he could burn the world down for all its done wrong to you. You don't deserve any of it. He's always thinking about the what if's and maybe's. What if he had done a better job protecting you? Maybe if he had stuck to you like glue he could have prevented the events leading up to this? But it's all in the past. It's all already been done, and there's nothing he can do except grapple with the aftermath.
At least you're still alive. At least he didn't lose you.
The nurse comes into the room, silent as she glances at the sad scene. Hanbin barely notices her presence, his eyes still trained to your sleeping figure, tracing every scar and bruise for the hundredth time, tears brimming that he frantically blinks back. He can't look at you for a second longer. It's too painful.
He excuses himself from the room as the nurse takes over checking your vitals and refreshing your intravenous needle. There's a 24 hour convenience store near the hospital, and Hanbin finds his legs leading him there without thinking. It's 2AM, and the store is deserted except for the clerk who doesn't spare him a glance. He roams the shelves, unsure of what to purchase until he sees the little candy packet. Your favourite since middle school.
He grabs five packs of the hard candies, a can of coffee, pays, and then leaves. He's grateful for the silence outside the hospital, although it leaves a lurch in his stomach. There's an empty bench near the front doors, so he takes a seat while chugging some of the coffee. You were admitted nearly twelve hours ago and Hanbin hasn't slept a wink since. It all weighs on him too much for his body to accept rest. Not until he knows you're okay.
He only lingers outside for another five minutes before wandering back up to your room. Nothing has changed. There's still the repetitive tone of the heart monitor. The IV is still distributing meds to you. Your body is still littered with marks.
He shrinks back into the chair beside your bed. His hand finds your limp one again and his thumb brushes gently over the bruises on it as if he could erase the marks they've left on you.
He still remembers how dread had flooded his body when he first got the call that you had actually made an attempt. The worry never truly left him, only lessened once he saw for himself that you were still with him. Losing you is one of his biggest fears. He doesn't know how he would live without you in his life. Without your smile or your laugh; without the feeling of your warm skin or the taste of your sweet lips. Your days are marred and dampened with darkness, but you still manage to be the sun to Hanbin. You still shine brighter than he ever could. He only hopes that somehow, he's also a source of warmth for you.
⇢ lyrical inspo ☆ bad omens: "can't help the way i keep ignoring every omen. heaven knows i should let go, it's nothing that i don't already know."
⇢ pairing: hanbin x afab reader
⇢ warnings: childhood best friend!hanbin, angst, unrequited love, cursing, very briefly suggestive, mentions of reading having a period, alcohol consumption
⇢ synopsis: growing up together inevitably meant at least one of you were going to fall in love, but it didn't always mean it would end well.
⇢ word count: 5.6k
⇢ note: i actually had this posted previously, but it was short and not exactly what i was wanting for this series, so i decided to fully flesh it out and rewrite it! i'm so much happier with how it turned out and i hope you guys enjoy it too :3
the first time you met hanbin, he was all sharp elbows and righteous fury in a body that still hadn’t figured out how to be big yet.
it was recess, late spring, the kind where the sun made the metal slide too hot to touch and the air smelled like cut grass and chalk dust. you were new enough that the playground still felt like a foreign country, standing near the edge of the blacktop with your hands balled into the hem of your shirt, watching groups of kids stitch themselves into little packs. somewhere near the swings, a boy older than you had a smaller kid cornered, voice loud and mean, shoving him every time he tried to move away.
you didn’t think. you just walked over, heart pounding in your ears like it was trying to warn you back into safety, and planted yourself between them with the kind of bravery children only have because they don’t yet understand consequences.
“leave him alone,” you said, voice shaking but steady enough to hold.
the older boy’s eyes slid over to you, amused, like you were a bug that had learned how to talk. he gave you a lopsided grin, “or what?”
you opened your mouth and closed it again, like a fish out of water because you didn’t actually have a plan — when a second figure stepped into your peripheral, quick and decisive, like he’d been moving before his brain even caught up. he didn’t say anything at first; he simply stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you, close enough that the heat of him radiated through your sleeve. his jaw was set, and there was something fearless in the way he looked up at the older boy, like the size difference was irrelevant.
“or i’ll tell,” the boy said finally, voice flat, eyes unwavering. “mrs. lee said she’s watching the cameras now.”
it was a lie, probably. but it landed like truth. the older boy scoffed, threw one last shove toward the smaller kid for good measure, then walked off with an exaggerated swagger that didn’t fool anyone. the moment he was gone, the small kid fled too, disappearing back into the crowd as if the whole thing had never happened.
you and the other boy stared after them for a second, bodies still braced for impact that wouldn’t come. then he looked at you and the tension in his face broke into a grin that felt like sunlight, “that was brave,” he said, like it was the coolest thing he'd ever seen.
you blinked, “you helped.”
he shrugged like it was nothing, like defending people was just what you did when you were him, “you started it. i’m hanbin by the way.”
“i’m y/n,” you replied, finally mustering up a small, genuine smile.
his eyes turned into crescents as he said, “i think we’re going to be best friends.”
by middle school, your friendship had grown roots.
it lived in the way you saved him a seat without thinking, how he always traded you the better snack from his lunchbox, how you walked home together even when your houses were in opposite directions because neither of you liked the feeling of goodbyes. you knew each other’s moods the way you knew the weather, could read the tilt of his eyebrows or the set of your shoulders like they were language. you were twelve and you thought that kind of closeness was permanent by default.
the day you got your period for the first time, it felt like your body betrayed you.
it happened during fifth period, right when you stood up and felt something wrong, warm and sudden, and the realization hit so hard it made your vision swim. you didn’t check. you didn’t have to. you just knew. you walked faster than you meant to, backpack held too tight against your spine, trying to angle yourself so no one would see what was happening behind you.
but kids notice everything. they notice the way you hold your arms, the way your steps shorten, the way your face goes pale. by the time you reached the hallway, you could feel the heat of humiliation climbing up your neck, tears stinging your eyes as you tried to tug the hem of your hoodie lower, as if fabric could erase evidence.
hanbin saw you and instantly knew something was wrong.
he was at his locker, half laughing about something with another boy, until his eyes flicked to you and the laugh died like a cut string. he didn’t call out your name. he didn’t ask you what was wrong loudly. he simply shut his locker, stepped in front of you like he always had, and said in a low voice meant only for you, “hey, come with me.”
you tried to shake your head, throat tight, “i can’t.”
“you can,” he said, firm but gentle, like he was holding you together with words alone, “trust me.”
you followed him because you always did.
he led you down a back corridor most people didn’t use, past the art rooms and the storage closet that always smelled strongly of bleach, until you reached a bathroom tucked near the auditorium that nobody ever went to unless they were desperate. he pushed the door open, checked quickly that it was empty, then held it for you with the kind of careful respect that made you want to cry harder.
“go,” he said softly, “i’ll stay right here.”
inside, you locked yourself into a stall and stared at the ruined back of your jeans like it was a crime scene. it was so much worse than you’d imagined. you pressed your palm over your mouth to swallow a sob, the kind that came from being twelve and suddenly aware of how cruel the world could be to people.
“y/n?” hanbin’s voice came through the door, muffled but steady. “hey, it’s okay.”
it wasn’t. not to you. not right then.
you opened the stall door a crack, eyes watery, “my pants are ruined.”
hanbin didn’t flinch. he didn’t look away. he just nodded like he understood, like this was serious because you were serious. then he shrugged his backpack off and unzipped it, digging around until he pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants, slightly wrinkled, with his gym class logo stamped on the leg.
“i have these,” he said, holding them out like an offering, “i always keep an extra pair because coach makes us run if we forget. you can—” he swallowed, cheeks pinking as he tried to say it delicately, “you can change. i’ll wait outside. and if you want, we’ll tell the nurse. or we won’t. whatever you want.”
your hands shook as you took them, “what if i ruin them?”
he shrugged again, like it didn’t matter, “i’ll just wash them or get a new pair, i don’t care.”
you stared at him, throat burning, “why are you being so nice?”
hanbin’s expression softened, something small and earnest settling in his eyes, “because you’re my best friend,” he said simply, like the answer was obvious, like there was no other option.
and in that bathroom no one used, with your shame pressed against your ribs and his kindness settling deep into your bones, you learned something about him that would follow you forever: hanbin loved like it was instinct, like he didn’t know how to be anything else.
by time you were sixteen, everything felt like it was happening too fast.
you came over to hanbin’s house for a barbecue the weekend after school let out, the neighborhood thick with the smell of charcoal and sunscreen, the air buzzing with cicadas. his parents had music playing from a small speaker on the patio, something upbeat that floated through the backyard while people laughed and ate and pretended they weren't sweating to death from the first heat wave of the season.
you showed up later than you said you would, and when you stepped through the back gate, hanbin looked up from where he’d been standing near the grill and forgot how to breathe for a second.
it wasn’t that you looked like a different person. it was worse than that. you looked like you — just sharpened, slightly more grown, like someone had quietly turned the volume up on you while he wasn’t paying attention. your shorts were a little shorter than you used to wear. your hair fell in softer waves around your face. your laugh rang brighter, and you didn’t seem to notice the way his gaze caught on every subtle change like it was something he needed to memorize.
“hi,” you said, grinning, and stepped into his space like you belonged there, because you did. you always had.
hanbin forced a smile, “hi.”
you reached out and tugged lightly at the sleeve of his t-shirt, playful, “why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
he tried to laugh but it didn’t sound right in his throat, “i don’t.”
you leaned closer, eyes narrowing like you were studying him, “you’re weird.”
and he was, because something had shifted and he could feel it in the way his heart kept tripping over itself, in the way the world seemed to tilt around you. he watched you move through his backyard, watched you talk to his parents like they were your own, watched you steal a slice of watermelon off the table and eat it with juice running down your wrist, and somewhere between the sunlight and the laughter, it hit him like an omen.
he was in love with you.
not the simple kind of love that lived in childhood friendship, not the easy affection that made you permanent to each other. this was the kind that sank its teeth in and refused to let go, the kind that made him ache for things he felt like he had no right to want.
later that night, after everyone left and the backyard lights were turned off, you ended up sprawled on the hood of his parents’ car with him, looking up at the sky like you always had. the street was quiet, the air was cooler now, and the world felt too big and too still.
you pointed lazily upward, tracing a constellation you spotted, “do you think we’ll always be like this?”
“like what?” hanbin asked, already knowing the answer would ruin him.
“best friends,” you said, soft and sure, “even when we’re old and gross.”
hanbin’s chest tightened around something tender and unbearable. he laughed under his breath, more breath than sound, and stared at the stars until they blurred.
“yeah,” he said anyway, because he would agree to anything if it meant keeping you near, “of course.”
you smiled, satisfied, and rested your head against his shoulder.
hanbin laid there with your weight warming his skin and his heart quietly turning itself into a secret he would carry for years.
prom arrived like a spotlight.
the school decorated the gym in cheap gold streamers and twinkling lights, trying desperately to make adolescence feel magical instead of awkward. for weeks leading up to it, hanbin had thought about asking you in the quiet moments when his brain wasn’t busy with homework or practice or pretending he was fine every time you flushed your pretty smile at him. he imagined walking up to you like it was normal, imagined your smile, imagined the possibility that you might say yes because you always said yes to him.
he rehearsed the words in his head until they felt almost real, ready to finally pluck up the courage to ask you.
then lunchtime happened.
you found him at your usual table with a brightness in your eyes that made his stomach drop before you even spoke. you slid into the seat across from him like you were bursting with something you couldn’t hold.
“bin,” you said, breathless. “guess what!”
hanbin smiled automatically, because his body had learned that you were joy personified, that you meant good things, “what?”
you didn’t even try to hide it, “matthew asked me to prom.”
the cafeteria noise blurred, like someone had stuffed cotton in hanbin’s ears. he blinked at you, trying to keep his face steady, trying to keep himself from breaking in a room full of fluorescent lights and teenagers.
“the football captain,” you added, grinning wider, like this was the kind of thing you’d dreamed about.
“yeah,” hanbin managed, because his mouth still worked even when his heart didn’t, “i know who he is.”
you laughed, cheeks pink, “i said yes.”
hanbin’s chest tightened into something sharp and unfamiliar. heartbreak, arriving early like it had been waiting for him. he wanted to say something, anything, that might turn the story in a different direction. he wanted to tell you he’d been thinking about asking you, that he’d been practicing the words, that he’d been hoping.
instead, he nodded and made himself smile like a good friend.
“that’s… really great,” he said.
you reached across the table and squeezed his hand, warm and casual, unaware you were pressing on a bruise, “right? i’m so excited.”
hanbin held your hand back because that was what he did, because he didn’t know how to refuse you without giving himself away. he let the feeling carve into him and said nothing.
on the night of prom, you stood in hanbin’s bedroom like it was tradition.
your dress was soft and shimmering, the kind of color that made you look like you’d been painted by moonlight. you turned in front of his mirror, adjusting the straps, smoothing the fabric, nervous in a way that made you seem younger again for a moment.
hanbin sat on the edge of his bed in his suit pants and shirt sleeves, tie undone, watching you with a quiet devastation he didn’t have words for.
you tousled your hair, turned to him, and asked the question that would haunt him for years in different forms.
“do i look okay?”
he stared at you like the answer was obvious, like it was written in the way his throat tightened.
you looked perfect. you looked like something he was never allowed to have, but desperately wanted anyway.
he forced a shrug, forced the lie that would keep him safe, “yeah,” he said, “you look fine.”
you frowned immediately, “fine? that’s it?”
panic spiked in him, because he’d done it wrong, because he’d hurt you, because he couldn’t even pretend correctly when it mattered. “no, i mean—” he sat up straighter, words tumbling out as he backpedaled, as he tried to make it right without making how he actually felt too obvious, “you look… you look incredible. you look like—like, seriously, y/n. matthew’s going to lose his mind.”
you beamed, relief washing over your face, “really?”
hanbin smiled like it didn’t cost him anything, “really.”
you stepped closer and fixed his tie for him, fingers brushing his collarbone, close enough that his breath caught, “thank you,” you said softly, “i always trust you.”
the words landed like a blessing and a curse.
then the doorbell rang and matthew’s voice floated up from downstairs, loud and eager. you grabbed your clutch, shot hanbin one last bright smile, and rushed out of his room like you were running toward your future.
hanbin sat there in the wake of your perfume and the quiet you left behind, and for the first time, he understood what it meant to love someone who didn’t look back.
the weeks after prom were the beginning of the end of something hanbin didn’t know he was losing.
you and matthew became official in a way that was impossible to ignore. your texts came less often. your weekends filled up. you stopped showing up at hanbin’s house unannounced, stopped sprawling on his bed and stealing his snacks, stopped treating him like the place you always returned to.
you told him about it one afternoon like it was nothing, walking beside him after school as the sun dipped low and turned the sidewalk gold, “so,” you said, swinging your backpack strap, “matthew and i are dating.”
hanbin nodded like he didn’t already know, like it wasn’t obvious in the way your smile kept turning outward toward someone else.
“that’s nice,” he said, the words tasting dull.
you bumped his shoulder playfully, “don’t be weird about it.”
he forced a laugh, “i’m not.”
but he was.
because suddenly, being your best friend meant watching you move away in slow motion. it meant filling the hours you used to spend together with things that felt like substitutes — studying longer, joining clubs, volunteering for extra projects, anything that kept him busy enough not to notice the shape of your absence. he poured himself into academics, into routines, into any version of life that didn’t require him to sit still and think about you.
it worked, sometimes.
until it didn’t.
senior year broke you open in the middle of the night.
hanbin was half-asleep when his phone buzzed, the screen lighting up his dark room. your name flashed like an emergency.
he answered immediately, voice rough with sleep, “y/n?”
your breath came in ragged, broken pulls. you sounded like you were trying not to sob and failing, “bin,” you whispered, and his chest tightened before you even said another word, “i can’t—i can’t do this.”
“where are you?” he asked, already sitting up, already reaching for his shoes. his body moved on instinct, the way it always had when you were hurting.
“outside,” you said, voice trembling. “i’m outside my house. i can’t go in. my mom will hear me.”
hanbin was out the door in five minutes, hoodie thrown over pajama pants, keys clenched in his fist. he drove with his heart in his throat, streetlights stretching like blurred stars, and when he found you on the curb with your knees pulled to your chest, he felt something in him fracture.
you looked up when his headlights hit you, mascara streaked, face blotchy, pain etched into every inch of you.
“hey,” hanbin said softly, stepping out of the car.
you stood quickly and stumbled into him like your body knew him as safety. hanbin wrapped his arms around you automatically, holding you like he could keep you from falling apart if he held tight enough.
“he broke up with me,” you choked out against his shoulder, “he said he didn’t want this anymore.”
hanbin’s throat burned as he guided you into the passenger seat, buckled you in with hands that shook only slightly, then drove with no destination in mind. the city was quiet at that hour, streets empty, the world feeling like it belonged only to the two of you.
after a while, you stopped crying enough to breathe. you stared out the window, voice raw, “i feel so stupid.”
“you’re not,” hanbin said, steady.
you laughed bitterly, “i thought he loved me.”
hanbin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. he wanted to say something honest, something that would change everything. he wanted to tell you that love wasn’t supposed to feel like abandonment, that someone who loved you wouldn’t leave you crying like you were.
he wanted to tell you that he loved you.
the words rose in his throat like they’d been waiting for this moment, like they were finally ready to be released. but then you turned toward him, eyes wet and exhausted, and whispered, “i’m glad i have you. i don’t know what i’d do without you.”
hanbin swallowed the confession so hard it hurt.
“yeah,” he said quietly, voice breaking on the edge, “me too.”
he didn’t say more. he took you for a drive until the sky began to pale, until your breathing evened out, until you leaned your head against the window and finally fell asleep. he drove you home after, carried your heartbreak like it was his responsibility, and told himself again that he could wait.
that loving you meant patience.
college made waiting feel like a punishment.
you got an apartment together because it made sense financially, practically, logically. you were best friends. you trusted each other. you had always been each other’s constant, so of course you would choose to live in the same space when the world got bigger.
hanbin said yes like it wasn’t terrifying.
because living with you meant living inside temptation. it meant seeing you in the soft hours, hair messy, wearing his hoodie like it belonged to you. it meant hearing you hum while you brushed your teeth, watching you dance around the kitchen while ramen boiled, listening to you talk about your day with your feet tucked under you on the couch.
one night, you were eating takeout on the floor because you hadn’t bought a dining table yet, a movie playing on your laptop propped up on a stack of textbooks. you laughed at a joke and leaned back against the couch, eyes bright in the glow of the screen.
hanbin stared too long.
not because you were doing anything special, but because you existed like that — close, warm, familiar — and it made him ache with the kind of love that had nowhere to go. he realized he’d been watching the curve of your mouth, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, like he was trying to memorize you in case the universe stole you away.
you turned your head, catching him, “what?”
hanbin jerked his gaze away fast, heart slamming, “nothing. movie’s just dumb.”
you laughed and nudged his shoulder, “you’re dumb.”
and hanbin laughed too, because it was easier than confessing, because he was terrified of ruining the only thing he was sure of: that you’d stay if he didn’t ask for more.
the first party the two of you went to happened on a friday you didn’t want to go to, but you went anyway.
you got drunk faster than hanbin expected, cheeks flushed, laughter loud, words slurring as you clung to his arm in a house full of strangers and sticky floors. hanbin stayed sober, the designated anchor, watching you from a careful distance even as he stayed close enough to catch you if you fell.
at some point, you tugged him into the hallway, away from the noise. your eyes were glassy, wide with something messy and vulnerable.
“bin,” you said, like his name was a plea.
“hey,” he murmured, smoothing your hair back gently, “you okay?”
you nodded too quickly, “i just—” you swallowed, lips wobbling, “you’re so good to me.”
hanbin’s heart stuttered, “you’re drunk,” he said softly, trying to make it gentle.
you stepped closer anyway, hands fisting in his shirt like you needed him, “i know.”
and then you kissed him.
it was clumsy, warm, desperate in a way that wasn’t you. hanbin froze for half a heartbeat, because he wanted it, he’d wanted it for years, then he pulled back immediately, hands firm on your shoulders, breath shaking.
“no,” he whispered, voice rough, “hey. no, y/n.”
your brows knit, confused, “why?”
because i love you. because i’ve loved you. because i’ll take anything you give me and i hate that about myself.
instead, he said, “because you’re not you right now. and i’m not doing this when you're drunk.”
your face crumpled slightly, as if rejection was a language you didn’t know how to translate from him. hanbin’s chest ached as he guided you back into the living room, found you water, coaxed you into sitting, stayed beside you until the night ended.
the next morning, you were hungover and pale, curled on the couch under a blanket with your hair in a messy knot. hanbin brought you toast and painkillers and tried to act normal, like his heart hadn’t nearly come apart in that hallway.
you stared at him for a long moment, eyes heavy with exhaustion and regret, “about last night,” you said, voice small.
hanbin kept his face steady, “you don’t have to—”
“just forget it,” you cut in quickly, embarrassment flaring, “please. i was drunk. i don’t… i don’t want it to be weird. we’re just friends.”
hanbin nodded, even though it felt like someone had pressed a thumb into an open wound, “okay,” he said, “we’ll forget it.”
and he did what he always did.
he swallowed it.
jiwoong arrived like history repeating itself.
you told hanbin about him on a wednesday morning, breathless in the kitchen while you stirred instant coffee, excitement bright and new in your voice, “i met someone,” you said, smiling like you couldn’t help it, “his name’s jiwoong.”
hanbin’s stomach tightened, a familiar dread settling in, “yeah?”
you nodded, bouncing slightly on your toes, “we’re going on a date.”
that night, you stood in your shared living room in a new outfit, adjusting your hair in the mirror, and asked him the question that always sounded harmless when it came from you.
“do i look okay?”
hanbin watched you — beautiful, hopeful, unaware — and felt the universe line up another omen in front of him.
what was he supposed to say? that you looked perfect? that you always looked perfect? that every time you asked him that, it made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he would never be allowed to step into?
he forced a smile, one you always believed.
“of course you do.”
you relaxed immediately, accepting the answer like it was safe, like it meant nothing more than friendship, “thanks, bin,” you said, and the way you said it was easy, comfortable, unaware of the blood it drew.
when jiwoong knocked, you rushed to the door, cheeks bright, and hanbin stayed on the couch like a statue. jiwoong complimented you the second he saw you, eyes lingering, voice warm, and hanbin felt sick with jealousy he didn’t have the right to show.
you waved goodbye, then you were gone, and hanbin was alone again, sitting in the quiet you left behind, listening to the apartment exhale without you in it.
a few weeks later, a huge storm rolled in without much of a warning.
thunder cracked open the sky like it had been waiting for an excuse, rain coming down in sheets that turned the sidewalks into rivers. hanbin walked home from work soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, water pooling in his shoes, and the whole time he cursed himself for not checking the weather.
but it wasn’t really the weather’s fault.
it was yours.
it was because you’d walked out of your bedroom that morning in one of jiwoong’s shirts, the fabric hanging too comfortably on your body like it belonged there, like he belonged there. faint bruises scattered along your neck that you didn’t even bother to hide, as if your happiness was so loud it didn’t care who it hurt.
hanbin had been so flustered by the sight he forgot everything else, including checking the forecast, including grabbing an umbrella just in case.
when he reached the apartment building, his shoes squeaked loudly on the lobby tile. he climbed the stairs two at a time, desperate for warmth, for dry clothes, for anything that felt like relief. at your door, he fumbled through his messenger bag, fingers numb, frustration spiking when the keys weren’t where they should’ve been.
he dug deeper, cursing under his breath, finally finding them at the bottom like they’d fallen down there just to irk him more. he unlocked the door and stepped inside before he stopped dead.
there you were on the couch, straddling jiwoong with nothing but that same shirt from this morning, head thrown back while jiwoong kissed along your jaw, hands gripping your hips like he had every right. your laugh was breathy, your eyes half-lidded, your body moving like you were exactly where you wanted to be.
hanbin stood there, drenched, silent, invisible. then, wordlessly, he closed the door, the click of the latch sounding too final.
he turned around, walked back down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the rain again, as if he could outrun the image burning into the backs of his eyelids. he found a bench with no cover and sat like he deserved the punishment, letting the downpour soak him deeper, letting the cold seep into his bones until it matched the feeling in his chest.
people hurried past with umbrellas, glancing at him like he was insane, but hanbin didn’t care. nothing mattered; not the rain, not his ruined clothes, not the way his heart felt like it was splitting in two.
he sat there with his hands in his hair and realized, with a sick sort of clarity, that he was becoming a background character in a story that used to belong to him too.
a few days later, you asked him to hang out.
you said you missed him, said you hadn’t seen much of him lately, and your voice sounded so genuine that hanbin almost believed the ache would be worth it. you made it a quiet night, just you two, curled on the couch with a show playing, snacks spread across the coffee table like you were trying to recreate something familiar.
hanbin laughed when you laughed. he nodded when you talked. he pretended he hadn’t been unraveling all week.
against his better judgment, he asked, “how have things been with you and jiwoong?”
your eyes lit up instantly, like you’d been waiting for permission. you talked and talked, words spilling out about how good he was, how sweet he was, how easy everything felt. hanbin let you, because what else could he do? because he’d trained himself to be the person who listened.
then you said it, sudden and bright and devastating.
“i think i love him, bin.”
hanbin felt something go quiet inside him, like a light switching off. he blinked, stared at you, and managed only, “oh.”
your expression shifted immediately, hurt blooming fast, “is that really all you have to say? i wanted you to be supportive.”
hanbin’s mouth moved before his brain could stop it, “i really don’t know what to say, y/n,” he answered truthfully, then, reckless with pain, “i mean, don’t you think it’s a little early? it's been less than a month.”
you scoffed, defensive and offended, “i don’t understand why you’re being so judgmental.”
“that’s not what i meant,” hanbin said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he could press the emotion back into its box, “i think i’m just gonna take a walk.”
he left before you could stop him, shoes on, door closing, the night air sharp and crisp against his skin. he walked until his lungs burned, until the darkness felt like a friend, until he ended up in a small park a few blocks down and sat on a bench with his hands clenched together, trying to find a version of himself that didn’t love you this much.
your texts came in fast and furious, demanding explanations, hurt and confusion bleeding through every message. hanbin stared at the screen until his eyes stung, then finally typed what you needed to hear because he always gave you what you needed.
i’m sorry. i didn’t mean it like that. i’m happy for you.
even though he wasn’t.
when he went back to the apartment later, the lights were off except the faint glow under your bedroom door. hanbin stood in the hallway for a long time, heart hammering, before he lifted his hand and knocked softly.
“y/n?” he called, voice low.
the door opened after a pause, and you stood there in an oversized shirt with puffy eyes and tear tracks you hadn’t fully wiped away. the sight of you like that, hurt because of him, made guilt flood his chest so fast it almost drowned everything else.
“hey,” hanbin whispered.
you didn’t say anything at first. you just looked at him, fragile in a way you never usually were. then you stepped back slightly, letting him in. your room smelled like you. the air felt heavy, like it had been holding your sadness for hours.
“i’m sorry,” hanbin said again, because the words were all he had, “i didn’t want to ruin tonight.”
you sniffed, voice raw, “you made me feel stupid.”
hanbin’s throat tightened, “you’re not stupid. i just—” he stopped, because the truth was right there, sharp and ready to slice everything open. i just love you. i just can’t do this. i just want it to be me.
instead, he took a careful step forward and held his arms out, silently asking. you hesitated only a second before stepping into him.
hanbin wrapped you up gently, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, feeling your breath shake against his chest as you cried quietly. he held you like he had when you were twelve and scared and trying to hide stains on your jeans, like he had when you were eighteen and shattered on the curb in front of your house, like he always would, because this was the only way he was allowed to love you.
your hands fisted in the back of his shirt as if you were afraid he’d disappear, “i don’t want to lose you,” you whispered.
hanbin closed his eyes so tight it hurt, “you won’t,” he promised, even though every part of him knew he was the one being lost.
he stayed there with you for a long time, rocking slightly, letting your tears soak into his shirt, letting your pain become something he could carry if it meant you didn’t have to carry it alone. and while you softened against him, while you breathed and calmed and trusted him, hanbin took every feeling he had — every jealous thought, every longing, every confession that had ever tried to climb out of his throat — and shoved it down into a neat little box as best as he could, sealing it shut with his own ribs.
because that’s what you do when you love somebody.
ricky when he secretly has a crush on you🙈 ????????
RICKY HAVING A SECRET CRUSH ON YOU!!
NOTE FROM SENA , i hope this was an ask for headcanon (that's what I understood from the ask but if it's not, then make sure to specify before asking, thank you) MASTERLIST!!
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001. SFW SECTION
He’ll do small, thoughtful things for you, like offering to carry your bag or saving you the last piece of something you love.
Ricky notices the little things about you—your favorite snacks, your habits, or even when you’re feeling down. He quietly adjusts himself to make your day better without making it obvious.
He’ll sit and listen intently whenever you talk, even if it’s about random things. You might notice his eyes lingering on you as you speak, his soft gaze filled with admiration.
Though he’s usually composed, being around you makes him a little shy. He might fumble with his words or avoid too much eye contact, afraid you’ll see right through him.
Ricky would gift you little things that seem casual but hold deeper meaning, like a book you mentioned wanting to read or your favorite drink on a stressful day. He won’t admit he went out of his way to get it.
He’s quite protective of you. If anyone bothers you or you’re in an uncomfortable situation, he’s the first to step in, calmly diffusing things while ensuring you feel safe.
He tends to stay close, subtly ensuring he’s always around when you need something. Whether it’s sitting near you during group hangouts or being the first to offer help,
His calm demeanor hides a playful side that he reveals through light teasing. It’s his way of getting closer to you while keeping his feelings under wraps.
You might catch him stealing glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. If you call him out, he’ll act nonchalant, but his slight blush gives him away.
Despite his calm exterior, Ricky secretly daydreams about confessing his feelings. He’s cautious and thoughtful, wanting to ensure the timing is perfect and you feel the same.
When Ricky finally decides to confess, it might not be through words. Instead, he’ll express his feelings through meaningful actions, like planning something special that shows how much he pays attention to what you love.
002. NSFW SECTION
couldn't think of many points so I wrote a little bit.
He’ll jerk off to your pictures at night whenever he feels lonely or just thinks of confessing to you—mostly because he can't stop the feeling :(
Definitely checks out your ass when you wear some mini skirt or tight jeans but not enough to make you uncomfortable (it's mostly subtle)
Would get a boner whenever your thigh brushes against his, ending up trying to secretly hide the boner.
100% likely to call you up in the middle of his jerking session to hear your voice and put the call on mute so that you won't hear him cumming.
Will get a lot of wet dreams about you tbh and will try his best to avoid those thoughts while working.
