Summary: Your new neighbor wants you bad, but you barely give him the time of day, leading him to ask you to make a list of tasks he can accomplish to get you to finally sleep with him.
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader
Genre: Social Media AU, College Slice of Life, Neighbors to Friends to Lovers, Slow-Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Smut, Fluff
Word Count: N/A
Warnings: chapter specific warnings will be included on each individual post
Author’s Note: this is a social media au (aka smau) so the entire story is told through messages between the characters, with no written chapters. I just want everyone to be aware of that since this is my first time trying one! this wasn't something I ever planned on doing, but I had the idea and figured why not try it. plus, it gives me time to work on some of my long-standing wips while you guys are busy reading this for the next few weeks. I'll be releasing chapters biweekly on mondays and thursdays at 7 pm EST. some chapters are fairly short given the nature of smau, but I'm hopeful you'll still enjoy reading the new drops each week!
might there be a reason this post resonates with a lot of women?
can you describe the phenonemon of learned helplessness? give an example.
in what ways might the gender pay gap have influenced this post?
in most cultures, women are expected to do the majority of childrearing and domestic work, even if they also work outside of the home. in what ways does this influence the post?
And what if rap WAS only about sex, violence, and drugs... what then? Would you be justified in looking down upon it as not being "real" art? What would your justification be? Sex is immoral and taboo? Drugs should never be mentioned outside of D.A.R.E programs? Songs about violence turn children to it? Would you turn that standard to other genres as well? I know you wouldn't, I know you haven't, because it's never really been about the topics explored.
pairing: jimin x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 7k | warnings: here
genre: latino!jimin, tokyo drift AU, street racing, rivals to lovers
"code-switching"
"Snack time shouldn’t feel this intimate. But apparently, one convenience store run, one too many secrets and one stupidly smug man later, you’re agreeing to something that definitely wont’t ruin your life at all."
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↦author's note: Oh, you guys are actually insane. I cannot believe the teaser for Chapter 8 got 100 notes on Tumblr. One hundred??? For Mr. Jaque??? And you know what… I get it. I fear I understand the Jaque disease intimately because I, too, have been sitting here daydreaming about this man like he pays rent in my frontal lobe.
This chapter is honestly so cute to me, but also really, really interesting in terms of character work. It gives you a much clearer look at who Jaque is underneath all the bravado, the cockiness, the flirting, the shameless menace behavior, all of that. There are a lot of little things in here that matter more than they seem to on a first read, and I love that kind of writing because it lets a character breathe beyond what is being said out loud. Even something as seemingly small as the multilingual detail adds texture to him in a way that goes far beyond ‘oh, that’s cool.’ It says something about movement, identity, adaptation, intimacy, compartmentalization. It says something about the kinds of worlds he has had to belong to, and the ones he can move through without explaining himself.
I also really wanted to emphasize how family-oriented he is, because I think that is one of the keys to understanding him properly. Not just him as an individual, but him as a son, a brother, a product of multiple cultures, responsibilities, loyalties, and emotional codes. That kind of thing always shapes a person’s instincts more than the average outsider realizes. And to me, one of the most telling things about him is exactly that: no matter what he wants, no matter who he would rather spend time with, his brothers will always pull at him. He will always go back.
And then there is the quietness of the first part of this chapter, which I adore. I think it says so much about their dynamic. They click so naturally in stillness, in observation, in side comments, in the spaces between what is actually being confessed. They keep secrets, they dodge, they posture, they act annoying, but underneath all of that? They understand each other in ways they are not even fully conscious of yet. They have more in common than either of them would comfortably admit, and that is exactly the kind of thing that makes me rub my little writer hands together like a villain.
Also yes, the last part is very much me introducing you properly to their sexual banter and chemistry, because that is exactly how these two are going to be. I regret nothing. My main couples are always at least a little bit freaked out, and frankly I think that is beautiful of me.
Anyway. Enjoy Chapter 8. I had the best time writing this one, and I hope you guys scream appropriately.
Setagaya doesn't feel wealthy in any way that matters when you've spent your whole life surrounded by money.
The convenience store proves it.
Posh.
But posh in that curated, performative way that screams ’we're trying’. Like wealth as an aesthetic choice rather than a reality you've been marinating in since birth.
Growing up, your father used to joke that you were born under all seven lucky gods. Protected, blessed, the only daughter of a Toyota engineer and a Hayashi heir. Your baby photos feature you in the arms of executives at automotive galas. Your childhood playground was a garage worth more than most people's homes.
This store? This is wealthy people cosplaying as normal people buying groceries.
Everything sanitized and staged.
You miss Daikoku's vending machines. The clunk of the coin slot, the mechanical whir, the way the cans always come out slightly dented because someone kicked the machine last week when it ate their hundred-yen piece.
That's real. This is theatre.
"Oi."
Jaque's voice yanks you back.
He's standing in front of the refrigerated section, one hand holding the glass door open, the other gesturing vaguely at the rows of drinks like he's presenting options at an auction.
"Matcha or sencha?"
"What?"
"Tea." He gestures again, impatient. "Green shit. They got like twelve kinds. Which one?"
You step closer, scanning the shelves. Everything's in neat rows, labels facing forward, color-coordinated like someone arranged them by aesthetic rather than function.
"Neither. I want coffee."
"You already had coffee."
"I want more coffee."
"That's concerning." But he's already moving down the row, pulling out a can of something dark and bitter-looking. "This?"
You check the label. Black, no sugar, imported from somewhere Italian.
"Fine."
"Fine," he mimics, voice pitched higher. "Wow, Hachi. Such enthusiasm. I'm honored."
"Shut up."
He snorts, tossing the can into the little basket hooked over his elbow. Grabs something else from the shelf—a bottle of matcha, the fancy kind with actual powder settled at the bottom.
You raise an eyebrow. "Since when do you drink tea?"
"Since now." He shrugs, turning the bottle over in his hand like he's not sure why he picked it up either. "Been craving it since last night. Dunno."
You blink, eyebrows furrowing at the oddity of that comment.
"This place is so fake," you mutter finally, listening to the instrumental jazz that sounds like it was composed specifically to make people feel sophisticated about buying overpriced rice balls.
Jaque's quiet for a second.
Then: "Fake how?"
"I don't know. Curated. Like it's trying too hard to be… something."
He hums, noncommittal. Tips the matcha bottle back and forth, watching the powder swirl.
"When you grow up without shit," he says, voice dropping into something quieter, "places like this feel less fake and more like... I don't know. Like… you made it somewhere."
You glance at him.
He's not looking at you—just studying the matcha label like it contains answers to questions he hasn't asked yet.
Oh.
Your ribs tighten, small and uncomfortable.
You grab an onigiri from the shelf—salmon, nothing fancy—and add it to the basket without comment.
"That all?" he asks.
"I'm not that hungry."
"You're always hungry." He picks up another onigiri—tuna mayo this time—and adds it without asking. "You eat like a truck driver."
"Is that supposed to be an insult?"
"It's an observation."
"Observations can be insulting."
"Not when they're true, gatita."
You roll your eyes, but you don't take the onigiri out.
He moves further down the aisle, and you follow—half browsing, half watching him navigate the shelves with the ease of someone who's done this route before.
Then he stops.
Abrupt. Like he hit an invisible wall.
You almost walk into his back.
"What—"
But you see it before he answers.
A display stand near the end of the refrigerated section. Bright yellow signage screaming SALE in aggressive font.
Mango smoothies. Marked down sixty percent. Limited time offer.
Jaque's already moving—not toward the display, around it. Giving the stand a wide berth like mango is a concept he needs physical distance from.
Your brain clicks.
The lollipop.
"You're allergic."
The words come out before you think them through.
Jaque freezes mid-step.
Turns slowly.
His expression does something complicated—surprise first, then narrowing suspicion.
"Huh." He tilts his head. "So you knew."
"I suspected."
"When you told me the lollipop was mango—"
"I was fucking with you."
"Obviously." His jaw works for a second. "But you remembered."
"You spat it out like it was poison. Kind of memorable."
"Could've just been the flavor."
"Could've been." You shrug, reaching past him for a bottle of water. "But you're avoiding discount smoothies like they're gonna jump you. That's survival instinct."
He stares at you.
You stare back.
"You're such a little shit," he says finally, but there's no heat in it. If anything, he sounds almost impressed. "You knew that whole time and you still—"
"Made you think you were about to go into anaphylactic shock over a cherry lollipop?" You let your mouth curve. "Yeah. I did."
"Cabrona." (Jerk.)
"I've been called worse."
"By who? I'll fight them."
"By you. Repeatedly."
He laughs—surprised out of him, rough and genuine. Shakes his head like he can't believe you.
"How bad is it?" you ask, nodding toward the mango display. "The allergy."
"Bad enough." He doesn't elaborate, but his hand comes up to rub the back of his neck—that defensive gesture you're starting to recognize. "Found out the hard way when I was like, twelve. Ate a mango popsicle in Buenos Aires. Throat closed up. Mom had to drive me to the hospital while I was turning purple in the backseat."
"Shit."
"Yeah." He drops his hand. "So now I avoid anything mango-adjacent. Even the smell sometimes fucks with me."
You process that.
Process the fact that you scared the shit out of him about a possible allergic reaction as a joke.
"I didn't actually know," you admit, quieter now. "Back then. I was just being an asshole."
"Oh, I know." His grin returns, sharper. "If you'd known known, you wouldn't have done it. You're mean, Hachi, but you're not ill-intentioned."
"How do you know?"
"Because you just told me the truth instead of letting me think you weaponized one of my vulnerabilities."
Fair point.
The store's quiet around you.
Just that stupid jazz music and the awareness that you're standing in a convenience store aisle having an actual momentover mango allergies.
"Anyway." He clears his throat. Grabs a package of rice crackers from the shelf. "Don't tell anyone. I got a reputation to maintain."
"A reputation for what? Being immortal?"
"Being invincible." He tosses the crackers into the basket. "Can't have people knowing my one weakness is tropical fruit. Very embarrassing."
"Your one weakness."
"Well." His eyes flick to you. Hold. "One of them."
You don't ask what the others are.
You're not sure you want to know.
Movement near the front of the store catches your attention—an older woman shuffling between shelves, basket mostly empty. She's holding up a package of something, pointing at the price tag, and her Japanese is fragmentary at best.
"Excuse me—this, how much—I cannot read—"
The shopkeeper barely looks up. Just points at the price display behind him—the one in Japanese, obviously, the one she clearly can't read—and goes back to whatever he was doing on his phone.
Dismissive. Barely acknowledging her existence.
You've seen this before. The way some people treat foreigners who don't perform fluency perfectly. The impatience, the dismissal, the unspoken ’why are you even here if you can't communicate properly’.
It makes your skin crawl.
But before you can say anything—before you can even decide if you're going to say something—
Jaque moves.
He's past you in three strides, basket abandoned on the nearest shelf, and then he's next to the grandmother. Close enough to help. Far enough to not crowd.
And then—
He opens his mouth.
And Korean comes out.
Fluent Korean.
Not stilted or awkward—smooth. Native-level, the kind of fluency that comes from speaking a language your whole life.
The grandmother's whole body relaxes. Relief floods her face as she responds, words tumbling out faster now that she has someone who understands.
They're discussing prices, comparing products, Jaque translating the labels for her and pointing at options she might like.
You stand frozen by the refrigerator.
Watching.
Processing.
Because Jaque—Jaque—the Latino menace with the rolled r’s and the accent and the whole ’this is my identity, fight me’energy—
Just spoke Korean like he was born to it.
You pick up a bottle of water. Put it back. Pick up a different one.
You're not really looking at them anymore—you're listening. Pretending to browse while your brain catalogs every word you can't understand, every shift in his tone, every small gesture he makes toward the grandmother.
He's patient with her. Actually patient. No rush, no impatience, just quiet assistance until she's nodding and smiling and bowing in gratitude.
The shopkeeper looks vaguely annoyed. Jaque ignores him completely.
When the grandmother finally shuffles toward the register, Jaque turns back toward you.
He picks up the basket. Walks over like nothing happened.
"So," he says, casual as breathing. "Grab anything else?"
"Nope." Your voice comes out steady. "Coffee. Onigiri."
"Ándale, solid choices." He peers into the basket like he's inspecting inventory. "Want anything else? They got those weird things, look kinda gross but Maya says they're fire—"
"So what was that?"
He blinks. "What was what?"
"That." You tilt your head toward the front of the store. "Just now."
"What, the obaachan?" He shrugs, already moving. "She needed help. Shopkeeper was being a dick."
"In Korean."
"Yeah, she's Korean. That's how communication works, Hachi."
"You spoke Korean."
"Did I?" He's rummaging through the basket again, deliberately not looking at you. "Huh. Anyway, these look good. Gonna pay."
"With what, the pocket lint in those jeans?" He throws a grin over his shoulder. "Nah, nena. This is big boy racing money time. Least I can do after you helped with the Mustang situation."
"Jaque—"
"Oi, bro!"
He's already at the counter, pulling out a wad of cash that definitely shouldn't be carried in someone's front pocket.
The shopkeeper just looks at him, then glances down at the basket.
"Todo esto, por favor," (All this, please) Jaque says, cheeky smile in place before he switches seamlessly to Japanese again. "This and whatever the obaachan just bought. On me."
The grandmother, halfway to the door, turns with wide eyes.
Jaque just grins, that stupid megawatt smile that makes people forget they were annoyed at him two seconds ago.
And you're left standing by the refrigerators, water bottle still in hand, questions about Korean fluency dying on your tongue—
Because apparently this man just decided to buy a stranger's groceries on top of refusing to let you pay for your own snacks.
The grandmother's hands fly up in that universal gesture—palms out, head shaking, the international language of 'no, no, please, I couldn't possibly'.
Jaque just nods harder.
Like nodding enthusiastically enough will override her protests through sheer force of will.
He's gesturing toward the counter now, waving her forward with that easy confidence that makes people listen even when they don't want to. His Japanese is back—casual, slightly accented, deliberately charming—as he says something about it being no trouble, really, he insists.
The grandmother hesitates. Looks at you like maybe you'll talk sense into this strange young man.
You just shrug.
Good luck, lady. You’ve been trying to talk sense into him for months.
She relents eventually. Places her small basket on the counter next to yours, still shaking her head but smiling now, that particular expression older people get when they're simultaneously exasperated and touched by unexpected kindness.
The shopkeeper rings everything up with the same bored face he's had since you walked in. Doesn't comment on the fact that Jaque's paying for a stranger's groceries. Probably sees weirder shit on a daily basis.
Jaque hands over the cash—still that suspicious wad from his front pocket—and the grandmother bows.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Words tumbling out in Korean, rapid and sincere, and you don't need fluency to recognize 감사합니다 when you hear it.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Jaque waves it off with a grin that's softer than his usual smirk. Says something back in Korean that makes her laugh, pats her shoulder once like they're old friends, and then she's shuffling out the door with her bag clutched to her chest.
You watch her go.
Watch the way she glances back once, still smiling, before disappearing around the corner.
Something sits weird in your chest. Not bad weird. Just... aware.
Jaque grabs the basket—your basket, technically, even though he paid for everything in it—and shoots you a look over his shoulder.
One eyebrow raised. Smirk firmly in place.
Then he's turning, walking toward the door, not even checking if you're following.
"Coming?"
You cross your arms. Stare at his retreating back for a solid three seconds just to make a point.
Then you follow anyway.
Asshole.
The tables outside are those little metal ones that every konbini has—barely big enough for two people, wobbly on at least one leg, probably been here since the Showa era.
Jaque drops into a chair upon sight, legs spreading wide, one arm draped over the back.
You take the seat across from him. Dig through the bag for your coffee and onigiri while he wiggles his bottle and—
What the hell is that?
Some kind of frozen jelly stick. Bright green, tube-shaped, the kind of thing you see kids eating in summer because they think it's basically ice cream.
He catches you staring.
"What?"
"Nothing." You focus on your coffee can. "Didn't peg you for the frozen jelly type."
"It's good." He shakes his matcha—actually shakes it, watching the powder swirl at the bottom—then opens it. Takes a sip. "Don't knock it till you try it, Hachi."
"I'll pass."
"Your loss."
He rips the jelly stick open with his teeth, bites off the top, and starts eating it with the kind of unselfconscious enjoyment that's almost annoying. Eyes drifting to some point over your shoulder, jaw working slowly, completely relaxed.
Like he didn't just speak fluent Korean to a stranger and then buy her groceries and then refuse to explain any of it.
Whatever.
You turn your attention to the coffee can. Premium Italian import, allegedly. Sleek black design, pull-tab top.
Your nail catches the edge. Slips.
You try again. Same result.
Fucking acrylics.
The thing about long nails is that everyone thinks they're impractical, but they're not—you've developed workarounds for literally everything over the years. Opening cans from the side, using knuckles instead of fingertips, angling pressure just right so the acrylic doesn't catch or crack.
You know how to do this.
But for some reason—today, right now, with him watching—your fingers won't cooperate.
The tab slips again. You hiss under your breath.
Movement across the table.
Jaque's hand appears in your peripheral vision. Reaches out. Plucks the can from your grip before you can protest.
He doesn't say anything.
Just sets it on the table between you, leans forward, and pops it open one-handed. Casual. Easy. Like he wasn't even thinking about it.
The jelly stick is still hanging from his mouth, half-eaten and slightly melted. His eyebrows furrow slightly as he slides the can back toward you—not annoyed, just... focused. Like opening your coffee was a small problem that needed solving and now it's solved.
You take it.
"Thanks," you mutter.
He hums. Leans back. Goes back to staring at nothing while he finishes his jelly stick.
You take a sip.
Bitter. Strong. Exactly what you needed.
A small noise escapes before you can stop it.
Jaque's eyes flick to you. That smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth.
"Good?"
"It's fine."
"Sounded better than fine."
"It's coffee. It doesn't need commentary."
He scoffs a laugh—quiet, almost to himself—and goes back to his matcha.
Silence settles.
You unwrap your onigiri. Take a bite. Chew slowly while your brain does that thing it always does—going through corporate details, filing information, trying to make pieces fit into patterns that make sense.
Jaque finishes his jelly stick. Crumples the wrapper, tosses it into the trash can three meters away without looking. Makes it, obviously, because apparently the universe just gives him things like that.
He's picking at the label on his matcha bottle now. Peeling it in slow strips, expression distant, like his thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
You watch him for a moment.
Then—
"So."
His eyes slide to yours. Lazy. Unbothered.
"So?"
"The Korean thing."
"What Korean thing?"
"Jaque."
He takes another sip of matcha. Doesn't break eye contact.
"Dunno what you're talking about, Hachi."
"You spoke Korean. Fluently. To that woman."
"Did I?"
"You know you did."
"Hm." He tilts his head, considering. "Doesn't ring a bell."
You stare at him.
He stares back.
The seconds stretch.
Then his mouth twitches—just barely, just at the corner—and you know he's fucking with you.
"You're such an asshole."
"So I've been told." He sets the matcha down, crosses his arms over his chest. Mirrors your posture from earlier. "What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is that you—" You gesture vaguely at him. "—you're Jaque. Latino street racer. Spanish accent. The whole thing. And then you just casually bust out perfect Korean like it's nothing?"
"It's not nothing. It's a language."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
"Jaque."
He holds your gaze for another beat.
Then the smirk thins out. He's not serious—he's never quite serious—but the performance drops a register.
"I speak a lot of languages," he says finally. "Korean's one of them."
"Since when?"
"Since always."
"That's not an answer."
"Sure it is." He picks up the matcha again, swirls it once. "I grew up speaking Korean. And Spanish. And then I learned Japanese when we moved here. It's not that deep, Hachi."
You process that.
Grew up speaking Korean.
Which means—what? One of his parents? Both?
Some other relative who taught him young enough that it became native-level?
Questions stack up in your head, each one branching into three more.
But you don't ask them.
Because the way he said it—casual, dismissive, closed—tells you this isn't a door he's opening right now.
"How many?" you ask instead.
"How many what?"
"Languages. You said a lot."
He considers this. Counts on his fingers with exaggerated slowness, like he's doing it just to annoy you.
"Spanish, obviously. Japanese. Korean. Portuguese. Italian. English." He pauses. "French and Mandarin if you count intermediate. German if you count being able to order beer and insult someone's mother."
You blink.
"That's—"
"A lot, yeah." He grins, and the cockiness is back full force. "What can I say? I'm gifted."
"You're something."
"That's what all the ladies tell me."
You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.
But somewhere underneath the annoyance, underneath the banter, a new piece slots into the puzzle that is Jaque.
Multilingual, code-switching, hiding parts of himself depending on context—
Familiar.
More familiar than you want to admit.
He exhales. Long and slow, like he's releasing something he's been holding.
"My grandparents," he says. "On my dad's side. They're Korean."
You wait.
"They live in Busan. I visit sometimes." He picks at the matcha label again, tearing a strip off in one clean motion. "When things get... I don't know. When I need to get out of Tokyo for a bit."
Busan.
"So you're—"
"A quarter." He shrugs, like the math is irrelevant. "Quarter Korean, quarter Mexican, half Argentine. The whole Latin American melting pot special, plus some Asian seasoning."
The way he says it—light, dismissive, wrapped in humor—tells you there's more underneath.
There always is, with him.
But you don't push.
You know what it's like to have pieces of yourself you don't want examined too closely.
"What about you?"
The question catches you off guard.
"What about me?"
"Languages, Hachi. Keep up." The smirk's creeping back, that familiar cockiness sliding into place. "You got that whole mysterious vibe going on. Bet you speak like, twelve languages or some shit."
You snort. "Not twelve."
"But more than one."
"...A few."
"A few," he mimics, pitching his voice higher. "Come on, gatita. Spill."
You roll the coffee can between your palms. Consider how much to share.
Fuck it.
"French," you say. "Mandarin. Cantonese. Thai. Indonesian."
His eyebrows climb. "Damn."
"It's not that impressive."
"Five languages isn't impressive?"
"Six, if you count Japanese." You shrug, uncomfortable under his attention. "They're all... business languages. Useful for—for work stuff."
Careful.
You almost said for the company. Almost let something slip that would raise questions you don't want to answer.
If he notices the stumble, he doesn't show it.
Just whistles low, impressed.
"Business languages, huh? Very corporate of you." He tilts his head, considering. "No Spanish though?"
"No."
"Shame." His grin turns wolfish. "Could've had some fun conversations."
"I survive."
"Barely." He leans forward, elbows on the table, closing the distance between you. "You know, I could teach you."
"Teach me what?"
"Spanish, obviously." His voice drops. Lower. Rougher. "Private lessons. One-on-one instruction. I'm very skilled with my tongue."
The innuendo lands exactly where he intended it.
Heat prickles up your neck.
His eyes are doing that thing again—dark and focused, pupils blown wider than the morning light warrants.
That look that says he's thinking about last night, about your body under his, about sounds you made that you're still pretending didn't happen.
You can smell the matcha on his breath. Can see the exact curve of his mouth, the way his lips part slightly like he's already imagining—
Your hand comes up before you even think about it.
Palm flat against his face.
Push.
He rocks back with a surprised laugh, and you're already withdrawing your arm like nothing happened.
"It's morning," you say flatly. "Dial down the horniness. I said I'd think about it. Not yes."
"But you're thinking about it."
"I'm thinking about a lot of things. Doesn't mean any of them are happening."
He leans back in his chair, arms spreading wide across the back, that infuriating grin firmly in place.
"Alright, alright." He settles back, legs spreading wider, arms crossing over his chest. Picture of relaxation. "Hit me up when you're done pretending."
"Pretending what?"
"That you're not gonna say yes." He shrugs, one shoulder, lazy and confident. "You already know how this ends, Hachi. I know it. You know it. Just a matter of when you stop fighting the obvious."
"Your ego is genuinely incredible."
"Thank you."
"Not a compliment."
"Taking it as one anyway." He pulls out his phone, checking something. "You got my number. Use it when you're ready to admit I'm right."
Despite the alleged castration threats and the middle-finger emoji responses and whatever the hell their situation actually is.
"Kenji says the Mustang's safe," you relay, pocketing your phone. "He's got his own ride back."
"Soojin?"
"I guess."
Jaque nods, unsurprised. Drains the last of his matcha and tosses the bottle in a perfect arc toward the trash can. Makes it, because of course he does.
"Okay then. I should head back."
Right.
His little brother.
The one crying in the kitchen doorway. The promise to help with homework. The brother who walked out and hasn't come back.
Jaque’s got shit to handle. Family shit. The kind that doesn't get solved by convenience store snacks and banter.
"Drop you somewhere?" Jaque asks, shaking off whatever thought had him pausing. "Your garage? Home?"
You consider.
Your garage means Maya. Means questions you're not ready to answer about where you spent the night and why you're wearing yesterday's clothes and what exactly happened with the Mustang situation.
Home means... Rei. Eventually. And explanations you're even less ready to give.
But Jaque's already gathering the trash, already standing, already moving toward the Cima with that particular energy that says he needs to be somewhere.
With his brother.
"Garage," you say finally. "Maya's probably wondering where I am."
He nods. Doesn't comment on the fact that you lied to Rei about being at Maya's. Doesn't point out that showing up at your garage wearing yesterday's clothes is going to raise questions.
Just walks toward the car, keys already jingling in his hand.
"Vámonos, entonces." (Let’s go, then.)
You follow.
If Maya wasn't your best friend, you'd hire her as a detective—because the way that girl notices things is genuinely out of pocket.
The Y33 pulls up to Takeshi's garage and you're already reaching for the door handle when Jaque's voice stops you.
"Oi."
You glance back.
He's got one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other arm stretched across the back of your seat. That stupid smirk playing at his mouth like he knows something you don't.
"Text me," he says. "When you're done thinking."
Then he winks.
Actually winks.
You slam the door harder than necessary and he's already reversing, tires crunching gravel, gone before you can formulate a response that isn't just your middle finger.
Asshole.
You turn toward the garage, tugging at yesterday's t-shirt. Same jeans. Same everything. The walk of shame except you're walking into your own garage and the only person who's going to judge you is—
Oh.
Oh.
The bay door's open and the RX-7's windows are fogged. There's movement inside—a lot of movement—and if it wasn't for the length of Maya's braids you're pretty sure you just saw a nipple.
You freeze.
Your brain's still processing when the passenger door flies open and Taeyang practically falls out, hair fucked, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes wide like he just got caught stealing.
Which, technically—
"Shit—I—we were just—"
Maya's voice cuts through from inside the car. "Fuck—Yang, my shirt—where's my—"
More scrambling. The car rocks.
Then Maya emerges.
Oversized t-shirt—definitely not hers, definitely Taeyang's—hanging off one shoulder. Joggers being yanked up, drawstring hastily tied. Her braids are a mess, lipstick smudged, and she's not even trying to hide what she was absolutely doing two minutes ago.
You just stare at her.
She stares back.
"Hey, babe!" Too bright. Too cheerful. "You're here!"
"Clearly interrupting."
"Right. Yeah. Interrupting." She's already moving, crossing the garage in quick strides. "Anyway! Coffee. Let's get coffee. Right now. Immediately."
Before you can protest she's got you in a hug that lifts you off the ground—all strength and momentum and zero subtlety—and then she's hooking her arm through yours and dragging you toward the kitchenette corner.
Taeyang's still standing by the RX-7 looking vaguely traumatized.
"Morning, Panda," he offers weakly.
You just shake your head.
Maya's already at the coffee maker, movements too quick, too busy. "Yang and I brought the R34 here last night after you guys dipped. We slept here waiting for you but you never showed, so—"
"So you decided to make out in his car this morning?"
"We are hot and young. Let us be."
She's pulling down mugs—two of them, chipped and mismatched.
"Decaf for me, please. I already drank two coffees this morning."
Maya side-eyes you, but then merely nods. "Anyway, Kenji texted me around two AM. Told me about the Mustang situation and that you were staying at Jaque's."
Your jaw drops. "That traitor—"
"Oh please." Maya snorts. "You know Kenji. Probably texted me before he even picked up the car."
She's not wrong. Kenji's protective like that—especially with you and Maya.
His girls, as he calls you.
"Rico crashed here too," Maya adds, jerking her thumb toward the back. "He's still passed out on the couch. They were working late on Yang's car."
The coffee maker gurgles to life.
Then Maya turns.
Leans back against the counter.
Arms crossed.
That look on her face.
Oh no.
"So." One eyebrow arches. "Same clothes as yesterday, huh?"
Fuck.
"Had to lay low," you say carefully.
"Figured." Maya's trying not to smile. Failing. "The cherry Mustang and the police chase are all anyone's talking about. Everyone knows."
"It wasn't—we didn't—"
"Uh huh." She's grinning now. "'Course. Had to spend the night with him."
The way she says with him makes your face heat.
"There were police looking for the car, Maya. What was I supposed to do?"
"Oh, I don't know. Call me? Call Yang? Call literally anyone who wasn't the guy you've been bitching about for six months?"
"I don't bitch about him—"
"You called him 'an insufferable menace with a god complex and a death wish' last week."
"He is!"
"And yet." She tilts her head. "You spent the night."
The coffee maker beeps.
You grab your mug, pour, focus very intently on the steam rising like it contains answers to questions you're not ready to ask.
Maya pours hers. Adds sugar. Stirs slowly.
Waiting.
She's good at waiting. Better than you are at deflecting.
"We slept together," you say finally.
"Define 'sleep together.'"
"Maya—"
"Because there's regular sleep, and then there's sleep." She makes the distinction clear with her tone. "Which one?"
"Okay we did sleep. The first one. Actual sleeping."
"In his bed."
"Yes. It was small."
"The bed?"
"The—" you stutter, cheeks heating up at the innuendo. "Yes, the bed!"
"Small." Her grin turns wicked. "His bed was small. I'm sure that was very difficult for both of you. All that accidental touching. The tragedy."
"Are you done?"
"Not even close." She takes a sip. "So. Fully clothed?"
"I wore his pajamas."
Maya chokes on her coffee. "What?"
"He gave me clothes to sleep in—"
"Oh my god." She sets the mug down. "You were in his bed, wearing his clothes, and you're telling me nothing happened?"
Heat crawls up your neck.
Maya sees it.
"Oh my god." Her voice drops. "Something happened."
And maybe it's the way she says it. Maybe it's the fact that you've been holding this since dawn. Maybe it's just Maya being Maya—your best friend since you were sixteen, the only person who knows about the fake orgasms and the engagement you never wanted and the Christina piercing you got together trying to fix a problem that was never yours to begin with.
"He made me cum," you say quietly.
Silence.
You look up.
Maya's mouth is open. Literally hanging open.
"WHAT?"
"With his hand. Over the pajama pants. Just his thumb, really—"
"WHAT?"
"Maya—"
"No—wait—" She's waving her hands, processing. "You came? Like actually came? Not fake, not almost, actually?"
"Yes."
"For the first time ever?"
"Yes."
She just stares. Blinks. Stares more.
Then she scoffs—looks away, hand over her mouth, and you can see her trying not to laugh.
"What?" you demand.
"Nothing, just—I literally had one like twenty minutes ago so this is very fresh perspective right now."
"Maya."
"I'm just saying!" She's laughing now. "We got those piercings together, remember? We thought maybe it was a sensitivity thing, maybe the Christina would help, and I wanted one anyway so we did it together—"
"I remember—"
"—and it turns out it wasn't your body at all." She spreads her hands. "It was just Rei. Rei just fucking sucks."
"That's—"
"He does!" Maya's eyes are wide. "You've been with him for years, babe. Years. And Jaque gets you off with his thumb in one night—"
"I know—"
"—over clothes—"
"I know—"
"Holy shit." She's grinning now, that full megawatt smile. "That man just changed your whole perspective in one move."
You don't have a response to that.
Can't argue with facts.
Maya picks up her coffee, drains half of it. Sets it down with a decisive clink.
"Okay," she says. "So. You came. For the first time ever. With Jaque. And now you're back here looking like you're about to have a whole crisis about it."
"I'm engaged," you say quietly.
"To someone who doesn't make you cum."
"That doesn't make me less engaged, Maya."
"No, but it makes you miserable." She crosses her arms. "You don't even want to be engaged. It's your family's doing—"
"Still doesn't make me less engaged!" Your voice rises. "This is—if this ever got out, if someone figured it out—it's cheating, Maya—"
"Then don't let them find out." She says it simply. Direct. "Tell him it has to be on the low."
You blink. "What?"
"You heard me. You want this—don't look at me like that, I can see it on your face. So tell Jaque it stays quiet. No public shit, no drama, just—" She shrugs. "—whatever you need."
"I can't just—"
"Why not?" She leans forward. "Listen. I've known you since we were sixteen. I've watched you try to be the perfect daughter, the perfect heir, the perfect fiancée." The word sounds bitter in her mouth. "And I'm just saying—maybe you deserve to be selfish. Just for a little bit."
"You just don't like Rei."
"I don't like Rei," she agrees easily. "But that's not why I'm saying this. I'm saying this because you walked in here looking different. And I haven't seen you look like that in—I don't even know how long."
"Like what?"
"Alive."
The word lands hard.
You stare down into your coffee.
"He wants me to text him," you admit. "When I'm done thinking."
"About what?"
"His offer. To keep it casual. No feelings, just—physical."
Maya's quiet for a second.
Then: "I support your hoe phase."
"Maya—"
"What! I do!" She's grinning. "You deserve good dick. You deserve to feel what you felt last night. Constantly. Multiple times a day if possible. And if that means sneaking around with Jaque for a while?" She shrugs. "Then do it. Life's too short to fake orgasms forever, babe."
Your phone sits heavy in your pocket.
«Text me when you're done thinking.»
"What if it gets complicated?" you ask.
"Then you deal with it when it happens." Maya squeezes your arm. "But right now you're just deciding if you want to feel good again. And I think we both know the answer."
She's right.
You hate that she's right.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay?"
"Okay." You pull out your phone. "I'll text him."
Maya squeals—actually squeals—and tackles you in another hug.
"Yes! Finally!"
"Maya—"
"I'm just so proud! My girl's getting her shit rocked by someone who actually knows what he's doing!"
"Oh my god—"
"What! It's true!"
You pull out your phone before she can say anything else that makes you want to die.
Find his contact. Still saved as 𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌.
Your thumbs hover.
Maya's reading over your shoulder. "Just say yes. Don't make it weird."
"Everything about this is weird."
"Then lean into it."
You type.
Delete.
Type again.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎
Three dots appear immediately.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝?
Of course he's going to make you spell it out.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚖𝚒
Maya giggles. You elbow her.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛. 𝚒’𝚖 𝚒𝚗.
Three dots. Disappear. Come back. Disappear again.
Then:
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚑𝚖?`
You stare at the screen.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛
"Oh, you're kidding me," you mutter.
Maya leans closer. "What'd he say?"
You tilt the screen toward her. She reads it. Snorts so hard coffee almost comes out her nose.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘 (no seriously)
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚞
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚒 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚜
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 🤷♂️`
Your thumb hovers. The urge to just chuck your phone across Takeshi's garage is genuinely overwhelming.
"He knows exactly what I'm talking about," you say through your teeth.
"Oh, one hundred percent." Maya's got her chin on your shoulder now, unbothered. "He wants you to say it."
You can hear his voice through the text. That lazy, self-satisfied drawl. The tilt of his head. The way he'd be leaning back in the driver's seat of that stupid Y33 with one hand on the wheel and that insufferable grin eating up his whole face.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚙. 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚒 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚘𝚑 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛
"I'm going to kill him," you announce.
Maya wheezes. "He's so good at this."
"He's not good at anything—"
"He got you off with his thumb, babe. Through fabric. Give credit where it's due."
You shoot her a look that could curdle milk.
She just grins, unbothered, sipping her coffee like this is a Netflix show and she's got the premium subscription.
"He's going to regret this shit," you say quietly.
Because yeah. Maybe being with Rei hadn't taught you how to have an orgasm.
But it did teach you how to make a man have one.
You pick the phone back up. Unlock it. Maya's still right there, chin practically on your shoulder, watching your thumbs move.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚔`
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: ?`
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑
Dots appear.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: ???
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚔
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚝𝚏 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍
You turn slightly. Just enough that Maya can't see the screen anymore. Phone angled away.
She notices. You can feel her notice. But she doesn't push—just makes this small interested sound in the back of her throat and leans against the counter instead.
You send the smiley face. The smiley face is important. The smiley face is violence.
Silence.
No dots.
Nothing.
Five seconds. Ten.
Behind you, Maya makes a quiet sound. Not a laugh—something sharper. Like she just figured out exactly what you're doing even without reading it.
You feel warmth creeping up the back of your neck.
Then your phone explodes.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚚𝚞𝚎
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚀𝚄𝙴
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝙷𝙰𝙲𝙷𝙸
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚌𝚞𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚀𝚄𝙴 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙰 𝙼𝙰𝙻𝙰 𝚂𝙾𝚂 𝙽𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 (WHAT A BITCH YOU ARE NO FUCKING WAY)
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝙹𝚄𝙴𝙿𝚄𝚃𝙰 (HOLY SHIT)
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙻 𝚛𝚒𝚑𝚐𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚛𝚗
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚓𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂??
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚂𝙰𝚈 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝙷𝙰𝙲𝙶𝙸
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝙷𝙰𝙲𝙷𝙸𝚁𝙾𝙺𝚄
Maya's got her bottom lip caught between her teeth, eyes bright with amusement as she hears each ping, and she's examining her nails like they're suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚝𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚢 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 (i'm going to make you pay for this)
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎́𝚜 𝚗𝚒 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊 (you have no idea what's coming for you)
Heat crawls up your neck. Settles low in your stomach—that same warmth from last night, except now it's ten in the morning and you're standing in your own garage fully clothed and somehow still feeling it.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝
The response comes fast. Immediate.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚘𝚔
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜
Just like that. No hesitation. Sandwiched between the chaos and the typos and the Spanish cursing—he heard you. The actual important part. The condition.
Your pulse does something inconvenient. Not a flutter. You don't flutter. Just a gear catching that wasn't aligned before.
You ignore it.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜.
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒?
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢
𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄🧌: :)
Yeah. The smiley face is definitely violence.
Maya clears her throat.
You turn—she's still leaning against the counter, coffee mug raised to hide her mouth, but her eyes are dancing.
"Done sexting?" she asks innocently.
"Shut up."
"Just asking." She takes a pointed sip. "You look flushed. Want some water?"
"I hate you."
"No you don't." She pushes off the counter, stretching. "So. We good? You gonna be able to function today or do I need to hose you down first?"
"I'm fine."
"Uh huh." She's grinning now—full megawatt, completely shameless. "Sure you are. That's why you're all flustered and breathing weird."
"I'm not breathing weird—"
"You are though."
You shove your phone in your pocket. Take a long drink of coffee that's gone lukewarm while you were... occupied.
"Okay," Maya says, watching you. "What'd he say?"
"Nothing."
"That's a lie."
"Family business."
"And?"
"And nothing."
"Babe." She sets her mug down. Steps closer. "A man you’ve only ever described as a menace just made you cum for the first time ever and you just discussed a fuck buddies arrangement with him. I need details."
"There are no details."
"Lies. Slander. I'm your best friend, I deserve—"
"He said—" You cut yourself off. Bite your lip.
"Yes?"
"He said when he gets me on my knees I won't be smiling anymore."
Silence.
Then Maya squeals—actually squeals—and claps once, sharp and delighted.
"Oh my god."
"Don't—"
"No, that's—" She's grinning so wide it looks painful. "That's good. That's really good dirty talk, babe. Like genuinely A-tier."
"I'm not discussing his dirty talk with you—"
"Why not? I discuss Yang's with you all the time—"
"That's different—"
"How is it different?"
"Because Yang's not—" You gesture vaguely. "—Jaque."
"Exactly." Maya crosses her arms, eyebrow raised. "Yang's not Jaque. Jaque actually gets you off. So I'd say his dirty talk is significantly more relevant to your interests."
Your face is burning.
"Come on." She hooks her arm through yours again, steering you toward the bay door. "Let's go make sure Yang hasn't died of embarrassment out there. Then you can tell me exactly when you're planning to let Jaque ruin your life."
She's not wrong.
You step out into the morning light, coffee in one hand, the lingering heat of Jaque's texts still warm in your pocket.
Taeyang's leaning against the RX-7, scrolling his phone with the concentrated focus of someone pretending the last thirty minutes didn't happen.
The garage smells like oil and metal and, faintly—so faintly you almost miss it—hinoki.
Clean wood.
Your free hand drifts to the wooden doorframe as you pass through. Thumb tracing the grain without thinking.
Maya notices.
Doesn't say anything.
Just smiles into her coffee.
if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♥'ﻌ'♥ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode
summary: in the bustling scene of new york city in the early 2000s, a guarded girl who’s spent her life learning not to trust anyone, crosses paths with a rising underground rapper who’s used to getting everything he wants—until her.
themes: smut, sooo so much tension, flirting, namjoon is slightly cocky/a playerrr, but he's down bad, city life, namjoon is hot asf, slightly angsty backstory, fluff, adult themes, established relationship, reader is independent, 2000s timeline, slightly possessive joon, he's tatted...
warnings: explicit smut, drug use (weed, cigs)
(dom!joon, oral f & m, fingering, praise/dirty talk, unprotected sex, cream pie)
word count: 16k
♬⋆.˚ motive - ariana grande & doja cat
october 2006
brooklyn, new york
the bass hit before you even saw the place.
it traveled through the block—low, steady, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes as you turned the corner. the line outside wasn’t long, just a cluster of people pressed against the brick wall, smoke curling into the cold night air, laughter spilling out in bursts. someone had taped a wrinkled flyer to the door, half peeling off.
you paused across the street, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket. another night, another crowd. nothing new. still… you didn’t leave.
a girl walked past you, heels clicking fast against the pavement, speaking loudly into her flip phone. two guys argued about something disruptive and meaningless, shoving each other like it might turn into something more. it was the same energy you’d grown up around—restless, unpredictable, alive in a way that never really let you relax.
but it was home. hardly anything surprised you anymore after spending your whole life in the city. you crossed the street before the pedestrian sign even turned on. all you wanted was a drink and some music after a long day.
once you approached the door, the flyer read, "RAP MONSTER @ 10" and in tiny, almost unnoticeable letters, "KIM NAMJOON" the bouncer barely looked at your id. a quick glance, a nod, then he pulled it open just enough for you to slip inside.
heat hit you first. then the smell—cheap liquor, sweat, something sweet in the air you couldn’t place. the space was smaller than you expected, low ceiling, dim lights casting everything in a hazy red glow. people packed in tight, shoulder to shoulder, bodies swaying to a beat that felt more than heard.
after getting your drink, you moved through the crowd without hesitation, like you’d done a hundred times before. no apologies, no lingering eye contact. just slipping past, carving your own space until you found a spot near the back wall.
from there, you could see everything.
the dj stood hunched over his setup, head bobbing, fingers moving quick and practiced. a couple guys hovered near the stage, hyping each other up, waiting for their turn. someone laughed too loud. someone else spilled a drink and didn’t bother cleaning it.
then, the music shifted.
it wasn’t sudden—but it changed. the kind of change you felt in your chest before you realized why. the beat slowed, heavier now, deliberate. conversations dulled, attention tilting toward the stage without anyone saying a word.
he stepped out like he already owned the room. no big introduction. no announcement. just his presence that seemed to make the chaotic room still. people in the crowd reacted immediately—nods, murmurs, cheers. they knew him.
you didn’t. but you watched.
now there were fine men across new york, but him? he was too handsome to be true, standing on the stage at six-feet tall, muscles swell on his arms and shoulders, ink swirling around them. his eyes were low and sharp, plump lips all but accentuating his features. he wore nothing but a black wife beater and dangling chains that glimmered in the stage light, baggy, dark denim jeans sagging over his spotless sneakers.
he grabbed the mic like it belonged there, like it had always belonged to him. confidence rolled off him easy, not forced, not loud—just there. he said something to the dj, low and quick, then turned back to the crowd, scanning it out of habit more than curiosity.
until his dragon like eyes got caught on you. it wasn’t dramatic. not at first. they just lingered for a second too long.
most people reacted when he looked at them—smiled, waved, tried to be seen. you didn’t. didn’t shift, didn’t straighten up, didn’t pretend you weren’t already looking.
you just… held his gaze. calm. steady. unimpressed.
something flickered across his expression—quick enough that anyone else might’ve missed it. then it was gone, replaced with that same easy confidence as he lifted the mic.
then, the beat dropped.
his voice cut through the room clean and sharp, riding the rhythm like it was second nature. no hesitation, no wasted movement. the crowd fed into it almost instantly—heads nodding, bodies moving, energy building with every bar.
you stayed still. listening. not to the noise, not to the crowd—but to him.
there was something under it. beneath the bravado, beneath the lines meant to hit hard and fast—something quieter, more precise.
your eyes didn’t leave him. and somewhere between one verse and the next, his piercing gaze yours again.
this time, he didn’t look away first.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the night had gotten colder. or maybe it just felt that way after the heat inside.
the door slammed behind you, bass still leaking out in muffled thumps as you stepped back onto the sidewalk. the crowd had doubled since earlier despite it being hours past midnight—people lingering, arguing, laughing too loud, music and honks bleeding from passing cars. a siren wailed somewhere in the distance, fading in and out like it belonged to the rhythm of the city.
you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself and started walking. didn’t look back. didn’t hesitate. just slipped into the current of the street, becoming a part of it.
across the block, tucked just out of the spill of streetlight, namjoon leaned against the brick wall with a cigarette between his fingers. the ember flared when he inhaled, briefly lighting up the sharp line of his jaw before fading back into shadow.
he wasn’t supposed to be out here long. couple people had tried to stop him on the way out—daps, quick conversations, “that set was crazy”—but he’d brushed past most of it. he needed air. needed quiet. or at least, the closest he could get to it.
truth was, he wasn’t thinking about the performance anymore. he exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the night.
then he saw you. the same girl he made burning eye contact with inside.
you moved like you had somewhere to be, even if you didn’t. headed forward, pace steady, weaving through the chaos without letting it touch you. someone random called out to you—you didn’t respond. a guy stepped into your path, half-smiling like he was about to say something clever.
you didn’t even slow down, brushing past the guy. just shifted slightly, slipped past him like he wasn’t there.
his mouth twitched, almost a smile. yeah… you were different.
namjoon flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his shoes without taking his eyes off you. for a second, he let himself stay where he was. let you get a little farther. like he was testing something—whether he’d actually let you walk away like everyone else.
he didn’t.
pushing off the wall, he stepped back into the light, cutting through the crowd with ease. people recognized him, tried to catch his attention again, but he wasn’t stopping this time. his focus was already ahead.
you were halfway down the block now, the glow of the subway entrance just starting to come into view. the street thinned out a little there—less noise, less bodies, just the hum of the city settling into something quieter.
he caught up just as you reached the top of the stairs.
“yo.” it wasn’t loud. didn’t need to be.
and for some reason, you stopped. not immediately—but enough to show you heard him. slowly, you turned.
up close, you looked the same as you had inside. calm. composed. like nothing really got under your skin. your eyes moved over him once, quick and assessing, before settling somewhere between indifferent and curious.
“you always leave before the last set?” he asked, voice easy, like you'd already been talking.
a beat passed. “only when i’ve heard enough,” you replied
no attitude. no flirtation. just blatantly honest. it almost made him laugh. he took another step closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to close the distance. “and you heard enough?” he asked.
you gaze held his for a second longer this time. “yeah,” you said. then, after a pause—just slight enough to matter, “i did.”
it wasn’t praise. but it wasn’t exactly dismissal either. something in between. something that lingered in the air.
he nodded once, like he understood more than you actually said. “good,” he murmured.
silence settled between them—not awkward, not rushed. just there. people passed behind him, heading down into the station, the sound of footsteps echoing against the stairs. a train rumbled somewhere below, distant but coming.
you shifted your weight slightly, glancing past him for half a second—toward the entrance, toward wherever you were headed next.
he caught it. of course he did. “lemme walk you down,” he said, already turning slightly toward the stairs like he expected you to follow.
but you didn’t move. “why?” you asked. a simple question. it wasn't suspicious—just… direct.
he looked back at you, something faintly amused flickering in his expression. “‘cause you look like the type to disappear if i don’t,” he said.
and that almost earned him a reaction. almost.
your lips pressed together, just briefly, like you were deciding whether that was clever or just another line you heard before.
“…and?” you prompted.
he held your gaze, steady this time. no performance. no crowd. just him. “and i’m not tryna let that happen.”
another pause. longer now. the train below screeched against the tracks as it pulled into the station, the sound rising up through the stairwell between you.
for a second, it felt like the city was waiting too. then, you turned. not away—just toward the stairs.
“don’t slow me down,” you said, starting your descent.
and this time— he smiled for real, perfect teeth with two identical dimples coming clear into display before following you down the steps.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the air changed as soon as you stepped underground. cooler. damp. the noise from the street above dulled into a distant hum, replaced by the hollow echo of footsteps and the metallic screech of a train settling on the tracks below.
you didn’t slow down. and neither did namjoon—but now, he was close enough to notice things he hadn’t before.
the way you moved wasn’t for attention. no extra sway, no hesitation, no checking to see who was watching. it was natural. efficient. like you learned a long time ago that the city didn’t wait for anyone.
still… people looked at you. of course they did. and now that he was walking behind you—really looking—he got it.
it wasn’t just that you were pretty. it was quieter than that. the kind of beauty you couldn't see all at once. it sat in the details—the set of your shoulders, the way your hair fell just enough to frame your face, the calm in your expression like nothing around you could shake it.
you were untouchable.
he exhaled softly through his nose, almost amused with himself. yeah… this was new.
he caught up behind you as you reached the turnstiles. you pulled out a metrocard, swiping it in one smooth motion without breaking stride despite his presence filling the cold air around you with warmth and the smell of cigarettes and cologne.
“lemme guess,” he said, leaning casually against the metal bar as he waited his turn. “you grew up 'round here.”
you glanced at him, just briefly. “what gave it away?”
“everything,” he said simply, pushing through after you.
that got the slightest reaction—a flicker in your eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
you walked side by side now, the platform stretching out in front of you. a few people waited scattered along the yellow line, some pacing, some staring down the tunnel like they could make the next train to come faster.
for a moment, neither of you spoke. he didn’t rush to fill it. he was watching you again—more carefully this time. trying to figure you out.
you weren't giving him anything easy. no nervous energy, no curiosity you couldn’t control. even now, walking next to a guy you'd never met before, a known local rapper, you looked… steady.
like you trusted yourself more than the situation. he respected that. more than he expected to.
“you always this quiet?” he asked after a beat.
“i talk when there’s something to say,” you replied.
he huffed a quiet laugh. “so i haven't said nothing worth respondin' to yet?”
you looked at him then—really looked this time. “not yet."
that should’ve checked him. but if anything, it pulled him in more. namjoon nodded slowly, like he accepted the challenge.
“alright,” he murmured. “that’s fair.”
another silence—but this one felt different. less distant. like something was building under it.
a train rushed past on the opposite track, wind whipping through the station, loud enough to drown out everything for a few seconds. your hair shifted slightly with it, brushing against your cheek.
without thinking, his eyes followed the movement. then you. he looked away first this time. not because he wanted to—because he caught himself.
damn. it wasn’t just attraction anymore. that was the problem. it was the way you carried yourself. the way you didn’t bend to anything around you. the way you looked at him like you already knew exactly who he was—and wasn’t impressed by it.
and somehow… still stayed. that didn’t happen to him. ever.
“what’s your name?” he asked, voice quieter now.
you hesitated—not long, but enough to mean something. "y/n"
he repeated it once under his breath, like he was committing it to memory. “yeah,” he said softly. “that fits you.”
you didn’t ask for his. of course you didn’t. he almost smiled. another train announcement crackled overhead, distorted and barely understandable. people shifted closer to the platform’s edge.
your train. he could feel it in the way you subtly repositioned, attention flicking down the tunnel.
time was running out.
he straightened slightly, running a hand over the back of his neck before looking at you again. “i’ma need your number,” he said.
not can i have it. it wasn't a question.
you raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “need?” you repeated.
namjoon met your gaze, steady. “yeah,” he said. “’cause i’m not running into you like this again.”
you held his eyes for a long second. weighing him. measuring the difference between confidence and arrogance. between a possibly reused line—and the truth.
the train lights appeared in the distance, growing brighter.
“i don’t give my number out like that,” you said finally.
“i figured,” he replied. no pushback. no pressure.
that surprised you. just slightly. the train roared closer now, brakes screeching as it pulled into the station. wind rushed between you again, louder this time, forcing a half step back.
doors slid open, people started moving. you glanced at the train—then back at him, decision made. despite carrying little to no interest in seeing a man— he was cute. and he was a rapper. okay, so maybe he was insanely hot. but you wouldn’t admit that.
“lemme see your phone,” you said.
he didn’t hesitate. pulled it out, flipped it open, handed it to you, licking his lips ever so slightly in satisfaction. you typed quickly, efficient as everything else you did. saved it, then handed it back.
no smile. no extra words. just; “don’t make me regret it.” and then you turned, stepping onto the train without looking back.
the doors slid shut. and just like that—you were gone.
namjoon stood there for a second, staring at his phone like it might disappear if he blinked. then he looked up at the train as it pulled away, something unfamiliar settling in his chest.
not excitement. and not ego like he usually felt. something quieter. something he couldn't quite pin down. he glanced down at the screen again—your name staring back at him.
and for the first time that night— he wasn’t thinking about the next move. he was thinking about you.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
namjoon didn’t wait long. didn’t overthink it. didn’t ask anyone what they thought. didn’t play it cool.
by the time he got back to his place—kicking his sneakers off, tossing his jacket somewhere he wouldn’t remember in the morning—he already had his phone in his hand.
he stared at your name for maybe half a second before he hit call. it rang once. twice. he leaned back against the wall, one hand dragging over his face, already smirking to himself like he knew something you didn’t.
three times—
“hello?” your voice was calmer than he expected. it wasn't tired or curious. it was steady, like you already knew it was him.
“damn,” he said, a quiet smirk in his voice. “you answer fast.”
a pause. “maybe i just don't have anything better to do right now,” you replied. dry. casual.
he let out a soft laugh. “yeah? i don’t believe that.”
“you don’t have to.”
he pushed himself off the wall, pacing slowly now, energy still running through him from earlier. “nah,” he said, “you don’t seem like the type to sit around bored.”
“and you got all that from one conversation?” you asked.
“one look,” he corrected.
that almost landed. almost.
“careful,” you said. "you sound like you do this a lot.”
“i do,” he admitted easily. no hesitation or shame in his tone. then, softer— “but not like this.”
that shifted something in the phone static between you. just slightly. there was a pause on the other end—not awkward, just… measured. like you were deciding whether to believe him.
he didn’t rush to fill it this time.
“...so you call every girl right after you meet her?” you asked finally.
there it was. he smiled. “only the ones i know i'd regret not calling.”
he could hear your breathing faintly through the phone. could almost picture you—leaning back somewhere, expression unreadable on your pretty face, eyes focused on nothing while you processed him.
he lowered his voice just a little. “you always this hard to read?”
“only when someone’s trying too hard to figure me out.”
he laughed under his breath. “too hard?”
“yeah.” a beat. “you’re a little obvious.”
now that hit his ego—but in a way he liked. “alright,” he said, nodding to himself. “so what you want me to do instead?”
“nothing,” you said simply. “be normal.”
he scoffed lightly. “i was being normal.”
“no you weren’t.”
“yeah i was.”
“no,” you said, a hint—just a hint—of amusement slipping through, “you were performing.”
that stopped him. not entirely, but it was enough. he leaned back against the counter now, quieter. more real. “…you caught that, huh.”
“i catch a lot,” you said.
he believed you. that's what made this different. he ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly before speaking again.
“alright,” he said. “then i’ll stop messin' with you.”
a small pause. "good,” you replied.
“so let me take you out.”
straight to it. no buildup this time. no games. on the other end, you shifted slightly—he could hear it in the faint rustle of fabric, the way your breathing changed just a little.
“you move fast,” you said, a slight scoff coated in your reply.
“you move like you're gonna disappear,” he countered.
that landed. because he was kind of right. you didn’t respond right away. because in your whole life, no one had ever been able to read an inch of you.
he could feel you thinking again. measuring him the same way you had outside the station.
“where?” you asked finally.
his smile came back, slower this time. "see, that sound like a yes.”
“it sounds like a question,” you corrected.
he laughed softly. “alright… fair.” he glanced out the window, the city still alive outside—lights on, cars passing, people somewhere out there living whole stories he didn’t know. then, back to the moment.
“somewhere you ain’t expecting,” he said. “not too loud. wanna hear you talk.”
“assuming i will,” you replied.
“you will,” he said easily with confidence—but it was softer now. less show, more certainty.
there was another pause. longer this time. “…maybe,” you said.
and there it was. it wasn't a yes. but it wasn't a no. exactly where you wanted to leave him.
he shook his head, smiling to himself. “you do that on purpose,” he said.
“do what?”
“make it unclear.”
“maybe i just don’t like giving people what they want right away.”
he pushed off the counter again, pacing slowly. “yeah,” he murmured. “i’m starting to see that." then, his voice even lower—“i like it.”
those words lingered. he could feel it through the silence that followed.
“text me,” you said finally. "we’ll see.”
and before he could say anything else—the line went dead. he pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it for a second before letting out a quiet laugh. “we’ll see,” he repeated under his breath.
but he already knew. he was seeing you again. one way or another.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the city looked different the next night. or maybe you did.
same streets. same noise. same blur of headlights and voices and music spilling out of somewhere it shouldn’t be. a group argued on the corner like it might turn into something more. laughter cut through it. a car sped past too fast, bass rattling the windows of everything it passed.
nothing new. but still— you seemed to have noticed more than you usually did. or maybe you were just more aware of it.
your phone sat quiet in your pocket, but you checked it more than once anyway. no new messages. no missed calls.
but you didn’t think about it. didn't let yourself. you adjusted the strap on your bag and kept walking, the familiar glow of the subway entrance coming into view ahead. the same one as last night.
routine. safe in its own way, despite your surroundings.
a car rolled slowly down the block beside you.
you didn’t look at it at first. cars always slowed down. people always looked. it didn’t mean anything. but this one stayed, matching your pace. then—a soft honk. it wasn't impatient like most new york honks.
you turned your head slightly. and the window was already down. the car was loud, low, and silver, the rest of the windows as black as the night sky. and there he was.
one inked arm resting along the wheel, the other hanging loose out the window, looking at you like he’d been expecting to find you right there.
like this was planned. a slow smile pulled at his mouth. “lemme guess,” he called out, voice carrying easy over the noise of the street. “you ‘bout to disappear on me again?”
you stopped walking. your eyes moved over him once—quick, familiar now—before settling into that same calm expression he was already starting to recognize.
“you follow all your dates?” you asked.
“date?” he echoed with a smirk pulling at his plump lips, like he liked the sound of that a little too much. “you skipped a few steps.”
“you’re the one in a car,” you shrugged. “feels like a setup.”
he let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “nah,” he said. “if it was a setup, i wouldn’t have made it this obvious.”
that almost got you. almost. you shifted your weight slightly, glancing past him for a second—toward the subway entrance, toward the stairs you already knew by memory.
then back at him. "you been waiting?” you asked.
“maybe,” he said.
you gaze held his for a second longer than you needed to. “why?” you asked.
he tilted his head, studying you right back now. “‘cause a girl like you shouldn’t be taking the train this late,” he said. “not 'round here.”
there was something in his tone that hadn’t been there the night before. it was still smooth, tone full of confidence. but it was almost quieter, like he was performing less.
you caught it. but it didn't soften you. you almost rolled your eyes. “i've been doing fine my whole life."
"i’m sure you have,” he said. “don’t mean i gotta let you keep doing it.”
a small beat passed; one that could’ve gone the wrong way. easily. but the way he said it—no edge, no demand, no room left for you to decide what it meant.
you stepped a little closer to the car, just enough to close the distance, but not close enough to commit to his wish.
“you always try to fix things that aren’t broken?” you asked, eyes narrowing.
he looked at you for a second before shaking his head slightly. “nah,” he said. “just the things i don’t like.”
those words almost caught you. but you refused to show it. a car passed behind him, headlights sweeping across your face for a split second, catching the softness you didn’t realize slipped through.
but it was gone just as fast. “you don’t even know me,” you said.
“i know enough,” he replied.
“from what?”
he leaned his arm further out the window, watch gleaming from the street light above, eyes still on yours. “the way you walk like nobody can tell you nothin’,” he said. “the way you look at people like you already figured ‘em out.”
a small pause. “…and the way you not on that train yet.”
your breath hitched—barely. but he still caught it. god, of course he did.
silence stretched between you, filled with the noise of the street, the distant rumble of another train pulling in below.
you looked at the subway entrance again. then, back at him, weighing the gravity of the tension between you like you always did.
“persuasive much?” you asked.
he smiled— dimples appearing slowly this time, flashy teeth on display. “only when i mean it.”
another pause filled the cold night air between you before namjoon leaned over to the passenger side and pushed the door slightly open from the inside.
he didn’t push you to get in. instead, he just kept watching you, studying every inch of your face in search of an expression that was different from your typical, unconcerned one that intrigued him so much. he was waiting, putting the choice in your hands.
“you do realize i can still take the subway,” you said.
“yeah,” he replied easily. his tone had consisted of anything but pressure.
“hm,” you teased. “well i might not let you out once you’re in.”
he met your gaze steadily. “then i guess i gotta make sure you don’t change your mind.”
those words almost had you. you shook your head, like you were already questioning the decision you were about to make.
then you stepped forward, acrylic nails wrapping around the door handle and slid into the passenger seat of the rapper’s car.
the door shut with a quiet thud, but still, namjoon didn’t move right away. he didn’t start the car. just sat there for a second too long, glancing over at you— like he had to confirm you were actually there. like you could suddenly disappear again.
the smell of your perfume and shampoo filled his head, and it almost made him dizzy.
“…you nervous?” he asked teasingly, voice low.
you leaned back into his leather seat, calm as ever without even a slight change in your demeanor. “not even a little,” you said.
a smile tugged at his mouth as he finally turned the key into the ignition. “good,” he murmured.
because he was starting to realize— he might be the one that was.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the drive into the city felt different from everything that happened before. less noise— or maybe it was just a different kind.
the chaos didn’t falter— it never did. it just… sharpened. the towering buildings of manhattan stretched over the windows of the car. the city lights were brighter. streets were narrower. people moving like they had somewhere important to be, no matter how late it was.
you observed it all through the window, elbow resting slightly against the door, fingers brushing your cheek. the colorful glow of storefronts and passing headlights caught your features in pieces. you hardly came to manhattan— everything you needed was in brooklyn; but you couldn’t deny the beauty of it.
he noticed it. it was hard for him not to.
he was driving with one veiny hand on the steering wheel, while the other rested lazily near the center console, glancing over at you more than he should’ve. his eyes took in every last one of your features, like he was trying to understand a feeling he couldn’t quite make out yet.
“always this quiet in a car?” he asked.
you didn’t look at him. “only when i’m thinking.”
“should that worry me?”
“depends on what i’m thinking about.”
he smirked before diverting his eyes from you and back onto the road. “a’right… i’ll leave that alone then.”
but he didn’t stop wondering.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
he didn’t take you to some big-name spot that was flashy or required reservations weeks in advance. it didn’t have someone at the door approving outfits before permitting entrance.
instead, he pulled his car up outside a restaurant that was tucked away, hidden between brownstones and apartments on the lower west side, warm light spilling onto the dark sidewalk.
it was the kind of place you would only know about if someone took you there.
before you could even react, he got out first, walking around the car without any rush, opening your door before you could do it yourself.
you raised an eyebrow slightly as you got out, the heels of your boots clacking against the pavement as you stood, his height towering over you. “you do this for all your girls?”
he shut the door behind you, leaning in a little closer— not close enough to crowd you, but just enough to make the distance feel smaller.
“no,” he said quietly. “you still think i got a lot of those?”
you held his gaze sharply. “don’t you?”
a beat passed while he took a few lingering seconds to look at you. then he shook his head.
“not tonight.”
the words lingered in the air as a hint of shock almost flashed across your face. he swore that he saw it in your eyes. you didn’t respond, but you didn’t look away from him either.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
inside, the air was warm, low music playing in the background— something slow and older. it was the kind of place where people exchanged conversations that never left the restaurant.
you sat across from each other, only a small table causing distance between you two.
and for the first time since you met him—
there had been nowhere else to look.
no crowd or distant arguments. no distractions.
just him. and you.
a server came and went. water was poured, menus opened and closed. namjoon only took a quick glance as his before concentrating his focus on you.
“you already know what you want?” you asked, your menu still on display in front of you.
he leaned back, one arm resting along the back of his chair while his eyes never left yours. “yeah,” he shrugged.
your expression didn’t change. “confident,” you murmured.
“i’m sure,” he corrected. although it felt like he might’ve been talking about something else.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
dinner came, but neither of you paid attention at first. the conversation started slow— simple things.
“i grew up in the bronx,” you said after he had asked you. it wasn’t normal for you to open up to quickly.
“the bronx huh?” a smirk you were growing familiar with tugged at his lips. “that’s why you’re untouchable.”
you fought a laugh by scoffing instead, but he sensed it. he wasn’t wrong. “and how about you?”
“not too far from you, actually,” he replied. “harlem.”
you nodded like that made sense and took another bite of your food. you couldn’t deny, you were intrigued. surprisingly, you had never been out with a guy from harlem. most of them were from the bronx or brooklyn. but you wouldn’t tell him that.
“been into music since i was born,” he said, “i wasn’t interested in anything else.”
“when did you start making music?” you asked, trying hard to hide your tone of rising interest.
“when i was eleven,” he confessed. “my parents hated it.”
you almost laughed. “but it’s new york.”
“exactly what i told ‘em,” he smiled this time like you got him exactly. his gaze never averted from you.
you two continued to get to know each other more, what you liked and what you didn’t like. but the more you spoke, the more namjoon listened. really listened. and the more he did—the something shifted.
because you weren’t just guarded. you were sharp. observant in a way that made him feel like you saw through everything he said—and chose what to believe.
he wasn’t used to that. and he liked it more than he should’ve.
at some point, you said something—quiet, almost offhand—and he just… looked at you. longer than normal.
you noticed it immediately. “what?” you asked.
he shook his head slightly, almost like he was pulling himself back. “nothin’,” he said.
you didn’t buy it. “then why are you staring at me like that?”
he leaned forward slightly now, elbows resting near the edge of the table. “no one’s ever looked at me the way you do,” he said.
there was no smile when he said it. there wasn’t any teasing in his tone. just truth.
your expression didn’t change, but something in your eyes did. “how do i look at you?” you asked.
he held your look intensely, sharp eyes boring into yours. “like you already decided what i am,” he said. “and you’re waiting to see if i prove you wrong.”
a brief silence stretched. you didn’t deny it. didn’t confirm it either. all you did was study him right back.
“…and what do you think you are?” you asked.
that question sat between them. namjoon could’ve answered it a hundred different ways. the way people expected and the way he usually did.
but instead—he shrugged slightly. “i don’t know,” he admitted.
that was new for both of you.
your eyes softened, just barely. “you’re honest when you want to be,” you said.
“i’m honest right now,” he smiled, just a little. “but don’t get used to it.”
that brought something out of you. it wasn’t a full smile, but it was surely close.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
by the time you left the restaurant, the city had quieted—just slightly. enough to notice.
namjoon walked you back to the car, slower this time. like he was never in a rush. he wasn’t putting on some kind of performance to impress you. he was just giving you his presence.
and somewhere between the restaurant door and the passenger seat—he realized something he hadn’t let himself think yet.
this wasn’t just another girl. and it wasn’t just attraction. fuck, it was something so much more than that for him.
it was the way you made him pause. made him think. it’s like your existence in front of him alone made him want to be… different, without even asking. without any commitment.
he opened the door for you again.
you stopped before getting in, turning to face him. “you’re not what i expected,” you said.
he tilted his head slightly. “that a good thing?”
you considered it. “…i don’t know know yet.” honest and blatant. like always.
“yeah,” he nodded slowly. “me neither.”
byt as you got in—and as he walked back around the car, he knew one thing for sure.
he was already trying to figure out how to see you again.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the city felt quieter on the way back. not silent—because it could never be that—just softer. like everything had settled into itself. streetlights stretched long across the pavement, storefronts half-closed, the rush of earlier replaced with something slower, more intimate.
inside the car, it was even quieter. it wasn't empty, it was just the kind of quiet that sat between two people in the late hours of the night.
namjoon drove with one hand on the wheel again, the other resting near the console, fingers tapping lightly to the rhythm of the music he was playing at a volume lower than usual, due to your presence. every now and then, his eyes drifted toward you—quick glances at first.
then longer. you noticed, of course.
“you keep looking at me like that,” you said, still facing forward, voice calm.
“like what?” he asked.
you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch him in the act. “like you forgot how to drive.”
that pulled a low laugh out of him, baritone almost vibrating the space between you. “i didn’t forget,” he said. “i just got distracted.”
“by what?”
he didn’t answer right away. didn’t rush it. he just let the moment sit while the car rolled through a red light turning green, the glow shifting across your face again.
then— “by you,” he said simply.
you looked away first this time, gaze quickly averting to the window. but not before he caught it—the smallest change in your expression. not a smile, not quite. something softer.
“you say that to everyone?” you asked.
“nah,” he said. “everyone don’t look like you.”
and those words lingered the moment they left his mouth. long enough to feel real. to feel like he truly meant it.
you crossed one leg over the other slightly, settling deeper into the seat, still looking out at the passing streets. “pretty isn’t rare,” you said.
“yeah,” he agreed. a beat of silence passed. “but you are.”
you didn’t answer right away. didn’t deflect it or challenge it like you normally would. just let the sentence sit between you, heavier than the others.
your fingers brushed lightly against your thigh, almost absentminded, like you needed something to ground you for a second. namjoon noticed it too. he was noticing everything when it came to you.
“you always this smooth?” you asked after a moment, quieter now.
he smiled to himself, eyes still on the road. “only when it’s true.”
“…you’re too consistent,” you said.
“i’m serious,” he corrected.
that made you glance back at him again. this time, you really looked at him, eyes taking in every inch of his being. he didn’t look away or soften it with a joke.
just held you there for a second too long, and the tension in his car shifted. it wasn't playful anymore. it felt deeper than that.
you broke it first. "you don’t even know what i like,” you said.
he raised an eyebrow slightly. “i know a few things.”
“like what?”
he slowed slightly at a stop sign, turning the wheel with one palm, casual but controlled. “you don’t like loud places,” he said. “you don’t like people in your space unless you let ‘em there.”
a glance at you. “you don’t trust easy.”
your expression didn’t change—but your attention sharpened. “and?” you asked.
he smirked faintly. “and you like when someone proves you wrong.”
you shook your head slightly, but there was something there—something almost amused. “you think you got me figured out."
“think i’m starting to,” he replied.
“careful,” you murmured. “you might be wrong.”
he glanced at you again, slower this time. “i hope so.”
that caught you. “why?” you asked.
“‘cause then i get to learn more.”
silence again. but it was warmer now. closer. the car slowed as he turned onto your block. there was less light, your street offering some sort of quietness and familiarity.
“right here,” you said, nodding slightly ahead.
he pulled up smoothly, easing the car to a stop along the curb. and for a second—neither of you moved. the engine idled softly below you. a distant dog barked somewhere down the street. a window above you flickered with tv light. it was all normal. except it didn’t exactly feel normal.
he looked over at you. really looked this time with the car finally at a stop. it wasn't a quick glance or a passing moment.
he just looked at you. taking you in up close and still. right in front of him. “...you’re even prettier up close,” he said quietly.
normally, you would scoff at a line like that, but there was no smirk. no teasing in his tone. nothing but the truth. you held his gaze without hiding it. "yeah?" you said softly.
"yeah."
a small moment of silence passed. "good."
that surprised him. he let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. "see,” he murmured, leaning back just a little, “you do that on purpose.”
“do what?” you asked.
“act like you don’t hear it… then let it hit anyway.”
you tilted your head slightly, studying him again. “maybe i just like hearing it twice.”
that made him smiled for real, slow and genuine. “yeah,” he said. “i can do that.”
another pause. longer this time. the kind that made leaving the night feel like a choice instead of a habit.
your hand moved to the door handle—but you didn’t open it yet. “you gonna call me again?” you asked.
it wasn't needy or hopeful like most girls he took out. it never was with you. you were just simply asking, like it wouldn't bother you if he didn't.
he didn’t hesitate. “yeah,” he said. “i am.”
you nodded slightly, like you already expected that answer. then finally opened the door, stepping out into the night air.
but before you closed it, you leaned back in just a little, resting your hand against the door frame.
"don’t mess it up,” you said. soft. it was almost teasing. and it was almost serious.
then you shut the door and walked away, your hips swaying effortlessly with every step. he watched until you disappeared inside.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the hallway smelled like someone’s cooking. something warm and familiar. it clung to the air as you made your way up the stairs, keys already in your hand, mind somewhere else entirely after a long day of work.
you hadn’t slept much. not because you couldn’t. because you kept replaying things you didn’t mean to.
the way he looked at you. the way he spoke when he wasn’t trying.
the way he said your name like he’d already decided it mattered to him.
you reached your door before coming to a complete pause. something was there. at first, you thought it was just something left behind—maybe a package, maybe one of your neighbors’ things misplaced.
but when you looked closer—
flowers. a bouquet, wrapped simply. no over-the-top colors, no loud arrangement. like whoever picked them actually thought about it. they already came in a clear glass vase, an intricate design carved into it.
you didn’t move right away, you just stared at them. hoping for the feeling to pass.
it didn’t. slowly, you bent down, picking them up. turning them slightly in your hands like they might explain themselves.
no note. of course not. he didn’t need one.
you let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh—but softer, more confused than amused. “...you’re doing a lot,” you murmured under your breath.
you unlocked your door, stepping inside, setting your bag off to the side before walking further in with the flowers still in your hand.
your place was quiet like it always was. besides the now faint sounds of the city humming lowly beyond the glass windows, it was still.
you stood there for a second, just holding them. like you didn’t know what to do next. this wasn’t normal. not for you. not like this.
you set them on the counter carefully, adjusting them slightly without realizing you were doing it. your fingers brushed the petals, light, almost cautious.
then you stepped back, looking at them again. and suddenly felt it. that unfamiliar, uncomfortable—something.
you reached for your phone almost immediately. then you stopped. lowered it again. what were you even supposed to say?
long, stretching seconds of silence passed before you picked it back up, scrolling to his name and stared at it.
he’d been the one calling. the one showing up. the one setting the pace. not you. it was never you.
your thumb hovered over the call button. “…it’s just a call,” you said to yourself quietly. then pressed it before you could think too much about it.
it rang. once. twice. you started pacing without realizing, free hand brushing against your arm like you needed something to do with it.
three—
“yeah?” his voice. low. s little rougher than before—like you caught him off guard. that alone threw you off.
“…you sound surprised,” you said, trying to keep your tone even.
there was a pause, followed by a quiet, knowing exhale. “i am,” he admitted. “you don’t usually call first.”
you leaned against the counter, eyes flicking toward the flowers again. “i don’t usually have a reason to.”
a beat passed, muffled static filling the line. “…so what’s the reason?” he asked. there it was. he was always so direct.
you hesitated, just for a second too long enough to annoy yourself. “you sent something,” you said finally.
on the other end, you could practically hear his smile. “yeah,” he said. “you got ‘em.”
not a question. it never was with him. you rolled your eyes slightly, even though he couldn’t see it. “you couldn’t even leave a note?” you asked.
“i figured you’d know it was me.”
“that’s not the point.”
“then what is?”
you pushed off the counter, pacing again. “i just—” you stopped yourself, shaking your head slightly. “it’s a lot.”
a brief wave of silence took over the line. he wasn't offended or shocked. he was just listening. “…too much?” he asked, quieter now.
that made you stop walking, eyes landing on the flowers that now sat on your kitchen counter. they didn’t feel like too much. at all. that was the problem.
“…no,” you said after a second. “just… unexpected.”
“you don’t like unexpected?”
you exhaled softly, arms crossing loosely. “i like knowing what i’m dealing with.”
he let out a low chuckle. “yeah… i’m starting to get that.”
your lips pressed together slightly, fighting something that almost felt like a smile. “you don’t gotta do all that,” you said, softer now. “the car, the dinner, now this…”
you trailed off, not finishing the thought. didn’t say i’m not used to it. or not it’s getting to me. you couldn't tell him that.
he filled the silence—but not in the way you expected. “i wanted to,” he said. simple. no performance.
that stayed with you. as much as you couldn't bear to admit it. you didn’t respond right away. your fingers brushed lightly against the petals again.
“…they’re nice,” you admitted. quiet. it was almost reluctant. but it was real.
“yeah?” he said. he didn't joke about your reaction or make it bigger than it was.
“yeah.” a small pause. then—“don’t get used to me saying that.”
that pulled a soft laugh out of him. “alright,” he said. “i’ll take what i can get.”
silence settled again—but this time it wasn’t awkward. it was just full of something new.
you leaned back against the counter, phone pressed lightly to your ear. “…so what, this your way of keeping me from disappearing?”
“somethin' like that.”
“you think flowers are gonna do it?”
he didn’t hesitate. “no.”
that caught you off guard once again. "...no?"
“nah,” he said. a beat. then, his voice lower—“but it’s a start.”
you felt that. and you hated how much you did.
you shook your head slightly, looking down at the floor. “…you’re doing a good job so far,” you said before you could stop yourself.
silence passed again. “i know,” he replied. confident like always. but softer than before.
you let out a quiet breath, something shifting in your chest you didn’t quite want to name yet. “…don’t get too cocky,” you muttered.
“too late.”
that earned him a real reaction—a small, quiet laugh you didn’t mean to let out. the first real laugh you ever gave him. it was small, but this time—he heard it. clearly.
and didn’t say anything about it. which somehow made it worse. —or better. you weren't sure yet.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
it was the next day when your phone had buzzed, an hour after your shift ended.
namjoon: you free tonight?
you stared at it longer than you meant to.
you: depends
a minute passed.
namjoon: on what?
you: what you got planned
his answer came quick this time.
namjoon: trust me
you rolled your eyes slightly… but you were already getting ready.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
namjoon didn’t take you somewhere crowded. didn't take you to eat or anywhere you'd expect. instead, he drove—further than before. past the noise, past the tighter streets, until the city opened up just enough to breathe.
he pulled over near a quiet overlook, the skyline stretching out in front of you. lights scattered across the distance, glowing against the dark like something untouchable.
for once—the city wasn’t loud. it was more than chaos and people scrambling to get their lives together. it just… existed.
you stepped out of the car first this time, walking a few steps ahead before stopping near the edge, arms loosely crossing as you took it in. “…you picked this?” you asked.
he came up beside you, slower. “yeah.”
you glanced at him briefly. “…it’s nice.”
that was as close to a compliment as he’d gotten out of you in a while.
he smiled to himself. “told you to trust me.”
you didn't argue against that this time.
you leaned against the low railing, side by side now. close—but not touching.
he pulled out a blunt, wrapping the end tighter between his fingers before extending it out on his big palm, offering it you.
you took it without hesitation. that said more than anything. your fingers brushed as he lit it for you. the flame flickered between you two for a second—brief, warm—before disappearing again.
you took a few drags, smoke drifting up into the night air, dissolving into nothing before passing it to him, the end coated with lip gloss. namjoon took it up to his mouth, puffing into it. your lips making indirect contact.
for a while—you both didn’t speak. didn’t need to. the quiet between you wasn’t empty anymore. it was… full.
“you always this thoughtful?” you asked after a while, voice softer now.
he glanced at you. “you always notice?”
“only when it’s real.”
he nodded slightly, looking back out at the skyline. “it is,” he said. a pause. then—“you gotta question everything i do?"
you let out a quiet breath, watching the smoke leave your lips. “i do,” you said simply, taking another hit. “that’s how i don’t get played.”
that made him look at you again. his brown eyes studying every fraction of your unreadable expression. “and you think i’m playing you?”
you met his gaze. “could be.”
it was honest, like always. he respected that. “…i’m not,” he said.
there wasn't smile. it wasn't enhanced with charm. just complete truth. you studied him for a second, like you were trying to catch something in his expression. but there was nothing to catch.
that unsettled you more than anything else.
“you don’t seem like the type to slow down for anyone,” you said quietly.
“i’m not,” he admitted.
silence swirled into the air between the both of you before you answered. "then why me?”
that question sat heavier than the others. he didn’t answer right away. instead, he stepped a little closer—not enough to touch, just enough that you could feel the shift.
“‘cause you’re not like anyone i’ve met,” he confessed.
your breath slowed—just slightly. “you barely know me."
“i know how you move,” he said. “how you think.” a pause. “know you don’t let people get this close.”
his eyes dropped, just briefly—to your lips. then back up. “and you’re letting me.”
that pulled some knot inside your stomach. because he was right. you didn’t step back. didn't look away or stop him.
but you didn’t give in either.
“you’re a little too confident,” you murmured.
“not confident,” he said softly. “certain.”
that word lingered between you two, the space feeling incredibly smaller now, the city in front of you fading into nothing.
the blunt burned low between your fingers, almost forgotten. “so what happens if you’re wrong?” you asked quietly.
he leaned in just slightly. not touching. at least, not yet. “then you’ll tell me."
“and if i don’t?”
his voice dropped. “then i’ll figure it out.”
your breath caught—barely. but it was enough for the both of you to notice.
and suddenly, there it was. that moment. the kind that stretched a minute too long. where neither of you moved—but neither of you pulled away.
his hand lifted slightly, almost like he was going to touch your face—then stopped. waiting. giving you the chance to shut it down.
but you didn’t. your eyes flicked to his lips. then back up.
that was all it took. he leaned in—slow. careful. like one wrong move would break everything between you. like he was giving you every second to change your mind.
you didn’t move or step back. but you didn't close the distance either. just stayed there—breathing the same air now. your nose filled with weed, cologne, and warm air against the cold autumn night.
close enough to feel it. close enough to know exactly what would happen if either of you moved an inch more.
but then you turned your head slightly. not fully away, but just enough. “…you move too fast," your voice quieter than before.
but you didn’t step back. you had every chance to create space, but you couldn't seem to break it.
namjoon stayed there for a second longer. close. then exhaled softly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “yeah,” he murmured. “but you ain’t stopping me.”
that almost made you smile, a curve tugging at the end of your lips. you finally leaned back just a little, creating the smallest bit of distance again—but the tension didn’t leave.
it stayed. sat between you like a third person. unfinished. neither of you mentioned it.
but as you stood there, side by side again—both of you knew.
next time? you wouldn’t stop.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the text came two nights later.
namjoon: i got a set tomorrow in flatbush. you should come.
it was simple. it was direct. you stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen. you already knew what you were going to say.
you: i'm busy
sent. you locked your phone right after, flipping it shut like that settled it. like that meant you weren't going.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
but the next night—you were standing outside the venue anyway.
a bit bigger than the last one. louder, somehow. music spilled out into the street, people crowded near the entrance, energy thick and restless.
you adjusted your jacket, glancing up at the door. “…just for a little,” you murmured to yourself.
not for him. you told yourself that twice. three times. then you went in.
inside was packed. hotter than before, bodies moving tight together, lights low and flickering. the dj was already going, hyping the room, voices rising and falling with the beat.
you slipped through the crowd like you always did—quiet, unnoticed unless someone was really looking.
he was already on stage, mid-set. his presence commanding the room like it belonged to him, deep voice moving fast in the mic and through the speakers.
you stayed toward the back this time. you didn’t move closer. you didn't want to make it obvious. you just watched.
he was in it. sweat dripping down his body, highlighting his skin and muscles, his short hair damp. he wore a leather jacket, glimmering chain hanging around his neck. his jeans were ripped, a belt looped around it lazily as the hem of his supreme boxers were on display. he was locked in, focused, feeding off the crowd, every line sharper than the last. people were reacting, shouting, moving with him. but suddenly, his attention shifted.
just slightly. like it was instinct. his eyes moved across the room— and landed on you. everything else blurred for a second.
not the music or his performance. just everything around, focusing on his gaze on you entirely.
standing there like you hadn’t told him you weren't coming. like you hadn’t meant to be there.
but you were. and you were watching him again, almost the same way as the first night you ever saw him. calm and focused, seeing more than everybody else in the room.
his mouth curved—real this time. not for the crowd. for you. it threw him off for half a second.
then he leaned into it, his energy shifted—subtle, but there. more alive. more intentional. like he had something to prove now.
not to the room.
to you.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
by the time namjoon's set ended, the energy was high—people crowding near the stage, calling his name, trying to get his attention.
he barely entertained it. his eyes were already searching.
finding you again.
and this time—he didn’t wait.
outside, the night air hit different. cooler. louder in a distant way. you had just stepped away from the door, ready to slip back into the street like you always did—
“thought you were busy.”
his voice came from behind you. it was close. closer than before. you turned—and he was already there. no space this time, leaving barely any distance.
his presence felt… heavier now. more certain. but still, you didn’t look surprised.
“you believe everything i say?” you asked.
he stepped closer. it wasn't enough to trap you—enough that you'd move if you wanted space, but close to the point of his familiar scent of weed and cologne almost taking your concentration fully away.
you didn’t move.
“nah,” he said. “just wanted to see if you’d show up anyway.”
your eyes flicked up to his. “…and?”
a beat.
“knew you would.”
that should’ve annoyed you. but it didn’t. there was something different about him tonight. his hand brushed lightly against your arm—not accidental. but testing.
you felt it immediately. but you couldn't bring yourself to pull away. that was all he needed.
“you came for me,” he said, quieter now.
you shook your head slightly. “i came for the music.”
he smiled, dimples full on display before he briefly licked his lips. “yeah?”
his fingers slid just slightly lower along your arm—slow, deliberate. “and you just happened to stand there, lookin’ at me like that all pretty and nonchalant again?”
your breath hitched—barely. but you held his gaze. “you notice too much.”
“only 'bout you.”
the noise around you faded again. same as before. but this time—you were even closer. closer than you ever been, noses almost touching.
his hand didn’t leave your arm. it didn’t tighten. it just stayed there. you couldn't deny the shock of warmth that it send up your body.
“you lied to me, hm?” he murmured.
“i showed up anyway,” you shrugged. “guess we're even.”
he shook his head slightly, stepping just a little closer. “nah,” he said. “i’m still up.”
your brows lifted slightly. “how?”
“‘cause you’re here,” he said. “and you ain’t leavin'.”
you opened your mouth—then stopped. because you didn’t have an answer for that. the words were enough to almost flush your cheeks with a light pink.
his hand moved. slow and careful, dragging down your arm to just barely at your waist. he didn't pull or tightening his grip. he was just... there. waiting.
and you could feel it. every second of it. and yet you didn't stop him.
your fingers curled slightly at your sides, like you were holding onto something invisible. “you always this bold?” you asked, voice softer now.
“only when i’m right,” he said.
“and you think you are?”
“i know i am.”
suddenly, that moment was settling in between you two again, but it felt different this time. he was closer, and your bodies were suddenly feeling warmer.
it was something harder to walk away from. his thumb shifted slightly against your side, making your breath visibly stutter.
and this time—you didn’t turn away. you stayed, looking at him. really looking now, analyzing him from his head to the bottom of his shoes. like you weren't trying to hide it anymore.
“…you’re a problem,” you murmured.
he smiled, just barely. “yeah,” he said. “but you're still here.”
a thick beat passed, filling the small, impossible space between you. then—“stop me.”
it was quiet and low, it wasn't a challenge. it was merely an invitation. and you didn't stop him. instead, you peered up at him, your eyes that were once unreadable boring into his.
that was all it took. he leaned in—slower than before. but not hesitant. instead, it was full of certainty. he closed the distance between you, foreheads immediately coming into contact.
and this time—when your lips met—you didn’t pull away.
it wasn’t rushed or messy. it was everything you both had been holding back. all of the tension. all the words you didn’t say. it sent sparks throughout your body, the movement igniting something in your chest.
as your lips moved together in unison, your hand lifted—gripping lightly at his jacket like you needed something to ground yourself. like you needed more.
you felt him smile against your lips, his hand pressed just slightly firmer at your waist, pulling you closer—but still giving you the space to leave.
but you didn’t. not this time. your breathing became staggered as you kept up with his lips, moving against yours like he was trying to memorize them. like he was savoring them.
when you finally pulled back after what seemed like forever—it wasn’t far. foreheads almost touching, noses barely brushing one another's. breath uneven.
the city came rushing back in around you—but it didn’t matter. he looked at you like he was trying to process it. like it shifted everything.
“…damn,” he murmured under his breath.
you let out a quiet breath, eyes still on his. “…don’t say anything,” you said softly.
he huffed a small laugh. “wasn’t planning to.”
a pause. then, his voice quieter but full of devotion—“but you not disappearing on me again.”
you held his gaze. and for once—you didn’t argue. "…we’ll see,” you said.
but your tone was different than before. it wasn't stubborn or distant like normal. it was almost unfinished.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
after namjoon took a photos with a few people and dapped up some guys, he insisted on driving you home once again. and you accepted. you both didn’t say much when you got in his car.
not at first.
the kiss still lingered—on your lips, and in the space between you two, in the way neither of you quite looked at each other right away.
the engine started. music low with the bass vibrating against the speakers. he pulled off without rushing.
as he drove through the somewhat emptier streets, you leaned your head lightly against the window, watching the city pass again—but it didn’t feel the same as before.
everything felt… closer. quieter. like something had shifted and neither of you had said it out loud yet.
“you're real quiet now,” he said after a minute, glancing at you.
you didn’t look at him. “just thinking.”
he smirked faintly. “you do that a lot around me.”
“you give me a lot to think about.”
it was straightforward, like you always were. that earned you another glance from him. a real, long one.
“…that a good thing?” he asked.
you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes this time. “i haven’t decided yet.”
he huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “yeah… you like doing that."
“doing what?”
“keeping me right there,” he gestured loosely with one hand, “not too close, not too far.”
how was he always so spot on? you didn’t deny it. and you didn't confirm it either. just watched him for a second longer before looking away again. the car slowed at a light. red and incredibly still. for a moment, neither of you spoke.
“you don't gotta do that with me,” he said, breaking the silence.
your brows pulled together slightly. “do what?”
“act like you don’t feel it.”
that landed. you swallowed, not responding right away. didn’t brush it off like you usually would. “…feel what?” you asked, quieter now.
he glanced at you again. longer this time. “like this ain’t just… whatever,” he said.
it wasn't smooth or rehearsed. it was completely, utterly honest.
the light turned green and he continued to drive again, turning the wheel with his palm. but in a car that was clearly modified to drive fast, he drove slower now. like he wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere.
you shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing against your arm. “you say that like you don’t do this a lot,” you said.
“i don’t,” he replied. it was simple, not a single moment of hesitation.
that made you look at him again. “you expect me to believe that?”
he shrugged slightly, eyes on the road. “don’t matter what you believe,” he said. “i know what it is.”
“…and what is it?” you asked.
there was a pause. it was barely long, but in that brief moment of silence, you could see truth behind his low eyes.
namjoon exhaled softly, one hand tightening just slightly on the wheel.“i been around a lotta people,” he said. “girls, crowds, all that.” another beat of stillness passed. “it never sticks.”
that wasn’t what you expected. but you didn’t interrupt or questioned it. you just continued to listen, curious as to what he had to say.
“my dad used to tell me,” he continued, voice lower now, “if you gon’ do something, you better be the best at it.”
he let out a quiet breath. “so i went all in. music, everything. that’s all i know how to do.”
the city lights flickered across his face as he drove—sharp one second, gone the next. “no backup plan,” he added. “no fallback.”
you watched him now. really watched him. because this wasn’t the guy from the stage. or the one outside the venue. this was… something else. “sounds like a lot of pressure,” you said quietly.
"yeah," he gave a small, almost humorless smile. “it is.” a small pause. “but it’s the only thing that ever felt like mine.”
and that—you felt. it hit you deep without even meaning to.
“you don’t seem like the type to need anything,” you said after a moment.
he glanced at you. “everybody needs somethin',” he replied. “i just don’t say it out loud.”
soon enough, the car turned onto your block, your apartment building coming closer into view. familiar. close to the end of the night. and suddenly—you didn’t want it to be. the realization hit you out of nowhere. sharp. it was almost uncomfortable how real it felt.
“you ever get tired?” you asked quietly.
namjoon slowed the car, pulling up along the curb—but he didn’t turn it off yet. “tired of what?”
“…holding in everything like that,” you said.
he leaned back slightly in his seat, looking at you now instead of the road. “for what?” he asked.
“so nobody sees it,” you said. a pause before your voice came out softer this time. "or uses it.”
that made something shift in his expression. something real. he studied you for a second. “…you talking 'bout me or you?”
you let out a small breath. “…both.”
that was the first real piece you ever gave him.
and you both knew it.
silence settled in the car. it was heavy—but not uncomfortable. just the two of you processing the raw honesty you had just exchanged with each other.
he nodded slowly, like he understood more than you said. “yeah,” he murmured. “i get that.”
you nodded before quiet filled the car again, nothing but the very low hum of r&b spilling out through the speakers.
“you don’t gotta do that with me either.”
he echoed what he said earlier. except this time—it hit you differently. so you looked at him. really looked, absorbing his presence and every word he had just said.
your guarded and distant expression had finally fallen. and suddenly, something clicked. not loud or dramatic. just quiet and certain.
but still, it almost hit you like a truck, your stomach forming into a knot you had never felt before. you cared. about what he said. about how he felt. about whether he kept talking or shut down.
and that—that was new.
“…you make it hard,” you confessed softly.
he tilted his head slightly. “how?”
“to keep things simple,” you admitted.
and there it was. it wasn't a full confession. but for someone like you, it close enough.
he leaned in just slightly—not touching, just enough to close the space again. “good,” he said quietly.
you exhaled softly, shaking your head just a little. “you’re not supposed to say that.”
“i don’t do what i’m supposed to.”
that almost made you smile, fighting the curve that desperately tugged at your lips. neither of you moved to leave, the moment stretching between you. again. but softer now. there seemed to be less tension. like there something real underneath it.
“…you still thinkin' about leaving?” he asked.
you looked at him. then glanced toward your building. then back to him, eyes peering up at his large figure and meeting his extreme gaze.
you paused. and it was long enough to matter. “…i don’t know."
but this time—
it didn’t sound like uncertainty. it sounded more like possibility.
he didn’t ask again. “…come with me,” was all he said.
his was voice low. but it was certain. and it wasn't a question.
you hesitated—but not the way you used to. not like you were trying to convince yourself to leave. more like you already knew you weren't going to. “…for a little,” you said.
like you just needed to say it out loud. but he didn’t respond. just looked at you a second too long, like all he could see was you. his eyes checked your face for any sign of uncertainty.
but there was none.
so then, he pulled off, engine rumbling loudly in the quiet of the night as your building became further in the distance.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞˖
the drive felt shorter this time. quieter. not because there wasn't anything to say—but because everything already had been.
your thoughts weren’t scattered anymore. they were focused.
on him. on the way his hand rested on the wheel, relaxed but controlled. on the way he glanced at you like he already knew you were still thinking about what he said. like he knew you were still thinking about the kiss.
on the way you didn’t look away anymore when he caught you.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞˖
namjoon's place was dim when you walked in. low light. music already playing softly somewhere in the background—something smooth, steady, like it belonged there. his place was impressively clean besides music sheets and lyrics scattered across a few tables. his furniture and cabinets were colored in darker shades. he had an array of colorful, unique rugs across his hardwood floor as music posters and vinyls clung to the walls.
it was entirely him.
the door clicked shut behind you both.
and suddenly—it was just you and him. there wasn't any street noise or distractions. no easy way to slip out of the moment.
you stepped in a little further, taking it in without really seeing it. your focus wasn’t on the room anymore. it was on him.
you felt it before he even moved. that shift. it was same energy from earlier, except it was hitting stronger now.
he didn’t rush or cross the space all at once. just walked toward you, slow, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world.
like you weren't going anywhere.
soon, his scent wrapped around your head as his large figure began to block your entire view. “you been quiet,” he murmured, peering down at you, taking in your presence in his very own place.
“i’m thinking.”
“that what you do when you’re nervous?”
you let out a soft breath, close to a laugh. “i told you. i don’t get nervous.”
he stepped closer. close enough now that there was barely space between you. “yeah?” he asked quietly. “i don’t believe that.”
you exhaled softly, arms folding loosely—not defensive, just grounding. “i’m thinking,” you repeated.
“about leaving?” his voice dropped slightly on that. something underneath it that you took note of immediately.
you looked at him, holding his extreme gaze. “…no."
that was new. and you both felt it. he stepped closer. close enough now that you could feel the warmth of him without touching.
“you sure?” he asked quietly.
you nodded once. “i didn’t come here to leave.”
that changed everything. in the air around you and in the way namjoon looked at you in that moment. his jaw tightened slightly, like he was holding something back.
then his hand moved, finding your arm, sliding slowly upward, deliberate, familiar now—but this time there was no hesitation in it.
this time, he wasn't testing. his thumb brushed lightly along your skin, and your breath immediately shifted.
namjoon noticed. he always did.
“you feel that?” he murmured.
you swallowed, but didn’t step back. “…yeah.”
“good.”
his hand didn’t stop this time. moved from your arm to your waist—firmer now. it wasn't rough, but it was enough to ground you into his floors, holding you there like you belonged in that space.
with him.
you let out a quiet breath, your fingers instinctively catching at the front of his shirt again. you weren't pushing. you were pulling him. absentmindedly closer.
“you don’t act like this anywhere else, huh?” he said, voice low, close to your ear now, his breath lightly hitting the back of your neck.
your eyes lifted to his as you tried to ignore the chills he sent down your spine. “like what?”
“like you're not gonna walk away.”
that hit you, reaching into the back of your mind and making your head feel like it was mush. because it was true. and you couldn’t deny it anymore.
“…maybe i don’t want to,” you said softly.
there it was. your sentence was clear; no deflection this time. something in namjoon shifted. his body language and his gaze.
his hand at your waist tightened just slightly, pulling you that inch left closer until there wasn’t any space left to question.
“you keep saying things like that,” he murmured.
your breath hitched—barely. “…and?”
“and you don’t realize what it does.”
you looked at him, steady. “then tell me.”
his hand slid from your waist, up along your side, slower now—controlled, deliberate— like he had to memorize every curve of your figure until it rested just beneath your jaw. it took everything in you to not shiver under his touch.
he tilted your face slightly up, toward his. not forcing. just guiding. so he could see every inch of your beauty, every centimeter of your expression so he could read it clearly.
“you not going nowhere,” he said quietly.
not a question. not even a warning. just… truth, the way he saw it. the way he needed it.
your pulse quickened—but you didn’t pull away. didn't break the heightened eye contact. “…you sound real sure,” you murmured.
“i am.”
before you knew it, the space between you disappeared again.
except this time—there was nothing holding it back. the hesitation in both of you crumbled completely the moment the space closed.
he kissed you—slower than before, but deeper, like he wasn’t figuring it out anymore, just taking it in. like everything he had been holding back finally snapped all at once.
and you met him there. fully.
your hands moved without thinking—sliding up, holding onto him, pulling him closer like you didn’t want the distance to come back, lips dragging across his with desire.
he responded immediately, one hand firm at your waist, the other still at your jaw, keeping him right where he wanted you.
with him.
the kiss didn't break the tension. it only built it. every second you stayed close, lips together, every breath shared, every small movement that didn’t pull away—it just got heavier. it warmed the air around you, making it entirely unavoidable.
when you both finally paused—it wasn’t to separate. just enough to breathe, foreheads touching once more. his hand still resting against you like he wasn’t letting go yet.
“…you feel that?” he asked again, quieter now.
you nodded slightly. “…yeah.” this time, you didn’t hide it. didn’t pretend. “i do.”
the words barely left your lips before something in him snapped into place. not control—something deeper than that. certainty. like he’d been waiting for you to say it.
his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you in fully this time—no space left between you, boobs pressed against his clothed abs with no room for second guessing.
“there you go…” he murmured, voice low, almost like praise.
your breath caught, red warmth spreading across your face—
and then he kissed you again.
this time it was certain,—like he knew for sure now that you weren't going anywhere, like he didn’t have to hold back anymore at all.
his hand stayed firm at your waist, anchoring you to him, while the other slid up along your jaw again, tilting your face just enough to deepen it.
you responded instantly. your hands moved up, pulling him closer like you needed more of him, like the space that used to exist between you didn’t belong there anymore. he practically sighed into the kiss—or was it a growl—as your lips moved synchronously, rougher this time.
“yeah…” he breathed against your lips, barely pulling back. “thought so.”
the way he said it, like he’d already claimed the moment, like he’d already known—sent something sharp through your chest.
your fingers tightened slightly, nails lightly grazing into the skin on his incredibly broad shoulders. “…you talk too much,” you whispered, breath uneven.
he smirked—just slightly—then kissed you again, slower this time, but deeper, like he was proving something. he captured your lips between his like they had no other place to be.
“to you?” he murmured between it, voice rougher and lower now. “yeah… i do.”
his hand shifted—sliding just slightly along your side, pulling you closer again, like he couldn’t quite get you close enough. he tugged your bottom lip with his teeth, biting down on it gently. you gasped against him before he licked his lip swiftly across the area, like he was saying sorry. but by the way he smirked at your reaction, you both knew he wasn't.
“you don’t even realize,” he said softly against your lips, “how you look at me.”
your breath hitched again. “like what?” you whispered.
he leaned in, brushing his lips just barely against yours again before answering—“like you're already mine.”
and that—god, that did something to you. and this time, you didn’t fight it or pull away.
if anything, you leaned into him more. you felt heat pooling between your legs from his words as your knees practically buckled under his touch. no one had ever been able to make you feel this way.
“maybe i am,” you said quietly.
and that was it. that was all it took.
his reaction was immediate—his grip tightening just slightly, pulling you fully against him again as he kissed you harder this time, not rushed, but deeper, more intense, like he felt that just as much as you did. and now, he definitely growled against you, like those words triggered his deepest desire. you were now against the wall, entirely closed off by him and nothing but him.
“don’t play with me like that,” he grunted, voice low, almost warning—but not pulling away.
your hands slid up further, brushing along his neck, holding him there. “i’m not,” you said. and you weren't.
and for a second—he didn’t move. not immediately. like it hit him slower than everything else had.
his eyes stayed on yours, searching—like he was making sure you meant it, like he didn’t trust something this real to come easy.
“…say that again,” he murmured, voice rougher now. he wasn’t teasing or playing. something heavier.
you didn’t hesitate this time. “i’m not,” you repeated, softer—but just as certain.
that did it. someething in his expression shifted—completely. not just confidence anymore. not just control.
it was deeper than that. like something in him gave in to it.
his hand tightened at your waist—not rough, but firm enough to keep you exactly where you were.
“yeah?” he exhaled, almost under his breath, like he’d been holding that in. “don’t say things like that if you don’t mean ‘em.”
his voice wasn’t playful anymore. it carried weight. it carried possession—but earned.
“i do mean it,” you said. you didn’t look away, holding his burning gaze.
his jaw tightened slightly, eyes dropping to your lips for just a second before coming back up.
“you got no idea what that does to me,” he admitted quietly. then, lower—his breath hot against your ear, “…you don’t get to take that back.”
your breath caught. but you didn’t pull away. “…i’m not trying to."
you swear you heard him suck in a sharp breath as his hand slid from your waist up along your side, pulling you in closer—closer than before, like he needed to feel that you were actually there.
“yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “‘cause if you are…” he shook his head slightly, eyes locked on yours. “i’m not letting you go.”
the way he said it— it wasn’t just another line. wasn’t charm. it was purely the truth.
and you felt it. all of it. instead of pulling back like you normally would—you stepped into him. choosing it. “…then don’t."
if there even was any, that broke whatever restraint he had left. his hand came up to your jaw again—firmer this time, tilting your face toward his before his lips grazed lightly against yours, hot breath spilling all over you.
"you don’t get it,” he murmured against your lips." “you walking in here, looking at me like that, sayin’ all this—” his thumb brushed along your cheek, slower now. “—that’s mine.”
your breath hitched. "then keep it."
then, your lips crashed against each others', his lips moving against yours like he owned you. one hand explored your body lazily, caressing your sides, until he reached the lowest part of your hip, long fingers carefully tracing the top of your ass while the other found the back of your head, as if he needed you impossibly closer than you already were.
soon enough, he tugged your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down on it before sucking it into his own mouth like he owned it. you gasped to which he immediately responded to, smirking as he shoved his tongue eagerly in between your lips and into your mouth.
you tried to fight back with your own, but failed miserably as he swiftly swirled his tongue around yours, putting it back in his place as he greedily explored your mouth.
at this point, you were whimpering under his every move, your small sounds immediately sending him into pure bliss as he devoured you with his lips. his big, slender hands moved further down your hips, feeling up and down your ass unashamedly like he had done it a million times before.
suddenly his palms slid to the bottom your ass, hoisting you up to straddle him. you responded quickly, not even breaking the kiss as your thighs wrapped around his waist. he began to walk towards what you assumed was his bedroom, holding you up with one husky arm as the other deliberately traveled up and down your thigh.
you all but moaned into his mouth, kissing him with unbelievable desire now, aching heat expanding through your body. that clearly did something to him as he failed to open his door in time, accidentally nudging you both into the door.
it broke the kiss and for the first time, namjoon's face was etched with nothing but worry. his grip softened on you as he began to apologize but you immediately broke out in a laugh—a real, genuine one.
he didn't break eye contact with you, despite his embarrassment. he took in your unguarded, effortlessly beautiful laugh. he let out a huff of air, a big smile growing and pulling at his deep dimples due to your reaction. and was that blush on his cheeks?
you stopped laughing when he leaned his face closer to yours, gripping you tighter— the small distance almost making you forget about what just happened.
"clumsy much?" you teased in a whisper, eyes peering up at him.
"too pretty for me to be actin' smooth here," he answered.
you fought back another smile but he soon captured you into another kiss, opening the door correctly this time. he placed you down on his bed breaking the kiss—a string of saliva quickly disappearing as he placed sloppy kisses along your jaw.
you tilted your head back, letting out a gasp. he was working his way by your ear, biting the lobe briefly before attacking your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks of red that would soon turn purple, like it was his first meal of the day. like it was his most favorite one.
"you like that, don't you," he murmured against you, his lips now finding your collarbone. "like me marking you up, hm?"
you were absolutely dissolving under his touch. everything about him had you completely dizzy, making you unable to respond coherently.
"use your words baby," he said.
"yes—" you gasped. "fuck—mark me up, joon"
he smirked in satisfaction as he licked over the top of your cleavage, taking in the skin between his teeth, pulling it in between his lips. he was fully leaning over you at this point, hard cock shoved against your clothed core.
you tugged at his shirt eagerly, fingers pulling the hemline up in which quickly revealed his strong, sturdy abs. after seeing your reaction, he didn't waste a second, practically ripping his shirt off and tossing it somewhere to be forgotten.
and god, he was so fucking built. his muscles practically gleamed in the glow of the night, chest swell against his broad shoulders. thick lines of ink trailed all over his figure. before you could even think, you reached out, dragging a finger down his chest.
he captured your lips into a hungry kiss, grunting into your mouth as he now rutted his hard, clothed cock against you. "don’t even realize how you got me right now," he growled lowly in your ear.
his fingers traced the hem of your top, pulling back to look at you for permission. you nodded your head and that was all he needed before he gently glided your top off before roaming his hands around your figure. "so perfect baby."
you practically keened at the nickname you would cringe at if it was coming from any other guy. you felt like you were turning into mush. "joon...."
"hm?" he asked. "you want this baby?"
"yes," you answered breathlessly, fingers absentmindedly finding their way over his bulging member and to his belt. "want you, joon"
"fuck," he groaned. the nickname filled his body with ache. "say it again." his long fingers quickly found yours, assisting you in taking off his belt.
"want you," you repeated, now tugging at the hemline of his jeans.
"yeah?" he asked. "been wanting you since i first saw you, baby" he unbuttoned his pants and they quickly fell to the floor, revealing the abnormally large outline of his cock. "been fucking dreaming 'bout you."
your vision almost became blurry as you tried to take in the mere sight of huge bulge. you reached out for it, your hands that now seemed incredibly small palming his hardness.
he groaned before pushing you back into his bed, your head softly coming into contact with pillows as he crawled on top of you, gaze pouring with deep desire. he didn't hesitate to pull at your pants, taking them down with one hand.
his eyes raked over your naked figure slowly, like he was etching every centimeter of it into his mind. you suddenly felt shy under his gaze, hands moving instinctively to almost shield yourself.
but his strong arms quickly stopped you, intertwining his fingers between yours. "don't hide from me now," his voice was low, pressing a kiss on your hand. "too perfect for that."
his hands trailed down your sides, finding their way in between your thighs. his fingers looped around your panties while the other hand slowly rubbed against your clothed clit.
you whined out desperately and he took it as a sign to move further, hooking your wet panties to the side and swiping one finger across the wetness of your slick, teasing your entrance. you nearly shook underneath him as he inserted a finger, the loud gush of your arousal along with moans filling the room. "such a pretty pussy," he grunted.
he began to rub his thumb against your clit in a circular motion before adding another finger, working its way inside of you, stretching you out. "so good for me baby."
he began to narrow his face in front of your pussy, his warm breath hitting your core, sending chills through your body. you twitched under him as he got lower, his nose almost hitting your clit.
he began to lick your pussy gently, in slow draws, like he was savoring every last drop of your slick. "taste so fuckin' good," he murmured against you. your hands immediately found him, gripping onto his hair and pulling him closer.
he all but smirked against you before fully going in, attaching his lips fully around your folds, sucking them in and pushing his tongue through your entrance all the while his two fingers remained pushing in and out of you.
you were completely falling apart under him, moaning his name while your nails dug into his free arm that was gripping firmly at your thighs, his fingers turning white at the fingertips like he never wanted to let go.
it wasn't long before you felt heat coil in your stomach, back arching off the mattress. namjoon felt it, he felt the way your pussy tightened around his fingers, the way you melting away under him. "cum for me baby," he growled against your folds, sucking vigorously at your nub.
you could barely process it before you felt your legs shaking violently as namjoon continued to lap at you with his fat tongue, dragging it up and down your folds as his fingers continued to thrust into you.
once your released pooled around him, he pulled back, licking your juices off his fingers without hesitation. "such a good girl for me, hm? nobody getting this but me."
you moaned in response, overwhelmed by the blissful high he took you to. he pulled you into another swift kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue as your hands trailed over his large bulging cock that was trapped beneath his boxers again. your nails hooked around the hem, pulling them down almost greedily.
his cock sprung out in front of you immediately; overly generous inches and width curving up slightly hitting his stomach, pre-cum glistening at his angry tip. you didn't even realize you were staring until namjoon smirked, his large hand finding around his equally huge cock to stroke himself, while his gaze never left you.
you reached out, your small hand wrapping around the base of his dick. he let go, grunting loudly as he let you fully take control. you began to stroke him, watching him tilt his head back in pleasure.
it wasn't long before you began to lap at the sides of his cock, swirling your tongue around its base and the tip. his big palm immediately caressed the back of your head like he needed you for stability. "fuck baby," he hissed.
you took his huge length inside your mouth, wrapping your lips around the base and sucking him in. he moaned loudly, his fingers tangling in your hair as he bobbed you back and forth along his cock, the tip hitting the back of your throat. "fuck—so fucking good for me."
at this point, you were seeing stars, tears blurring your vision as you almost struggled to take him all in. his moans got louder but he soon pulled your head back, hissing in pleasure. "gonna fill you up, baby," he grumbled as he got back on top of you.
you practically shivered at his words before he captured you between his lips, but it was softer this time—almost hesitant. "i meant what i said..." he started. "i'm not letting you go."
your gaze poured into each others, heart practically stopping at his words. "then don't." it came out barely a whisper.
he kissed your lips, trailing down your jaw and neck before he dragged his tip along your entrance, slowly pushing in inside of you. you moaned loudly as he thrusted deeper inside of you with his hands gripping your thighs, stretching your walls out to fit him. "feel so fuckin' good baby," he breathed down your neck.
he pulled your legs up, resting them on top of his shoulders as he pounded into you relentlessly; closing all the space between you as one hand was steady by your head while the other focused on your clit. wet noises filled the room as your eyes rolled to the back of your head in absolute pleasure, heat building up in your stomach as you kissed each other with hunger.
"fuck," he grunted as he rutted into you. "you mine, you know that right?"
"yes—!" you gasped, "fuck—yes, i'm yours, joon!"
he growled against your ear, his pace quickening at an impossible speed. "say it again, baby. say my name."
"joon—!" you moaned. "i'm yours."
soon enough, your legs were shaking around namjoon's shoulders before he quickly came too, his hot seed spilling into your walls as you clenched tightly around him. you both moaned out, collectively coming down from your highs—his cock still buried deeply inside of you as his cum leaked out of you.
he pulled out before he could collapse on you, laying down beside you breathlessly. "you okay, baby?" he asked, his eyes already meeting yours when you turned your head.
his arm was already around you. it wasn't loose, it was firm. like he wasn't planning on letting you go anytime soon.
you nodded as he placed his palm on the back of your head, bringing your forehead to his lips. a smile you couldn't fight tugged at your lips.
his lips moved down your face, to your cheeks before engulfing you into a deep kiss. "you not leaving tonight," he murmured against your lips, his hand moving slowly along your arm.
you didn't hesitate like you usually would. didn't overthink it or pull back into yourself. instead, your fingers curled against him, holding onto him just a little tighter. "...i know." you said.
and that was the moment. you meant it. and not just for the night, but for him. he smiled widely, pecking your lips before pulling you in closer to him, holding you there like it was his life's purpose until the morning.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞˖
a few months later, the city still moves the same—but they don't. not exactly.
somewhere between late nights and quiet mornings, between crowded venues and empty streets, you two found a rhythm that belongs to the both of you. you aren't guarded the way you used to be—not with him. you laugh easier now, softer at first, then freely, like you forgot you ever had to hold it back. and he notices every time, like it’s still new.
namjoon keeps showing up the same way he did in the beginning—but even more now. flowers at your door like it’s routine now, little things he knows you like, the kind of attention that never leaves your side. not because he has to—because he wants to.
and you're there too. front row at his sets, or somewhere in the crowd where he can still find her. he always does. no matter how big the venue gets, no matter how many people are screaming his name—his eyes land on you like they always have.
and every time they do, it still feels like that first night.
he’s bigger now, bigger stages, bigger crowds, his name traveling further than those small, dim-lit rooms they started in. but somehow, with you, he’s quieter. realer. the version of himself no one else gets.
and you stay. not because you're unsure or waiting for it to end. but because you know now—you don't have to run from something because it finally feels right.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
hope you guys love this as much as i do! came up w it because im missing my hometown BADDD shoutout bk❤️🩹 way longer than i expected SORRYYY, but the tension is tewww good. love u xx
min yoongi had never spared a soul. he was heartless and showed no mercy, his hands always stained with blood. born to hunt, killing was natural to him ≠ until you. a shy bunny hybrid with wide eyes and so innocent it made his chest hurt. you awakened something forbidden inside him… a craving that left him torn between being a predator and becoming your protector.
pairing 𓂃 hybrid hunter!yoongi x bunny hybrid!femreader
genre 𓂃 dark romance, hyrbid au, enemies to lovers, forbidden romance, hunter x prey, yandere!yoongi, haegum!yoongi, obsession, power imbalance, pining and yearning, love/hate relationship, contrast of worlds, crime, smut, fluff, angst
warnings 𓂃 18+, explicit sex scenes, mature themes, dark content, graphic violence and gore, mentions of death, smoking and alcohol consumption, possessiveness, miscommunication and argument, fear of love and intimidation, love confessions and confrontation, stalking, each part contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advected due to the dark and potentially triggering content)
taglist 𓂃 𓆩 OPEN 𓆪
「 MASTERLIST | READ ON WATTPAD 」
《 INDEX 》
⤷ 01 : cat and mouse » 7.6k
“if i catch you… i’m gonna fuck you right here on the forest floor and stuff you full of my cum until the only thing you know how to do is take my cock.”
⤷ 02 : ruined on the forest floor » 21.3k
“this is where prey belongs, ass up, face down and crying for cock.”
kianamaiart
izzy806
blakekathryn
titsay
romaincrisis
stormborns
ellievsbear
germansingergirl
