Jaemin stands somewhere in the middle of it all, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, barely bothered.

Haechan is already annoyed. Jeno is quieter, standing close enough to his girlfriend that they might as well merge into one at this point. Jaemin glances at them once, then forward again.

Start of spring energy. Everyone trying to squeeze something out of the night before everything resets into exams and exhaustion. The line inches forward. Warm air hits in waves whenever the door opens. Music follows it – heavy, messy, familiar.

Then when Jaemin’s in, noise swallows everything. Every corner is packed. Full tables, standing clusters, people leaning into each other and still shouting. The bar is already packed, orders shouted over each other, glasses clinking nonstop.

Jaemin steps further inside and blinks once, already knowing who to look for.

Same girl he’s been obsessing over for god knows how long.

He’s seen you plenty of times. Sometimes with Jisung, sometimes not. Sometimes in the library, others in the social studies building. Mostly he sees you here. Always behind the bar, barely smiling at customers. Always half-elsewhere even when you’re physically there.

He never fails to notice you for some reason. Never able to look away as fast as he’d like. First your posture. Not slouched exactly, but weighted, or bored. Like your body has learned how to keep functioning even when you’re past your limit.

Then your hands. Short nails. Practical length. Old polish chipped at the edges, like you painted them on a day you had energy and haven’t had another day like it since. You don’t even seem aware of it. Or maybe you just don’t care.

Your fingers move fast anyway – pouring, counting, sliding drinks across the bar without hesitation. Not a single wasted motion as you laugh at something one of your colleagues whispers in your ear.

Then his eyes glance at your arm when you reach up for a wine glass. The small tattoo sits on the inside of your forearm – simple, dark ink. Not decorative in the way people show off. More like something chosen for yourself, placed somewhere only visible when you move a certain way.

An outline of a tiny daffodil that disappears again when your sleeve falls back.

Then your face. Makeup that was probably neat earlier in the day, now slightly worn down at the edges. A faint smudge near your eye, like you’ve wiped sweat or pushed hair away too many times without thinking.

Jaemin’s mouth tilts before he realises it. Why are you always so nice to look at yet so difficult to approach?

“Jaem, this round’s on you, right?” Haechan says beside him.

“Yeah,” He answers carelessly, already stepping forward.

He slips into a free space at the bar before anyone else can, close enough that he doesn’t need to raise his voice.

You still don’t look up.

“Hey,” He tries, already feeling like an idiot.

You glance up. There’s a flicker of recognition and his mind already thinks you’ve tagged him as someone familiar from somewhere mildly annoying. Then your expression resets into something neutral. 

“Hi,” You greet, with a nod and something could resemble a smile if you didn’t look devastatingly bored. “What can I get you?”

Jaemin leans lightly on the bar. “Four beers, please.”

“What kind?” You’re already reaching for a pint glass.

He watches your hands again. “Whatever’s quick.”

You nod once, without further comment. Turn. Pour. Move. And Jaemin instantly thinks, damn, your manager must love you.

Behind him, Jeno laughs at something Haechan says. But Jaemin couldn’t be less curious. He’s still too busy watching you.

The full drinks land in front of him one after the other before he has enough time to admire you as much as he'd like.

“Cash or card?” You ask, reaching for the card machine on autopilot, like you already know his response.

“Card,” He says, tapping it. And before he can speak again or thank you, you’ve already migrated to the next customer, the dismissal so disappointingly quick it feels like a punch in the gut.

You work fast. Faster than most people in a place like this could reasonably manage. But there’s no flourish to it. Just survival through repetition. Someone calls your name and you respond immediately without looking away from what you’re doing, no distraction allowed to get in your way. And Jaemin internally pictures his compromised attention span laughing at him.

When you come back down the bar, he does something he never really had the intention of doing doing with you. He acts on instinct.

“Y/N, right?” He speaks a little too loud, miscalculating the decibels of the music, and immediately wishes he could ascend out of his body and slap himself. Maybe you'll do it for him instead.

You look at him a fraction of a second longer than before. There’s a faint twitch of your eyebrow, fatigue pressing closer to irritation, but still contained under professionalism. “Something wrong with your drinks?”

“You’re Jisung’s friend?” He doesn’t think he’s ever sounded this lame before.

Your eyes narrow slightly as you study him again. “…yeah,” you say. “Why?”

“I’ve seen you with him,” Jaemin says, his own voice irritating him already. “Around campus.”

Great, now he sounds like a stalker.

Something in your expression adjusts - subtle recalibration. Like you’re placing him properly now instead of just acknowledging him.

“Right,” You reaffirm. “You’re…?”

Do you really not remember him? He's introduced himself to you at least three times in the last few months. You've been to his house parties for crying out loud. And you still can't remember his name?

“Jaemin.” He smiles a little, hoping he looks a lot calmer than he feels. “I live with Ji.”

A small breath leaves you. Almost a laugh, but you don’t give it all the way.

“Okay,” You nod, like that settles it and you're in a rush to move on. “Anything else?”

There it is. The politeness. So fake that he wonders what you’d sound like if you screamed at him in anger.

Jaemin leans slightly against the bar, gaze drifting briefly past you and lands on the sign behind you he’s never seen before.

HELP WANTED

He nods toward it. “Does that still stand?”

You follow his gaze, then look back at him like you already know where this is going. “That I know of, yes.”

“And you’re hiring just anyone?”

You offer an indifferent shrug. “If they’re competent.”

“Slightly low bar, no?”

You huff a dismissive laugh, eyes rolling a little. “You’d be surprised.”

He studies you for a second longer. Your exhaustion is so evident, yet you’re holding this whole place together without letting it touch you more than necessary.

“You think I could apply?” A genuine question. The man studies biology, doesn’t know anything about bar tending.

“Honestly?” You say carefully, still polite, but focused on writing something on a small notepad in front of you. “Go for it, but you’d probably quit after one shift if you’ve never worked at a student bar before.”

Jaemin tilts his head slightly. You’re not judging him. You just don’t care whether you’re right or wrong. He still feels like you indirectly called him inexperienced, though.

“Alright,” he says. “Say I did apply.”

“You’d need to talk to the manager.” Again, so disinterested.

“Any warnings?”

You blink at him once. “About what?”

He gestures vaguely around him. “The job?”

You halt for just a second, then get back to pouring. “No, not really.” Then you shake your head. “You get what you see.”

And you’ve already moved to the other side of the bar, shouting about something he can’t quite decipher over the music. Maybe a missing cocktail pitcher?

A quiet laugh of disbelief slips out before he mumbles to himself. “Fair enough.”

“Well done.” Haechan drags him out of his thoughts as he grabs two of the four drinks. “You actually spoke to her and didn’t faint.”

“I was close.” Jaemin picks up the remaining two drinks and hesitantly retreats with a last glance towards you. He scans the crowd to find Jeno and his girlfriend have already secured a table in the furthest corner of the crowded space. Too far from the bar. At least for his liking.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

You shouldn’t have come outside.

It’s colder than you expected, the kind that settles in slowly, creeping through your sleeves, but at least it’s quiet out here and no one’s calling your name, no one’s waiting for you to pour their drink or fix something that isn’t your fault.

You lean back against the wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting your head rest for a second as you exhale. The noise from inside is muffled now, like it’s happening somewhere far away instead of just behind the door that you barely register opening again.

“Oh, hi.”

You glance over. Ugh.

You recognise him immediately – the one who always stares at you. The one you always actively ignore. Tonight you even went so far as pretending not to remember his name. Again. The one and only campus legend, Na Jaemin.

He looks very well put together tonight. Annoyingly so. Hoodie that’s a little too oversized, hair that looks effortless in a way that definitely isn’t, and a smile that comes too easily to be accidental. His teeth are ridiculously perfect.

You look at him for a second, then away again. You’re too tired to cover up the disinterest now. “Hi.”

He doesn’t take the hint.

“You look different out here,” He observes you skeptically.

You take a drag before answering, letting the smoke sit in your lungs for a second longer than necessary. “Less busy.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, even though you made no joke. Is he stupid?

“You shouldn’t smoke,” He nods towards your hand. You can tell he’s in the mood to tease.

You exhale slowly, turning your head just enough. “You shouldn’t drink. I still served you.”

“You’re not very friendly when you’re off.”

You glance at him briefly. “We’re not friends.”

There’s a glitch behind his eyes, as if he wasn’t expecting that to be the end of it. What an odd little fella.

“We could be–”

“Don’t even,” You cut in, immediately. “I’m already bored of this.”

He blinks once in shock, then lets out a very loud, almost crazy laugh. It’s drawn out on purpose. Like he’s testing how serious you are and deciding not to be.

“I’m sorry.” He pretends to be serious again. “That was funny.”

You eye him carefully this time. “Are you, like, super bored, or…?”

“No, not at all.” He responds with a shrug. “Do I need to be bored to talk to you?”

You tilt your head slightly. “No offence, I’m really not interested.”

That doesn't seem to do much other than pause him for maybe half a second. Then he nods like he’s processing a new problem.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So…”

You straighten slightly, cigarette between your fingers, watching him. This is already getting old. “So I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”

He frowns a little. “Wouldn’t bother doing what?”

“Flirting, or whatever this qualifies as.”

“How do you know I’m flirting?”

It’s your turn to laugh this time. “The brick wall knows too. You’re not slick.”

His pout is too cute for a man his age. “So it’s not working then?”

Before you can even think of a response, a voice cuts in from behind him, saving you.

“Jaemin, hurry up. I’m going home.” His friend – half-annoyed, half-laughing – clearly has been watching this whole thing and can’t be bothered to intervene properly.

Jaemin turns slightly but doesn’t move away immediately.

“Give me a sec,” He calls back.

“Can he have your number?” His friend is looking at you now. “He’s actually not as annoying as he comes across and I would quite like to go cuddle my girlfriend.”

Jaemin glances back at you again in disbelief, like he’s weighing too many options. “Ignore him.”

You snort a laugh, slightly entertained by their weird dynamic. “So you don’t want my number.”

“Oh, I do.” He steps back a little, finally starting to retract. “But you won’t give it to me.”

You don’t react.

He nods to himself like he’s collected enough data. “See? I’m not that deluded.” Then, just before he fully turns away, he speaks again with a smile too pleased for someone who just got rejected. “Maybe I’ll try some other time.”

You struggle not to smile back. Then you look back at his friend, who’s still watching the strange interaction with fascination written all over his face.

“I wouldn’t,” You say flatly, internally battling whether you mean it or not. Would you want him to try again? He probably won’t anyway. He seems like the type to move on from these kinds of situations a little too easily. Maybe that’s good.

“Okay, I won’t then.” He just laughs again as he finally walks off. And annoyingly, it doesn’t sound like he’s serious at all.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Oh, shit–“ Jaemin whispers mid thrust, forcing his brain to tune out Nora’s loud moans. He focuses on his pending climax instead. So close. Right fucking there.

“Jaem, baby, cum for me.” She slurs, sounding too fucked out. Is she faking it? Jaemin swears he barely put any effort in making her cum tonight. He’s too distracted.

He buries his face in her neck, eyes clenching shut, ears blocking out her sounds, hips delivering sharp thrusts, still chasing a high that seems unreachable. The way she strokes his hair – gentle, sweet – seems to be working, and he thanks the universe that his dick finally gives up being stubborn. Not too long after, he finally releases in the condom with a defeated sigh.

It’s when Nora’s in the bathroom and he’s managed to regulate his breathing, that Jaemin finds himself in deep thought.

It wasn’t really her voice, or touch that pushed him over the edge, but his filthy imagination. Because for the first time in forever, Jaemin thought of someone else when he reached his high. His mind didn’t go blank. Nora’s naked body got replaced by the scandalous thought of you his brain chose to produce. You being in her spot. Under him, moaning a lot gentler than her, not faking anything, writhing in overstimulation but also begging him for more.

And for the first time in a long while, shame creeps in.

Not because he’s disrespected Nora. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. But because he barely knows you. Yet somehow, you’ve managed to lodge yourself in his head so deeply that his brain fills in the blanks without permission. Is this normal? Or is his conscience finally deciding to torture him?

You’re younger than him, he knows that much. If you’re Jisung’s age, you’re definitely two years below, which makes you a second-year student. And what business does he have entertaining thoughts about a girl at such a different stage of life?

Two years isn’t much. Not really. But it feels like more when he remembers who he was at that age - confused, broke, permanently overwhelmed. And he still is all of those things, but not for much longer hopefully. You’re probably still navigating uni life like a tourist in foreign land, meanwhile, he’s supposed to graduate in less than five months. To get out in the real world and get one of those big job things that everyone strives for. And Jaemin’s sure that if you were older than him, he wouldn’t even hesitate. But you’re not. And for some reason he cares.

Though, he will admit you did seem to have your wits about you. You have a job. You probably pay your own bills. You're responsible in ways he definitely isn't.

Maybe he really should apply for that vacancy. He'd been joking earlier, but now he’s seriously considering it. Especially after checking the remaining balance in his bank account.

“You staying?” Nora’s voice jolts him out of his spiral.

“Nah.” He offers an apologetic smile. “Got class early tomorrow.”

“Yikes.” She settles under the covers with a tired pout. “You seemed a little out of it tonight.”

Women and their weird intuition.

“Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Just tired, I think.”

She laughs softly. Like she’s caught the lie. She probably has. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging.”

Jaemin smirks knowingly, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re always judging.”

“True.” The answer comes so quickly it pulls a smile from him.

A second later she’s yawning into her pillow, and Jaemin takes it as his cue to get out of her space.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Heard you met Jaemin hyung the other night.” Jisung’s side eyes you as you two walk out of your final class of the day. The expression on his face betrays something you can’t quite pinpoint, and you don’t quite like that curiosity blooms in your mind.

“Yeah, he’s weird.” You opt for indifference.

Jisung chuckles at your disapproving tone. “Nice guy, though.”

“Awfully flirty.”

Another short laugh. “Yeah, he’s had a thing for you since last year, I think.”

You completely ignore your friend’s useless statement. “Wasn’t there a rumour going around about him?”

You remember laughing when you heard about it, but then when you rethought the situation, you felt bad for the girl.

“You mean–“

“The piss in the eye thing.” You lower your voice as you exit the main building, and you catch Jisung’s lips purse in thought.

“I think…” His expression changes into a concerned one. “The girl he was seeing at the time asked him to try it and then when he ended things, she kind of made the whole eye thing up.”

“Really?” Your head shoots up. “So he didn’t piss on her?”

You already know the answer when Jisung slightly cringes.

“Well, that part’s true.” He clearly struggles to not laugh at his friend’s antics. “He just didn’t get her eye.”

“Shit,” You raise your eyebrows in wonderment. “Some people really struggle with rejection I guess.”

“Yeah, well, in this case–” Jisung pauses, like his next revelation could ruin Jaemin’s career. “He kind of, unknowingly, slept with one of her friends and then ghosted her.”

“Ugh, what a prick.” You cringe, all of a sudden supportive of the girl’s pettiness. “And you’re friends with this person?”

“I mean, he’s nice to me.” Jisung shrugs, causing you to smile at the fondness he emits. You sometimes wonder why Jisung is still single. He’s most likely the nicest guy friend you have, always sweet, always polite, always warm. A girl’s dream. Not necessarily yours. But most girls would certainly kill for a boyfriend like him.

“You’re too sweet for your own good Ji.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not like you haven’t fucked people over.” He gives you pointed look, his hand instinctively wrapping around your elbow to halt you from crossing the street as the red light is still on for pedestrians. “You’ve made guys like Jaemin cry in the past.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “I'm just doing god's work.”

“Speaking of men,” Jisung tugs at your sleeve as he starts walking, practically dragging you with him, and you always have to hold back a laugh at the silly little habit. “How’s things with Chenle?”

“Mmm, not sure.” You pout in contemplation about the odd situation you’ve recently found yourself in. “He’s hella cute, don’t get me wrong, great sex too, but I think that’s just it.”

“That’s not necessarily bad, no?”

“No, it’s ideal, but I think he might be in love.”

“Eh–?”

“Chill, not with me.” You reassure Jisung quickly before he jumps to conclusions. “I have a feeling he’s hung up on someone else.”

“Oof.” Jisung sympathises with a scrunch of his nose.

“Yeah, as amazing as dick can be, it feels a bit weird when the other person can barely look at you, you know?”

The whole ordeal with Chenle started randomly and predictably where most similar situations start. A party. A lot of alcohol involved. A game of truth or dare. A kiss. And then suddenly you’re bent over a bathroom sink getting your back blown out.

He gave you exactly what you were looking for. A distraction. And so you both kept going back. For almost a year now. But the last few months, you’ve sensed the change in him. The hesitation before a kiss. The pauses between touches. The way his eyes seem focused somewhere else. You're not hurt by it. The sex is still good. But being cast in the role of someone else's stand-in isn't exactly appealing.

The problem is that ending things with Chenle would mean giving up convenient sex. Which, unfortunately, has become one of the highlights of your increasingly exhausting weeks. And it would likely mean going back to your old pink wand-shaped friend. Not the worst thing in the world, but also not as good as the real deal.

What really is the worst thing in the world is the fact that when you try to think of alternatives, your brain keeps landing on the same person. A person whose lifestyle, reputation, and entire approach to life go against everything you usually stand for.

Yet, you can’t help but wonder.

What is it about Na Jaemin that makes people go so feral? Apart from his ridiculously gorgeous face. And hair. And hands. And arms. Okay, yes, he’s insanely attractive. But attractive enough to get away with anything?

Even after that ridiculous rumour started going around, he seemed completely untouched by it, and so did everyone around him. He still drifted through parties like he owned them, collecting attention without even appearing to try, somehow maintaining his ‘pussy magnet’ status like nothing could ever tarnish it.

His erratic behaviour, paired with the endless stream of people drawn to him, had always felt like a mystery you weren’t remotely interested in solving. Until the other night.

One thing you’re sure of is that if his dick game is as weak as his flirting skills, then what a shame.

And what a waste of everyone’s time.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Well, hello partner.” The familiar but grating voice penetrates your distracted brain as you’re too busy looking in your bag for your work t-shirt.

“Huh?”

And there he is again, outside your workplace like he belongs. Perfect set of pearly whites on full display, blinding you. He looks like a more of a normal person compared to the other night. Like he’s just heading home after a long day of lectures, his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

Annoying.

“We must stop meeting like this.” He attempts to joke, letting the door of the main entrance slam shut behind him.

“I work here.” You point out, as though he doesn’t already know. “Why are you here? We’re not even open yet.”

“Well, as of tomorrow, I work here too.” He says a little too chirpily, like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you.

“Umm,“ You suspect you must look like a crazy person judging from his amused expression. “No you don’t.”

“I’m afraid I do.” He nods with the cockiest grin sporting his face.

“How–“

“Just had my interview with Johnny.” He points a thumb behind him. “So, I guess I’ll–“

“Do you even have bar experience?” You interrupt him a little too abruptly, the tone of your voice carries a surprise to both of you. A little too cold even for you.

His smirk doesn’t falter. “We all start from somewhere.”

“Yeah, in your case, rock bottom.” You don’t want to offend him. Don’t want to give him more of your energy to cling on to. Yet, it’s so difficult not to.

He dares to let a stupid laugh slip. “I’m just so lucky to have you as a mentor then.”

“I ain’t teaching you shit.” You scoff, tightening your grip on your bag strap. The nerve of this man.

“Well, I gotta learn somehow.” He pouts.

Fake.

“You’re welcome to sit in a corner and watch then.” You offer him a sweet smile with absolutely no warmth behind it before moving past him and towards the door. Another long-ass shift awaits.

You can still feel his eyes on you when he speaks again. “I’ll happily watch you. Just not sure I’ll learn much.”

Your hand stills on the handle.

The grin threatening your mouth is immediate as you catch the meaning tucked beneath his words. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around. Instead, you push through the door and disappear inside.

Even then, you can still feel his gaze burning between your shoulder blades.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Jaemin hates working with you. Not because you’re bossy. Not because you’re too fast. Not because you roll your eyes at him every time he makes a mistake. Not because you called him an imbecile earlier. Not because your jaw tenses whenever he flirts with a customer.

But because none of those things make him think about you less. Jaemin leaves every shift either irritated or turned on and definitely a little more obsessed with you.

His eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head each time you insult him. It’s like he lives to frustrate you nowadays. And he swears he almost let a moan slip when you grabbed him by the back of his collar yesterday as he was pouring what turned out to be a pint of Guinness like he would pour every other pint of lager. You have to let it sit half-way through apparently. Or whatever it was you snarled at him.

After a week of being shouted at and having enjoyed every single second of it, he’s finally starting to get the hang of things. And as much as he’s enjoyed torturing you, he's realised that he needs to lock in if he wants to keep his job. The manager seemed to trust your judgment, so he couldn’t really risk it for longer.

He liked the tiny comment of praise you gave him when he successfully closed the till at the end of the shift. But as much as the little ‘nice one’ you muttered excited him, nothing comes close to ‘I could so easily slap you right now’.

Yes, Jaemin has long accepted that he might be sick in the head. But he just can’t help it when it comes to you and your short temper.

What gets him the most, though, what really makes him weak in the knees, and rewires his brain every single time, is how you shift from mean to kind and back to mean in a matter of seconds. One moment you’re looking at him with eyes that scream murder and the next you’re smiling at a customer and offering water when they seem too intoxicated.

It’s almost three am when the last few customers slip out tonight. You’re already on your phone, your back pressed against the bar as you quickly type a response to something that made you almost smile.

“Boyfriend?” He tries, already knowing the answer, but needing to inspect further.

You surprise him by actually giving a somewhat satisfactory answer. “Not really, no.”

He nods, pretending to stay focused on the cleaning task in front of him. “Girlfriend then?”

He can’t help but giggle at the way you roll your eyes but still smirk at his nosy but teasing tone.

Jaemin is very much aware of your current situation. Turns out drunk little Jisung can’t keep a secret for the life of him. But even if it weren’t for his younger housemate, Jaemin has eyes. He’s seen you at parties, sneaking around with only one guy. A guy he only knows through other friends and Haechan’s girlfriend. He remembers sharing a vape with him once outside a club.

Chenle is someone he could only describe as likeable. He hasn’t ever heard a single bad thing about the guy. Always cracking jokes and hosting the best parties out of everyone in the circle of Jaemin's acquaintances. And it goes without saying that he’s insanely hot. As straight as Jaemin is, he can appreciate an attractive man. The younger boy’s cheekbones and jawline could slice him in half. So he can’t really blame you.

But he can and he will be secretly jealous.

Especially when his brain keeps taking him back to that night he walked out in the back garden of some stranger’s house for a piss, just because the bathroom was otherwise occupied. He wishes he had walked away the second he realised what was actually happening, but in the midst of his drunken state, Jaemin stalled. And he watched. For longer than he should have.

Because there you were, backed against a concealed corner, just a few feet away from the spot he chose to empty his full bladder, which was quickly forgotten the second he laid eyes on the sight in front of him. Your bent knee resting on Chenle’s hip, uncovered thigh concealing whatever the boy’s hand was doing between your legs.

It was when you broke the kiss with a low whine that Jaemin realised he needed to leave. He still didn’t, though. Not for a few seconds longer. Not until he heard you brokenly whisper ‘Think I’m gonna cum’. That’s when he bolted. Because it got too real. And as much as Jaemin hates to admit it, he really, truly, genuinely, passionately despised the way you sounded so sweet with another boy. A boy that wasn't him. A boy that couldn't possibly think about you as much as Jaemin does.

And when he got back home that night, Jaemin, shamefully, had the most intense jerking off experience ever. What was shameful about it wasn’t just the filthy imagery of you that occupied his sick little mind – mostly scenarios where you’d be on your knees for him – but how your name so easily rolled off his tongue when his load landed on the shower floor. And he couldn’t even blame his imagination anymore. Just his memory.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Hey, partner.” Jaemin’s now familiar greeting makes you look up from the drink you’re pouring yourself. Oddly, it’s not as aggravating now you’re not surrounded by kegs of beer and screaming customers.

“Hey, loser.” You greet back like you always do, this time a little more lightheartedly. Blame it on the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream. “Don’t tell me you’re here to ruin another one of my evenings with your nagging.”

His expected laugh rings through the loud music. He’s already leaning against the counter next to you as you mix cheap vodka with lemonade. “Nah, just spotted you and thought I’d say hi. Is that allowed?”

You glance over at him, pretending to think about your answer as you briefly take a sip to taste test the drink. “I suppose it is at this point.”

You don’t miss his gaze taking in your appearance when you turn around to lean your hip against the counter so you can properly look at him.

He hesitates a little before speaking again, his hand nervously swirling the content of his cup. “And what point is that?”

“Hmm,” You hold back a grin, enjoying his squirming a little too much. “I’m not sure yet. What point would you want it to be?”

You can practically see the wheels turning in his head before his signature grin appears. “Something tells me friendship point would be a no-no from your side.”

You can’t contain it this time. A chuckle lets loose, making you look away, his wide-eyed reaction a little too overwhelming for you and so is the entirety of his handsome face.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t go that far.” You say disapprovingly, and his exaggerated groan is less annoying than other nights.

He pauses to take a look at you, expression more serious than you’re used to, and it makes you feel almost shy. Almost.

“Who you here with then?” He breaks the silence with what could pass as the most casual question, but you can sense the hidden meaning behind it.

“My flatmate, Winter.” You search through the crowd that occupies the living room area and quickly spot her with Ningning and Chenle. “The blondie over there.”

“Ah,” Recognition appears on his features. “You close with Ning and Chenle too?”

“Mm.” You take a sip of your drink as you do your best to show nonchalance. “Not really.”

“Pff.” The scoff is difficult to ignore. He knows you’re lying. Of course he does.

“What?” You ask as innocently as possible.

“Nothing, just didn’t take you for a liar.” He challenges with a smirk, his fingers getting your attention as they tap on the counter surface.

“How am I a liar?” You mirror the tilt of his head with your own.

“I live with Jisung, Y/N.” He steps closer, voice lowering just a tad. “You probably know things about me you shouldn’t know.”

He's not wrong there. You might not be at a friendship point, but there’s definitely no secrets between you two with Jisung as a mutual friend. That fact doesn’t seem to bother you as much as it should, though. Not when all you can really focus on in the moment are Jaemin’s unfairly long eyelashes and his incredibly moisturised lips.

How can a man be this pretty?

“Do you think you’d take off if you blinked too fast?” Your unexpected question seems to baffle him, and to your amusement he expresses his confusion by blinking a little faster than normal.

“Oh my god… you’re drunk!” He brings a hand to his mouth, gasping dramatically.

You poke him in the chest, making him stumble back a little. “And you’re a pretty little girl.”

A shocked laugh erupts from him and before he can speak another word, you’re clumsily walking away. Fuck Na Jaemin and his stupidly flawless face.

It’s not too long after when you’re dragging Chenle upstairs, in need of a distraction, which proves to be impossible when Jaemin’s gaze finds yours through the crowd like it’s an instinct. You hold eye contact longer than necessary. Longer than you’d normally allow yourself.

You take pride in being a self-aware person. You know your limits and you can tell when you’ve crossed them. This is a case of the latter. Because looking into Na Jaemin’s eyes like you’re passing a silent invite while Chenle’s hand is in yours is definitely something that goes beyond your moral boundaries.

And you know what you’re doing when you leave the door ajar behind you as you crash your mouth into Chenle’s. And you definitely know what you’re doing when instead of the bed, you choose to walk back into the desk, where anyone walking past the room could take a peek at. The whole time, you’re perfectly aware of your actions and the repercussions they entail, but you’re also aware of Jaemin’s eyes on you when you bury your face in Chenle’s shoulder.

“Fuck, Y/N.” Chenle moans against your neck as he keeps thrusting into you. Hard. His hands harshly squeeze your ass, slightly lifting you off the desk, bouncing you just right, nudging the perfect spot inside you.

You can’t help but let your head roll back for a few seconds, allowing the pleasure to consume you. And just when you’re teetering close to the edge of your orgasm, you allow yourself to steal a glance at the door, the little crack allowing you to see the shadow of someone standing there.

You know it’s him.

You know he can see everything clearly, and that thought alone is enough to send you into total bliss.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Jaemin hates you. He does. But most of all he hates himself and how down bad for you he is. He feels pathetic. And extremely turned on.

How dare you eye fuck him that hard when you’re guiding another man into a room clearly with intention of getting dicked down. And how dare you look in his direction while you’re getting railed into next week.

Do you know he's fucking insane?

You can’t possibly be able to see him, but he knows you know he’s there. He knows you know he’s watching. And he knows you like it. You invited him after all. It’s obvious you’re putting on a show for him. And even though he’s well hidden, your gaze keeps trailing towards the door. It’s filthy. And it’s obscene. And it’s new. Nothing he’s experienced before.

You’re right there, just a few feet away from him. Again. Getting touched by Chenle. Again. And Jaemin is watching. Again. Only this time, you’re aware of him.

By the time he let his intrigue take over his logic and decided to head upstairs, you're already moaning, thighs spread around the other boy’s waist as he pounds into you. And Jaemin will give it to Chenle. He seems like he knows what he’s doing with you. Like he knows what you need. And when your legs start shaking, Jaemin can’t bring himself to look away. He feels hot and flushed, his cheeks burning with shame and arousal, but he needs to keep looking. Needs to see you fall apart, even if it’s on another man’s cock.

And he does exactly that. He watches.

Your mouth hangs open in the cutest way, your expression blissed out, eyes unfocused, hands gripping onto Chenle’s shirt while you cum with the sweetest cry of desperation he’s ever heard.

And Jaemin’s dick is so hard it hurts. But what hurts more is his pride.

You’ve humiliated him without even trying. Just tossed a bait he so willingly grabbed onto like he was deprived and starved. He gave you all the power he could ever give someone. All for you to chew him up and spit him back out. And for him to love every second of it.

The next couple of weeks are, as expected, a torture. Him trying to get the image out of his head and you putting it right back into its wedged place whenever you look at him.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“So, how's working with Jaem going?” Jisung points his drink toward your coworker, who’s currently belting out ‘She Will Be Loved’ to the karaoke mic in the middle of the living room, while half the people sitting down are hyping him up and the other half are booing. Except for Haechan who’s just filming with his phone like a proud mum.

You have to hide your smile behind the rim of your cup. Otherwise, it’s too obvious who the reason behind it is. “As well as it can go.”

“That could either be awful or amazing.”

“I’m not telling you shit. You can’t keep your mouth shut.” It comes as a joke, but you mean it.

“What? I’ve never–”

“Yes, you have.” You chuckle at your friend’s automatically defensive mode.

Jisung rolls his eyes in surrender. “He asked me!”

“And you said ‘oh, yeah she’s actually banging Chenle’?” You take a sideways glance at him but return your attention to Jaemin and his chaotic performance.

“Well...” Jisung pauses to think. “He already kind of knew. I think he asked Haechan as well.”

“See? That’s what I mean!” You laugh with a shake of your head. “You’ve just thrown your friend under the bus.”

Jisung groans in annoyance. “As if you don’t already know he’s into you.” He points at his housemate again, who’s now on his knees in front of Haechan finishing the song. “He’s been following you around like a lost puppy for at least a month now. It's not rocket science.”

You refuse to react to the statement, even though it’s a fact.

“And you like it.” Jisung concludes with a teasing grin.

Your tongue reflexively pokes into your cheek to contain another smile.

“Just fuck him.”

“Ji!” You whack him on the chest, the out-of-character and vulgar comment shocking you.

“What?” Jisung giggles at your reaction, arm coming up as a shield. “He’s graduating soon, so you might as well get it out the way before it’s too late.”

“Oh, do me a favour.” Your dismissal makes Jisung’s eyebrows raise in confusion. “That man doesn’t have the brain cells to pour a drink let alone graduate.”

“He’s actually on his way to a distinction.”

“Huh?” Your neck almost cramps from snapping your head to look at Jisung only to find his irritating smirk still in place.

“Surprise, he's clever!" Jisung mocks your shocked expression with a gasp. "Spanner in the works, huh?”

You click your teeth in annoyance, returning to your dismissive tone. “No works so no spanners.”

“Lie some more. I'm enjoying this.”

You tune out Jisung’s rant about how ‘you always deprive yourself of real connections because you’re scared of trusting men’ and take a meticulous look at Jaemin. He’s now sat on the sofa while someone else has taken his place on the mic. It’s something about the way he carefully listens to Jeno and nods that gets your thoughts rolling.

Yes, he’s undeniably handsome. Yes, he can be funny at times. Yes, his light-heartedness is what you look forward to during a rough shift sometimes. But it’s mostly his attention to detail and careful nature that intrigues you. It's how he can always read what mood you’re in without you even having to utter a single word. It’s how his eyebrows tense and he hums along in understanding when you complain about something random or explain work stuff to him. It’s how he’s never once fucked up at work, always completing tasks like a pro and even saving your from awkward situations with rude customers. And you realise that through the silliness and endless flirty comments, you’ve overlooked qualities that make him so much more desirable than he already looks.

You realise that you’re finally seeing through the persona he very obviously has built as a wall around himself.

And maybe that explains why later in the night, when Jaemin very openly follows your every movement as you walk in the sitting area of the party, you give in.

“Sit next to me?” No partner this time, no teasing lilt in his tone, just pure hope as he looks up at you from his spot on the already occupied sofa. Shiny lips parted slightly, eyes wide when you approach him, clearly taken aback by your newfound docility.

Jeno instantly slides further down to make space for you, smiling politely when you squeeze in between the two boys, and you can undoubtedly feel Jaemin’s eyes burning holes into your side profile.

“Stop staring.” You mutter with a grin you fail to hold back when you feel him sink back into the cushions again, legs spreading just a little. Just enough for his thigh to press against yours, the heat radiating off his jeans easy to feel on your bare skin.

“What you drinking?” He inches a little closer, chin just a few centimetres off your skin as he looks over your shoulder, warm breath littering the expanse of it with goosebumps. You don’t think he’s ever been this close before. Or maybe you just haven’t noticed.

You lift your cup closer to his face, offering a sip but only throw him a quick sideways glance. “Vodka cranberry.”

He takes it after balancing his own cup between his thighs. “Yum.” He smacks his lips after a big gulp, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick a stray droplet of translucent pink liquid. “You know, I read somewhere that if you share your drink with someone, they’re be able find out all your secrets.”

You snort at the ridiculous and probably made-up fact. “Good thing I’m an open book.”

“Mm,” He taps his index on the rim of your cup he’s still holding. For some reason your eyes keep drifting to his fingers. “That you are.” You can hear the mischief in his tone and you know what he’s referring to. You both do.

A thick drop of alcohol spills over the edge of your red cup when he passes it back, landing right on your bare thigh. You stare at it. He doesn’t apologise. Instead, his thumb brushes away the liquid on your skin before putting it in his mouth. Like it was never there. Goosebumps form instantaneously as you watch his lips in utter shock. The fuck did he just do?

“Everyone has secrets, though.” He brings your attention back to his eyes.

“Go ahead then.” You gesture, as though offering the floor for him to take, choosing to ignore the lewd act of him sucking on the thumb that just touched you. “What’s one of mine?”

He narrows his eyes as he thinks carefully, taking in your already judgmental expression. “You still listen to Paramore.”

A loud, abrupt laugh bubbles in your chest at the random guess. “That’s no fucking secret.”

“Yeah, I just uncovered it.” He gestures with both palms open, like it’s the most obvious thing in the whole world.

“You’re a clown.” You shake your head.

“Okay okay, I have a better one.” He sits up, straightening his back a little as he turns to face you better. You instinctively mirror him, brain now blocking out the rest of the commotion in the crowded living room. “You actually like mentoring me.”

Your eyebrows have a mind of their own as they inch closer to your hairline in surprise. “Interesting. Why d’you think that?”

He extends his arm along the back of the couch, his skin brushing yours, the same shoulder he was breathing on. You watch his mouth form a sceptical pout, eyes more serious than ever. “Because you enjoy bossing me around.”

“I’m just giving you what you want.” The words slip out before your brain has the chance to filter them, and you suddenly get the urge to slap a hand on your mouth. You don’t.

“Nice.” He nods in approval, proud smile on full blast. “And you haven’t even had a sip of my drink.”

“It’s no secret.”

“What?” He challenges. You hesitate. He presses. “Say it.”

His expressions are too tempting to finish the conversation here. “That you like being told what to do.”

He hums ponderingly. “Sounds to me like we’re–”

“A match made in heaven?” You humour him for what feels like the first time ever, imitating what he would’ve sounded like in your brain, whiny and irritating.

He smiles wide, pearly whites blinding you, fingers curling inwards against your shoulder, knuckles lightly tickling you. “Didn’t know you were cute like that.”

You tut your tongue at him, eyes rolling in feigned annoyance, all just to let him know that his flirty remarks still fail to affect you. Which has been a big fat lie since that first night you officially met him.

But he can’t see that. You hope.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Next time you see Jaemin is not at work, but at the science building cafeteria. Chenle is going on about how happy he is that you’re not awkward with him now that you’ve stopped fucking around and how much he appreciates you as a friend. You think it’s funny that he’s so apologetic considering you’re the one who actually initiated the conversation last week. You thought it was about time. Especially after you found him drunk in a bathtub, crying his eyes out. He has a weird habit of getting in bathtubs when he’s at parties, but you know by now it’s just his way of escaping overwhelming crowds. And so you just nod away when he keeps yapping about how grateful he is that you’re so cool and respect his space.

You’ve just devoured a spoonful of rice when you hear it.

“Yo yo, partner!” You instantly know who it is, but you still raise your head from your plate, and you wonder if you look like a caricature with your cheeks protruding like you’ve been starved for days. Jaemin stands over you, his dumb smile intact like it’s never left since that party. It always makes you wonder what he’s like when he’s serious or upset about something. Is he the vocal or silent treatment type? Is he chill or intense? Or is he the kind that would shut you up and put you in your place? Nevermind.

“Oh lord, you got enough rice there?” He mocks, eyes widening to humour you. “You look like Patrick with a crabby patty.”

He somehow looks even brighter in daylight. Maybe it’s the pink jumper. Maybe it’s his unusually fluffy hair. Or maybe it’s the way he rocks back and forth on his heels like a child desperate for attention. What a sight.

You just blink.

Chenle folds in half laughing and points at you while you force yourself to chew.

“Well, take your time. I don’t really need you to speak.” Jaemin hands you a flyer. “I was gonna invite you to this photography exhibition. You’re both welcome.”

Both? He’s potentially seen the two of you going at it on a desk, blatantly flirted with you days after, and now is inviting you both to his photography exhibition. Like none of that is remotely weird.

Something stirs in you as you struggle to chew.

Jaemin has made it abundantly clear he’d be in your pants the second you gave him the green light. Yet he’s never been jealous. Never possessive. Never made things uncomfortable. If anything, his interest in you, day by day, seems to be inching closer to something that could only be described as genuine. Not just sexual. Not just competitive.

And your stomach feels weird. Because you like that.

Chenle smiles at the older boy while you still struggle to swallow down your food. “I thought you studied biomed?”

“Hobbies are a thing.” Jaemin drags the words teasingly, with no malice detected in his voice.

“We’ll be there.” Chenle agrees cheerfully without sparing you a glance.

“Umm–”

“Nice one!” Jaemin claps his hands and walks away before you can get a coherent word out.

“So, I see I’ve been replaced in no time.” Chenle attempts to joke but of course it doesn’t land. Like most of his jokes. Instead, it earns him a cube of mango in the face.

It’s not that you don’t want to go. You certainly do. You’re curious. But you’re also a tiny bit terrified. Because that invite, as ridiculously casual as it was made out to be, felt somewhat intimate.

And what has put ‘a spanner in the works’, like your dear friend Jisung said the other night, isn’t that Jaemin has a creative hobby. Or that he’s intelligent. Or that he doesn’t mind being the butt of every joke while half the university spreads ridiculous rumours about him.

It’s how interesting of a person he’s turning out to be. Not just smooth. Not just confident. But... charismatic.

And that’s something you would describe as an obstacle. Something disturbing.

Because it renders your efforts to ignore his advances useless.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

You could never really wrap your head around the fact that some women so easily go about their day while on their period. Meanwhile, you’re struggling to pour drinks and take card payments due to the agonising pain in your lower back and what could only be described as stabbing in your uterus. The only thing you can do is sip water every five minutes to reward your body for its endurance during this fuckass shift that will probably pay for less than a pack of tampons.

You’re putting on the best smile you can muster, but you can feel that client after client it keeps weakening, and so do your knees. The smell of alcohol isn’t helping either, with your stomach already being in bits since this morning. The loud laughter coming from all the tables around keeps piercing through your aching head and you’re pretty sure your back is dripping in sweat from your fluctuating body temperature.

“You look a little pale, you okay?” Jaemin asks quietly as he stands next to you behind the bar. It’s a busy Friday night, people coming in and out. Some looking to stay, some just pregaming for the rest of their long night out. And you’ll give it to Jaemin, he’s been a lot more productive tonight than you have. So much that you’re actually thankful you’re working with him tonight. Because he keeps taking the heat from all the demanding customers without questioning your distraction.

"Mm, just tired." You lean forward against the shelf beneath the bar, eyes shut as you try to breathe through another wave of pain. "Sorry for letting you take the lead tonight."

You hear him take another order. Something about a Sex on the Beach. A moment later comes the beep of the card machine, then warmth envelops your side - his chest. And a gentle hand settles on your lower back.

You're too exhausted to flinch.

"Seriously, do you need a minute?" he asks, genuine concern softening his voice. The heat of his palm lands exactly where it hurts. "I don't mind if you go downstairs for a bit–"

"No, I'm good." You shake your head quickly, resentment bubbling at being seen like this. You hate it enough that you could cry. Probably the insane hormones in your body working their magic.

“Y/N–”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He presses, voice firmer than before but still laced with worry. His hand stays on your back, thumb tracing absent circles that might've been soothing if you weren't in so much pain. Then he shifts slightly, shielding you from the other bartenders. "Do you need painkillers? I've got ibuprofen in my bag."

Oh. So he definitely knows you’re bleeding out of your vagina. Great. And he’s attentive. Super great.

A sharp cramp twists in your tummy, forcing you to give in. So you nod. “Will you be good on your own for a few minutes? I might need to–”

"I'll be fine." He saves you from having to admit you need the bathroom to check whether you've leaked through your tampon.

The loss of his warmth is immediate, but a second later he's slipping a blister pack into your hand. His fingers linger for the briefest moment around your wrist before he pulls away as two new customers approach the bar.

"Take your time," he says quietly.

When you finally look up, he's already behind the till, already smiling at customers. Back to his usual chirpy self, as if he didn't just make you feel strangely safe.

By the end of what feels like the longest shift in human history, you've lost count of how many times Jaemin has checked if you're okay. Now he's practically forcing you into your jacket because he refuses to let you stay and close up. The painkillers have finally kicked in, and all you want is your bed and a hot water bottle. Still, you're oddly reluctant to leave without saying something.

“Thanks for earlier, by the way.” You catch Jaemin's baffled look as he tries to sort glasses onto the shelves.

“Why are you still here?” he scolds, disapproval written all over his face.

Despite yourself, you smile. “I’m going, I’m going.” You lift your hands in surrender, already wearing your jacket, bag hanging off one shoulder. “Just wanted to say thanks.”

He glances up briefly, shoulders lifting in a small shrug before his attention returns to the cocktail jar in his hands. “It’s what partners do, no?”

Now that you're standing on the customer side of the bar, you finally get to see what everyone else sees. A very pretty, smiley man you'd probably avoid if you were ordering.

“Well, goodnight, partner.”

His entire face lights up, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “I like it better when you say it.”

And then he's gone, disappearing into the back before you can think of a response.

The thudding in your chest leaves no coherent thoughts behind.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

It’s not that Jaemin is in love with you. Absolutely not. How could he be?

Everything he knows about you is what he’d know about any coworker. How you sound when you’re frustrated with him. How annoyed you get when he forgets to turn the dishwasher on. How pretty you look when you’re complaining about rude customers. How you always wear black tops to work but brighter colours around campus.

He’s also noticed that you answer his questions before he asks them. He never has to spend long looking for something behind the bar; you’re already pointing him in the right direction.

No, it’s not that he’s in love with you. That’s not the case at all. He just can’t seem to get you out of his head.

He’s not sure when it became a problem, but he noticed it after that night you were feeling unwell. He’d never seen your guard so low before, never seen you look like you needed someone to take care of you.

He wanted to text you after your shift. Make sure you got home okay.

He didn’t.

Partly because he chickened out, and partly because you strike him as the type to leave a man on read without a second thought. Probably because you can. Sensational women tend to get away with things like that.

Lying in bed that night, exhausted but unable to sleep, he couldn't stop thinking about comforting you.

Not sex. Not any of the filthy scenarios his brain usually specialises in.

Just you. Curled up in his arms beneath a blanket. A bouquet of flowers abandoned somewhere on the coffee table. Chocolate. Your favourite snacks. His fingers combing through your hair while you slowly drift off against his chest.

He’s fantasised about plenty of things before. Never this. Never about making someone's day easier.

With you, though…

He wonders if you’d ever want him in your space like that. If you’d trust him to hold you like that. And most of all, he wonders if you’ve thought about it too. But, to put it plainly, no. Jaemin is far from being in love with you.

He’s really struggling to focus tonight.

With you sitting beside him, the booth somehow feels both too small and too big. He can’t decide whether he wants more space between you or none at all.

It’s Jisung’s birthday drinks. Three weeks after his actual birthday, his younger housemate finally managed to gather everyone for a quiet night out. No clubbing. No chaos. Just a lively bar a little outside of campus.

Jisung claimed he was sick of seeing the same faces all the time, to which Jaemin had agreed. And yet here he is, distracted by your familiar face.

You’re tucked into the corner of the booth, practically shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Jeno sits on his other side. Beyond that, Jaemin couldn’t tell you who's sitting where.

Not because he’s drunk.

Because you smell too good.

Because your arm keeps brushing his whenever you reach for your drink.

And because your dress...

Fuck.

Your dress.

You always look pretty. But tonight you’re on a different level. Or maybe it’s just his silly little brain playing tricks on him. It’s only a black dress. Nothing he hasn’t seen on other girls before. Then again, Jaemin often thinks that no one can pull things off like you do.

“So what’s Jaemin like at work, Y/N?” Renjun chimes in curiously from the opposite side of the booth. Here we go.

“Hmm.” Jaemin feels your eyes on him before you answer. “Same as now, just less rigid.”

“Hey, I’m not rigid–”

“You are a little.” Renjun saves the day again, clearly in the mood to mock.

“He’s probably just annoyed he can’t escape my presence.” You lean over the table, as if sharing a secret with his friend.

Oh, so you’re playing that game. Cool cool cool. “Why would I wanna escape your presence? Being all up in your business is my new hobby.”

You shoot him the deadliest side-eye. So pretty. “Is it now?”

“Mhm.” He twirls his straw playfully before taking a sip of the very strong rum and coke he ordered not too long ago. “Honestly, it’s what gets me through the week.”

Your scoff says you don't believe him for a second. “You might as well just confess your undying love at this point.”

Yeah, he’s seriously thinking about it. “That would be highly unprofessional considering you’re, like, my boss.”

“Since when do you give a fuck about professionalism?”

“Um,” He raises a sassy finger. “I’m pretty you lack in that department more than I do.”

You blink at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t spit in people’s drinks.”

“He made her pay for everything and kept staring at my tits!” you fire back.

Jaemin laughs at the memory of you ‘accidentally’ dribbling into some guy’s beer before handing it over with the sweetest smile imaginable.

“Nah, that was actually fire, I rate it.” He praises and leans more against the table, elbows on the surface as he rests his chin on his interlinked fingers, trying really hard not to stare at your tits, clearly no better than the man who, unknowingly, had the pleasure of tasting your spit. Maybe if Jaemin openly stares, you’ll spit in his drink too.

That’s not a normal thing to want, is it?

Renjun is already immersed in another conversation with Haechan and Jisung, and Jaemin realises that for the first time in what feels like an eon, he’s nervous. As though he’s all alone with you and doesn’t know how to handle it. Though, he doesn’t have to dig too deep in his brain for a topic of conversation before you strike him with a surprisingly serious question. “So, you excited to graduate?”

He feels like he needs hours to think about the right answer. You’ve definitely put him on the spot here, and no one’s even listening. “Yes and no.”

“That’s awfully vague.”

“It’s true.” He shrugs, eyes trained on your nails. Not chipped for the first time. He can almost picture you painting them with a serious but insanely adorable look of concentration all over your face. “I’m curious about life after uni, but also, I know this is probably the freest we’ll ever feel.”

“Yeah,” You take in his words, and he can almost visualise your brain processing them as you slowly nod. “I don’t think I’m cut out to have a big girl job.”

“I think you’re cut out to have anything you want.” His words don’t even click in his mind but your raised eyebrow makes him catch on. He’ll admit - though, not intended that way - that sounded like a line. “I’m serious.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. A hint of a smile. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Right, you know all my secrets. I forget.” It’s the first time you refer to that night you two spent hours talking on that dingy sofa.

“Nah, not all of them.” He deflects with a pout.

You tilt your head in question, cheek now resting on your palm as you give him your full attention. It’s strange. It should feel like a victory. Instead, it makes him feel exposed.

“No?” You ask teasingly.

He offers a nod and leans an inch closer. Enough for his arm to press against yours. Skin on skin. A rarity with you two. “I feel like I could know a lot more.”

“Anything specific?” You surprise him by not pulling back, if anything, you just hold eye contact. Like the rest of the group doesn’t even exist. “Feels like you’ve got a questionnaire prepared.”

Jaemin can’t fight the cheeky smile. This is his moment. It's either go big or go home. “Why did you leave the door ajar?”

It’s like your mouth parts in slow motion. Then shuts again. And repeat. You’re doing a good job at not showing much emotion at the outrageously daring question.

“Why did you come upstairs?” You predictably answer him with a question of your own, and he has to bite a grin back. Because, of course, you’d do that.

“Because you wanted me to.” His shoulders lift in a small shrug, like it’s self-explanatory. To him it is.

“And you’re so good at knowing what I want.”

“I’m definitely better at it than you are.”

“Oof...” You lean back and cross your arms, your dubious frown causing a turmoil in his chest. Did he go too far? “Do you even know what you want?”

“Mm, to be honest...” He leans in so he can whisper without risking getting heard by anyone else. “I rarely do, but–”

“Oh, do me a favour.” You roll your eyes like you’re already bored of what he’s about to say next.

He chuckles, so amused with your reactions. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The regret is so clearly faux, but still endearing, nonetheless. “Please, carry on.”

“No.” He leans back like you did, arms crossing stubbornly, sassily jutting his bottom lip out. “I don’t wanna say now.”

“Oh, no, please tell me.” You say with the most stoic look, still mocking him. “How can I go on without knowing?”

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere with me.” He disapproves with a determined smile, knowing he’s successfully getting under your skin.

“I don’t know,” You casually reach and take his drink out of his hand, the straw already between your thumb and index as you swirl the remaining liquid, condensation dripping on your thigh, and Jaemin gets deja vu. “I think you prefer it when I’m mean.”

Maybe you know him better than he thinks. Or maybe you’re just more observant than you let on. You certainly get a kick out of making his dick suffocate, though. Because as Jaemin watches you wrap your glossed lips around the straw he’s just had in his mouth, he feels appallingly turned on. And he really wants to wipe the drop off your thigh exactly like he did last time. He doesn’t. But he does let his deranged mind entertain the thought of using his tongue instead of his thumb. Maybe someday. Hopefully.

“Oh, so now I’ve got a humiliation kink?” He pretends to be offended, watching the movement in your throat as you swallow a gulp of his drink with a disapproving scrunch of your nose.

“You said it, not me.” You put down the drink with a disgusted cough. “Fuck, did you ask for battery acid?”

He giggles at your rapid blinking. “Ruined your flirty antics, did I?”

“Fuck off.” You laugh along, cheeks now rosier than before with the hint of embarrassment.

“Not too much with the bullying. I’ll get a boner.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief at his crudeness, and he feels like he’s thriving. You’re finally speechless. This is what success feels like.

“I could get you fired for that.”

Oh.

“Wait, what? I was just jo–”

“God, you’re such a guy.” You shake your head with mockery, mouth now around your own straw as you sip on what looks like something disgustingly fruity. “You talk like you ownthe biggest pair of balls on planet earth but the second a girl outdoes you, it’s all begging and wah wah wah–”

“Do you ever shut up?” He doesn’t know where the outburst came from, but your confused frown goes straight to his cock, and before he can apologise-

“You shut up.” You clap back with a childlike frown, your ankle nudging his under the table in retaliation, and Jaemin’s competitive nature comes forth.

You’re not winning this one. He refuses to let you. So instead of nudging you back, he hooks his ankle around yours. You don’t ease up - as expected - trying to shove him away with a hand on his knee, glancing around with exaggerated innocence. Your worry about being seen is almost endearing, especially because you’re clearly biting back a smile.

Which is exactly why, instead of letting you go, Jaemin catches your hand and laces his fingers through yours.

Your small, sharp inhale slips past you, unnoticed by everyone except him. Your fingers twitch against his grip, but it holds steady – anchoring you in place – and finally does what he hasn’t managed to do for weeks.

It quiets you.

And Jaemin feels, for once, like he’s won.

Especially when you stop resisting and sink back into your seat, his ankle still tangled with yours, your hand now folded into his.

All you give him is a side-eye sharp enough to pass as affection. And every time he drifts into conversation, he can feel you looking at him. He pretends not to notice, answering with a squeeze of your ankle or a slow stroke of his thumb across your knuckles.

He doesn’t let go when Haechan brings over birthday shots for Jisung. One hand around his glass. The other one still holding yours like it’s instinct.

At some point – quietly, maybe even without meaning to – you lean into his side.

If anyone’s noticed, they don’t say a word. Jaemin’s almost certain that’s because of you. Because if it were anyone else, his friends would’ve made it unbearable by now. But your presence doesn’t really allow for noise like that.

They’ve learned.

The illusion breaks the moment you lean in and whisper that you need the bathroom. And when you slip out of the booth, leaving him wedged between wall and friend, Jaemin can already feel the questions forming.

Still, the ghost of your hand in his makes it worth it.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Still here, Wiggles?”

You’re leaning against a lamppost waiting for your uber when Jaemin emerges from inside the bar. You really can’t escape this man. Not that you’re trying that hard anyway.

“I’d ask where ‘Wiggles’ came from but not so sure I wanna know.”

He takes his place in front of you, looking as effortless and unbothered as he always does. “You’re always trying to wiggle away from me.” He discloses with a performative pout, lips shining more than before. He must’ve applied lip balm after you exited.

“Right. And you won’t let me.” You squint your eyes as though emphasising a complaint. You’re sure he can see right through it anyway.

“I would hate to deprive you of the joy of my presence.” He flashes you a bunny-like smile with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. “You cold?” He asks with a sniffle as he catches the little shiver that cuts through you.

“Nah, I’m good.” You check your phone again. “My uber’s here in two mins anyway.”

He nods, but doesn’t move to head back inside, eyes remaining fixed on you. “Did you have fun?”

You want to tease, make a comment about his earlier antics, but his question sounds genuine, and you don’t think you'd want to go into that right now anyway. Not when there’s a time limit. “I did, yeah. You?”

“Oh, I had the most fun ever.” He drags the word, clearly not able to hold a serious conversation for more than four seconds.

“At least you keep yourself entertained.”

He hums mischievously, taking a step closer. The shadows from the streetlight and the bar lights make one side of his face glow in yellow and pink. “You never answered my question, you know.”

He’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him properly. “Which one?”

Before he can answer, a car engine roars, ending your conversation prematurely.

He’s grinning, but he almost looks disappointed, like an opportunity was snatched right out of his hands. “I’ll tell you another time.”

Your uber pulls up, and you nod at the driver with a smile, letting him know he’s got the right person. Before you can lift a hand, Jaemin’s opening the door to the backseat for you.

“Bed time for you, wiggles.” He steps aside to make space for you, hand still on the car door when you turn to look at him before getting in. “I’ll tell Sung you stayed until late.” He reassures, indicating that the birthday boy is at a level of intoxication that most likely will compromise his memory.

For a reason unbeknownst to you, there’s a feeling of hesitation sitting in your chest. You’re reluctant to leave. Not just because you’ve had such a fun night. It’s the boy in front of you that poses an obstacle, as always. It’s how he’s made you feel all night. It’s how he’s looking at you now. It’s how he’s also still glued to the ground, not making an effort to end the night either.

“Make sure he drinks some water.” You opt to say, and Jaemin’s twitching mouth catches your attention. You feel like he can read your unease through your body language. Like he can read your mind. “Right, well, good–”

It’s funny how you’ve always thought you had the upper hand in most situations in life. Jaemin was definitely one of those situations. Until now. Until he shut you up for the second time in one night. Only this time, with his mouth on yours. It's not searing, nor is it the kind of kiss that knocks the air out of your lungs. To your surprise, it’s soft. His lips are slow against yours, moving lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world, and you surprise yourself by finally giving in to the desire you’ve suppressed for what seems like too long. Your hand finds itself on his nape, pulling him in with more determination, but with a delicate swipe of his tongue across your bottom lip, he’s gone.

“Goodnight, partner.” The whisper feels hot against your tingly lips, his smile is something you can only describe as wicked, and with that, he squeezes your waist in a way that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps before stepping away. He’s walking back inside before you can utter a word or offer any type of reaction to what just occurred, something you should’ve expected by now. Because it’s Jaemin. And Jaemin is unpredictable.

What you also know is that a kiss that short shouldn’t have melted your brain the way it did.

When you’re settled in the back of the car, it finally dawns on you– if he hadn’t pulled away, you wouldn’t have either. If Na Jaemin had kept kissing you, it is highly likely that you would’ve dragged him in the backseat of this uber with you. And the faint heat between your thighs feels like a personal attack your body wasn’t prepared for. But what’s embarrassing is how willingly you would've let him take care of it. Or make more of a mess if he pleased.

Your hazy brain keeps blaming the alcohol you’ve consumed, but as you sit there drowning in your overflowing thoughts, driving through campus and trying not to rub your thighs together, your thudding heart is telling you otherwise.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Since you started working with Jaemin, it’s become known to you that he’s a very punctual guy. Never late, and if not on time, then most likely early. So when you turn up for your first shift of the week on Monday – thankfully a quiet one – and Jaemin is nowhere to be found, the first thought that crosses your mind is that he’s quit. That he kissed you just because he’d had enough of your attitude and endless negativity. And now that he’s barely broken through those, he’s had enough of chasing after you.

You could ignore his absence and go about your day. It’s the wise option. But your phone is already in your hands and your thumbs are typing away.

You: why is your friend not at work?

Sung: why do you ask

You: ??

Sung: he’s off this week

Sung: smth about a lab project thing he needs to prepare for

You: 👍

Sung: he knew you were gonna ask me

You: lol

Sung: apparently you’re predictable 💀

Great. So now you’re being mocked by who used to be your sweet friend Jisung. Fuck your nosiness. Or neediness in this instance. Needy for Na Jaemin? You? No. No. No. Absolutely the fuck not.

But then why are you already dreading dealing with customers without his hushed teasing comments? Or the provocative wiggling of his eyebrows when someone asks for your number in addition to their drink. Or the way he somehow appears beside you whenever a customer starts being difficult. Or how he always makes sure to add straws to a drink when you forget, even though he’s worked there for far less than you have. Or...

You suddenly come to the realisation that Jaemin has somehow become such a big part of your weeks. Like a habit you would struggle getting rid of.

And what’s worse now is that since that night he randomly kissed you and made your brain short circuit, you’ve not been able to shake the thought of him. The memory of him. The feeling of him. Of his lips on yours, of his hand in yours, of his mouth curling around the word ‘partner’. A word you once were so indifferent to that has now acquired a completely different meaning to its actual one.

Jaemin has really become your partner at work. And generally, someone you look forward to seeing. Someone you seek but can’t seem to find in your other coworkers. Or anyone you know really.

And as ridiculous as it may seem. Later in the week, three shifts in without him, you can’t deny a fact that about two months ago wouldn’t have even crossed your mind.

You miss Na Jaemin and the vibrant colours that come with him.

Work without him is awfully blue.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Jaemin’s never lacked initiative. Ever. Not as a kid, not as a teenager, not as an adult. He’s always been one to go for things he wanted. Whether it be a goal, a dream, a plan, a piece of clothing, a book, a video game. Anything. And when it comes to his love life, well let’s say he’s never lacked initiative in that department either. The only thing he’s lacking there is curiosity. Or intrigue. It’s always the same with every girl. No surprises. He knows what he wants, knows what he gets. And it’s not that he’s always been successful. He’s had girls reject him before. Or ghost him even. But he’s only cared until he’s found his next conquest, which doesn’t normally take more than a Saturday night and a few tequila shots.

He’s always viewed himself as someone who comes across as light-hearted. Harmless even. Certainly not intimidating. He knows that for a fact. People look at him and smile openly. They welcome him in. They embrace his quirkiness. They see him as someone who holds no weight. No depth. No substance. And he’s always been fine with that.

Until recently. Until he got a taste of what it’s like to be taken seriously. To be levelled with. To be challenged.

Until you.

Until he felt curious and genuinely intrigued.

Not in a poetic ‘she’s so different to everyone else’ type of way. Because you’re not. You blend in quite well with everyone around you. Yeah, maybe you’re more on the grumpy side most of the time, but who isn’t nowadays. You don’t make rooms light up. You’re not the centre of attention. You’re just... you. Sarcastic to the bone. Short-tempered. Like most girls he’s encountered these three and a half years he’s been a student. Yet, you sometimes look at him like you fear him. Like he’s someone you’re not allowed to let in. Like he’s someone that comes with consequences.

And once again, Jaemin knows what he wants. He just doesn’t know what he could get. He knows how to approach you. He knows there’s a way in. Just isn't sure if there’s a way out. And if there is... does that involve you and him both or just him? What if he finds his way in and then you kick him out? He knows that’s very much a possibility.

But.

She kissed me back. He keeps repeating the words in his head. The memory of it even more. The little sound of surprise you let out. Your hand touching his neck, inviting him in.

He’s deep in the reminiscing state when he’s jerked out abruptly, a soft hand tight around his wrist, dragging him towards god knows where. It doesn’t take him longer than two seconds to recognise the back of your head. Your shoulders squeezing through the crowd of the house party, not a single glance thrown behind you, just your fingers clinging onto his skin, making him feel like he’s still daydreaming.

He’s sure he’s not. But there’s no realistic scenario in his head in which you’d be taking him up the stairs of a house whose owner he barely knows.

A few steps and a door later, he’s in a bedroom. A very girly one. Plushies, fairy lights, candles, heavy perfume lingering in the air, name it. The same door you dragged him through is slammed shut and locked and Jaemin is shoved into the fluffiest blanket ever, the bed creaking slightly covering the yelp that escapes his lungs. His hands reflexively catch his upper body weight, propping him up. And after what seems like the longest walk in history, you’re looking straight at him. Staring down at him, or more accurately, peering into his soul, never having looked more intimidating, and before Jaemin can question any of your actions, you’re stepping closer, eyebrow raising in what he can only assume is frustration.

Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh fucking shitting shit. He shouldn’t have kissed you.

“What the fuck is your game plan here?” You demand, sounding enraged, and Jaemin can’t think of the last time he had such a negative reaction to a kiss. He’s had girls tell him he’s a bad kisser, but they’ve still kissed him again after that. One girl even dodged him once, but she also pounced on him not longer than an hour later.

“I um–” He can feel his jaw twitching with nerves, refusing to slacken and give him the opportunity to give you a satisfactory response.

“You what?” You take a step forward, and even the tiniest movement from your side feels like a threat. “Why did you kiss me?”

Here we go. It’s out in the open.

“Do you even remember doing it?”

“Wha– yes.” Well, look at that. He can speak. Fucking well done, loser. “Of course, I remember.”

“Oh, congrats!” You give him a condescending smile, as though congratulating him for being able to utter a total of three words. “Do you remember why?”

He knows why. “I wanted to?”

You blink twice, nostrils flaring as you inhale deeply.

“I’m sorry if–”

“If what? You overstepped? Confused me? Do you understand that we work together? I’m not doing this work drama thing just so you can–”

“I confused you?” It’s the only part that matters out of all the things you listed. “How?”

Your features contort in bafflement, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s what you care about?”

“Tell me.” He is close to pleading, butt moving to the edge of the bed, knees touching yours as he inches closer. “Please.”

“That’s not the point, Jaemin!” Your hands raise in exasperation, feet taking a step back, your warmth absent again as you turn around and walk toward the door. He’s already accepted the fact that you’re about to exit the room and the situation, but you halt instead. And all Jaemin can see is your back. Your shoulders moving in sync with your deep breathing have him captivated. He can’t look anywhere else.

“What is then?” The question slips without permission. It’s only when you turn around that he’s very aware of his mouth and how it’s moved on its own accord.

If looks could kill, Jaemin would be dead now. “The point is that you don’t think. You just do things.”

“I do think.” He doesn’t waste a second to defend himself. Because he knows he’s right, even if your scoff completely disregards his statement. Regardless of his calm nature, Jaemin’s jaw ticks at your reaction. And so does his brain. “I think about you an awful lot. And you know it.”

You slump against the door with a groan, face dropping into your hands, and Jaemin doesn’t understand why you’re so vexed. Is it really that much of a burden that he likes you?

“Why did you bring me here, if you’re just gonna insult me?” He’s on his feet before he completes the sentence, voice raising slightly, making you look up in subtle surprise quickly concealed by your anger. “Just say you’re not interested in me like that and–”

“Insult you?” You scowl, throwing the word right back at him like it disgusts you. “How am I possibly insulting you? By trying to understand what you want from me?”

“What about you, huh?” He steps closer, despite his effort to hold back. “What do you want?”

“Stop deflecting.” His eyes catch the clenching of your fists at your sides, and the thought of you fighting the urge to punch him, exhilarates him. Does he really get under your skin that much?

“I’m not–”

“The fuck you smiling at, you clown?” Is he? Oh shit. He hadn’t even clocked that. “There’s literally nothing funny about this.” The impact of your hands on his chest shocks him, shoving him back into his previous spot on the bed. Clearly you like him sat down. And it’s no secret to him that he doesn’t mind looking up at you. He’d happily get on his knees if you asked him.

He needs to control his thoughts. And if he’s going to do that, he can’t have you standing above him or he’s going to lose all sense. So he moves to get up again. Futilely. Because you shove him back down before he can even try. He refuses to lose the battle. He tries again. Fails. And this time you push him so hard he ends up on his back. Which snaps his compromised patience.

“Stop–” He grabs onto your wrists, jerking you forward. “Fucking–” Pulls again when you fight back. “Pushing me.” He manoeuvres you, not letting you crush him, and somehow, in all the mess of whining and grabbing and yanking, he’s got you on the bed with him.

You both somehow land on your backs, in an awkward position. Half your torso is on him, the other half on the mattress, one of his arms crushed under you as opposed to the one caging you and holding you hostage despite your incessant squirming and twisting.

“Stop it, you nutcase.” He can’t help but laugh, not on purpose. Not to piss you off. The situation is just too amusing for him to stay as serious as you want him to. He still tightens his hold around you, forearm, pressed against your collarbones, hand gripping your shoulder until you gradually still your crazy limbs. “You done?”

Your erratic breathing resembles his, making him feel less pathetic, and Jaemin can’t ignore the intense thrumming of your heart through your back. You can probably feel his; beating wilder than it ever has. He can feel it in his ears.

Your pliancy bemuses him, but he thanks all the forces above for it, and he sighs in relief when you let him roll you onto your side so he can get his arm back. Before you can escape, even though you make no such advance, he drapes his newly functional arm over the dip of your waist, keeping you in an almost spooning position but still leaving space between your back and his front.

“We can talk or we can keep scrapping like cats,” He speaks calmly again, and by the movement of your shoulders he knows you can hear him clearly. “Up to you.”

“You wanna talk now? Like this?” You ask in disbelief, already starting to get on his nerves again.

“Yes. Now.” He drags you closer, expecting some sort of protest when he leaves just a couple centimetres between your bodies, settling close enough for his face to bury in the citrusy combination of your perfume and shampoo. Or moisturiser. Or whatever it is that makes him feel all warm and fuzzy. Regardless,he tries his best to stay as focused as possible. “If you don’t mind, I’ll start.”

You try to turn around. “I do mind actually–”

“Don’t care. I’m talking.” The arm he’s got around your middle keeps you in place, and he feels your sharp exhale against the arm your head is resting on. “I feel like you’re either in denial or you just have no fucking clue what’s going on here, which would be impossible considering you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

Silence. Good, you’re finally listening to him.

“Which leaves us with the first option.” He lifts his head a little, the tip of his nose touching the end of your jawline. He adores the way you shrink away from him, face tucked even further into his elbow, the heat radiating off your cheek and onto his skin. “And that would be a shame, cause that means you’re missing out.”

He feels movement on his arm again. Maybe your lips pursing, maybe your nose scrunching, definitely something. “On what?”

He takes that as his cue to eliminate the tiny space left between you. Chest to back now, ass to crotch, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Me. And you. Sitting in a tree. Kissing.”

The tiny shiver that runs through you is something that affects him more than it should. Something so minimal yet powerful enough to go straight to his head, shaking up whatever is left in there.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” You mutter stubbornly into his skin, a finger slowly tracing one of the veins on his extended arm, like you’re trying to distract yourself. “I’m not in denial. I’m perfectly aware of whatever weird vibe we have going on.”

Interesting. “Okay...?”

“I just don’t understand what you want from me.” Your index reaches his wrist, and when he expects you to withdraw, you trace further instead, onto the lines of his unclenched palm. It also mirrors what you’re doing beneath all of this. Trying to figure him out. So, he instinctively flexes his fingers, palm opening, giving you more space to explore.

He decides to tease. “You want a power point presentation or...?”

“No, I want you to tell me.” The joke clearly doesn’t land. Your tone doesn’t resemble the one your voice carries when you roll your eyes at him. It’s serious, like you’ve had enough of his shit.

He’s not ready to give in just yet, though. “Okay, I’m sensing your preferred type of love language is words of affirmation.”

“Be for real.” You lightly dig your nails into the skin of his palm in a quiet threat, which strangely, goes straight to his dick. That strips him of his playfulness, and he gives in with a sigh, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

“I don’t wanna say the wrong thing– like, I don’t know what you wanna hear. Or what you– like, what if I say something and then things get awkward and–

“Doesn’t matter what I wanna hear.” Your fingers stop tracing and you reach for his other hand this time, the one on your stomach, squeezing in something that feels like reassurance. “There’s no right answer. You already know what you want. You just need to tell me.”

Jaemin really does need to. He’s been dying to tell you. But now he’s actually getting the chance to, he feels slightly dizzy, like he’s experiencing an outer body experience. Like he’s looking at himself from across the room, warning himself, judging himself. He keeps hearing the words ‘watch what you say’, because what if he scares you away? What if you laugh in his face? Or worse, what if you don’t take him seriously?

“I want...”

You hum in anticipation, fingers slithering between his, your warm palm engulfing the top of his, exactly like he did to yours a few nights ago in that booth. Only this time it feels different. It feels like it matters. There’s nothing lighthearted about it. Just like the words he’s struggling to get out.

“I wanna know more about you.” He starts easy, buying himself time. “And I wanna spend time with you. Outside of work.” Your thumb playing with his distracts him from his deafening heartbeat, and he takes a second to swallow, but even that’s too loud. “Think that’s something we can do?”

You turn your head slightly, letting him nuzzle against your cheek. “That’s all?”

“No.” He wants to look at you, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes. “I want... to make you laugh more.”

“Really?” You question in a tone so genuinely adorable that almost kills him.

“Mm.” He nods, eyes fluttering open when he feels you move his hand with yours a little further down.

“Do you… wanna take me on dates?”

“Yeah.” He nods again, ears focused on your words, but eyes glued to your intertwined hands and the journey the dangerous path they’re trailing down. “Wanna be good to you.”

“Good how?” Your lips graze his cheekbone, hand adamantly still guiding his, ass pushing back into him just a tiny bit, offering enough pressure to make his eyes shut for a second. “Nuh-uh.” You scold when his hand starts moving on its own, moving past the waistband of your skirt, and he immediately halts, letting you have the upper hand quite literally.

He exhales shakily, brain scrambled, struggling to put his thoughts into words. “I dunno, just… wanna do nice things for you and spoil you.”

“That’s sweet.” Your nose cutely nudges his cheek, and Jaemin starts questioning his sanity. “What else?”

“Wanna be able to kiss you whenever I want.” He admits openly, not having searched much in his brain for that one.

“How do you wanna kiss me?” Your locked hands are now just below the hem of your mini skirt, his fingertips brushing your inner thigh, and he can’t help but curl his impatient digits around the fabric. You don’t scold him this time.

Jaemin could easily show you how he wants to kiss you right now. He could so easily grab your face and shove his tongue down your throat. But that’s not what you're asking. You want words. And as much as he hates how obedient he’s become for you, it’s also turning him on. “How do you like to be kissed?”

“Hmm,” You ponder, clearly enjoying the torture you’re putting him through. “Slow. And a little wet.” Perfect. Exactly how he likes it too. Maybe more than just a little wet, but he’s sure you two can meet in the middle. He just needs to actually kiss you first. “Unless we’re fucking.”

He lets out an embarrassing moan at the obscene imagery his brain instantly creates, hips unintentionally grinding into your ass, hard cock now tucked between your cheeks, and he realises he’s got the pads of his fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thigh. So close to where he wants to be. “What about then?”

“Messy.” You mumble into his arm, sounding a little breathless yourself. “Want it really messy then.”

“Messy’s good. I like messy.” He finally cracks, not caring how desperate he sounds. He’s already given up on trying to win with you. He’s been losing ever since the first time he spoke to you. “Anything you want, I’ll fucking do it.”

Your resolve seems to be abandoned too this time, trembling hand leaving his momentarily to bunch up your skirt just enough for easier access. Just above your upper thighs, without revealing what’s underneath. He gulps in anticipation, not making a single move before your hand is back on his, not moving as slow this time, but dragging his fingers across your skin, over to the crease of your thigh and crotch, the seam of your panties moving a tiny bit from the light friction, but not out of the way.

“Shit.” He exhales in awe. “You’re so–”

“Shush.” You whine bashfully, dragging a weak laugh of disbelief out of him. He keeps his mouth shut by landing a long kiss on your shoulder. The first time he’s kissed your skin ever, and he wishes he could do it every day.

“Awh, are you turned on?” He coos, letting his middle finger drag over the fabric of your panties, feeling your wetness seeping through and coating his skin with your essence. It’s so slippery, and sticky, and just so perfect as the light pulse of your clit makes him slightly overflow with need. Your little nod against his arm makes him smile, his teeth sinking on his bottom lip in delight. “I’ll make it better, if you let me.”

“Mm, please.” It sounds more like an instruction than a polite request, and your fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist make it clear. You’re not begging him, you’re just demanding what you deserve. And he’s going to give it to you on a golden platter. He’ll give you anything you ask for. He’ll get on his knees for you if you say the word. As long as you keep letting him touch you. As long as you keep letting him please you.

“Fuck, I’m so into you.” He whispers needily, cock twitching in its confines, jeans suffocatingly tight as he tries to get some relief through subtle rolls of his hips, almost too worried he’ll accidentally start rutting into you like a dog in heat. Your drenched folds separating as he slips his finger between them, as much as your panties deem possible, don’t help him at all, especially when accompanied by the tiniest mewls you’re letting out each time he softly rubs over your already swollen nub. “Guide me again. Show me where you want me.”

Your fingers join his again, positioning his middle and ring fingers directly above your covered clit, panties still somehow clinging on even through all the slick that’s gathered at the seat of them. “Here, slow at first.” You urge him to stimulate the tender spot in small circles, fingers moving above his to show him how much pressure you like. Your deep sigh gives him all the confirmation he needs that he’s touching you just right.

Jaemin watches your reactions over your shoulder. The rise and fall of your chest with each shallow breath. The glimpse of cleavage beneath your crop top. The hem of your skirt hiding your joined hands and everything they're doing underneath.

Normally, he'd want a better view. Being a visual person, he would've found an excuse to hike your skirt higher or reposition you just enough to watch exactly what he was doing to your pussy, but right now, he couldn’t care less. Because somehow, this is hotter. Not seeing everything. Not having you bare beneath him. Just watching your body give him away, little by little. It doesn't compare to anything he's had before. And he has a feeling it never will.

Your hand comes into view when it leaves his, letting him take over, but it quickly takes its place around the back of his neck, fingers slowly sneaking through his hair, forcing his eyes shut at the soft feel of your touch. He keeps rubbing your clit just how you showed him, and lets you pull him close enough that his forehead brushes your temple, resting there for a moment, keeping his eyes closed and focusing on the sweet sounds he coaxes out of you and the slick that keeps accumulating beneath his fingers. He contemplates slipping his hand inside your panties to feel you properly. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t dying to. But you haven’t given him that green light yet, so he adds a little more pressure on your clit instead.

“Jaem–” Your hips buck into his hand, the needy reaction almost funny, but he contains his laugh with a bite on his lip and gently cups your pussy in his palm, preventing you from running away.

“Relax, Wiggles.” He says softly, landing a tiny kiss on your cheek before running his fingers over the expanse of your folds and then resuming the circular motions on your clit, a little faster than before but still gentle. Still giving you a lot less than he really wants to.

The harsh tug you give his hair makes him grunt in surprise, taking the gesture as a warning. He harshly grinds his cock into your ass in retaliation, earning a breathless laugh from you that brings a smile to his face, which spreads wider when you twist your neck to take a look at him, and he feels like it’s the first time you’re looking at him without a threatening edge in your eyes. He shuffles as close as he can, face hovering over yours as he takes in the pleasure littering your features like a canvas. He would kill to have his camera with him and snap a picture of it. His cock throbs with want as you slowly blink up at him, clearly taking him in too, and you’re not subtle when you let your eyes drift down to his lips momentarily.

“You wanna kiss me, don’t you?” He teases, already knowing the answer but enjoying the little crease of frustration between your eyebrows a little too much. You give him a small nod, letting your gaze drift down again. He still doesn’t budge, fingers slowing down too, on a mission to punish you a little for the painful hard-on he’s got going on because of you. “Say please.”

There’s a look on your face he’s positive he’s never had the delight of encountering before, one that obliterates any pride he’s got left. The puppy eyes you’ve put on are doing enough pleading. So much that you don’t even have to say it, and Jaemin instinctively lowers his face close enough to nuzzle his nose with yours, something he’s not sure he’s ever done with anyone before. He’s never felt the need to. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until you raise your head to initiate the so desired kiss, your lips brushing his lightly for half a second. He pulls back just a fraction, taking one last look at your flushed face, savouring the haze in your eyes just a little longer, but a particular stroke of his fingers makes your eyes shut in pleasure. And it’s the sweet whimper you let out that makes him finally close the gap, tongue already slipping past your parted lips.

He kisses you exactly how you said you liked to be kissed. Slow and wet. Not too sloppy, no teeth. Just his lips dragging against yours, head tilted enough for his tongue to sneak inside your mouth just a little, and you match his rhythm in no time. Your mouth parts to let him in, your taste just like he remembers it. A little sugary from the drinks you’ve had earlier, enough to make him sigh from the relief of finally being able to experience this. Just like he’s daydreamed for what feels like too long. Maybe even better.

You swiftly flop onto your back, the movement catching him off guard, but your hands engulfing his face in them get him back on track. He breaks the kiss for just a second, so that he can steal a glance at his hand working between your now spread legs.

“Don’t stop.” You whine needily, your hips arching off the bed, chasing for more as you bury a hand in his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours.

“Fuck, baby.” He moans all muffled, sounding completely wrecked even though it should be the other way around. Your tongue coaxes his lips open this time, forcing itself inside his eager mouth, and he can’t help but cheekily suck on it as his fingers move on their own accord, slipping down, teasing your entrance over the soaked fabric of your underwear. You’re so wet he can feel the outline of your pussy lips as if there’s no barrier, and god, he wishes his face was buried between your legs. Wishes he could smell you and taste you for hours. The thought of devouring your cunt while your legs shake and lock around his head, suffocating him, sends a fresh jolt of arousal straight to his cock. And it hurts. It’s painful not to thrust against your hip, seeking for any kind of relief, so he does, letting you swallow his low whines as you keep him close.

“Mmh– can you–”

“Mm, what?” He nods frantically, desperate to give you more.

“Just...” You keep kissing him, one hand gently caressing his jaw, while the other finds his again, and before he can question you, you’re dragging his hand up until it reaches the waistband of your panties. And then you’re urging him to slip inside. He internally celebrates and obliges without a word; tongue tangling deliciously with yours as he quickly dips two of his fingers between your folds with a deep groan, quickly finding your clit again, picking up where he left off, with tight circles on your cute nub. Fuck, it’s pulsing, and he wonders if your pussy would pulse just like that around his cock, swallowing him. “Faster.”

Again, he obeys, denying you anything never an option, and he instantly starts stroking your clit with three of his fingers, fast and hard, from side to side, and your mouth parts against his in a silent moan, the vibration getting a reaction that claims a place in his brain. “Good?”

“Yeah,” You nod desperately. “I’m close.”

He nods back. “Want my fingers inside?”

“No, no.” You plead, clearly too in the moment to care. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

His free hand wraps around the back of your neck, holding you in place as he gives you what you want. “You’re so wet.” He mumbles between frantic breaths. “Didn’t know you wanted me that bad.”

You whine in protest, your panting making it impossible for you to speak words other than a broken: “Oh my god.”

“Fuck, you’re shaking.” He whispers, in complete awe of your pleasure, admiring how your face contorts, how your eyes roll back, how your legs tremble. “Don’t hold it, let go.” He encourages gently, able to see right through your self-control, and eager to demolish it. Even now, even on the brink of an orgasm you clearly want to reach, you try to squirm away from his touch, your legs clamping around his hand stubbornly, preventing any movement.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love it when you’re being difficult, but right now is not the time.” He huffs in frustration, hand fidgeting, fingers now squished between the plush of your thighs, unintentionally coating your flesh in your arousal. “If you wanna cum before someone finds us in here, I suggest you spread those legs again.”

The hand still nudged in his hair pulls him closer again, but he resists, not in the mood to give into your wishes anymore. He recognises the distress and conflict in your eyes. You’re not being stubborn, you’re just embarrassed. What for, he’s not sure, but he likes it. Because it’s unlike you.

It does click in his head, though. “I’ll keep kissing you if you let me make you cum.”

And with that, the clenching of your thighs eases up a little. And Jaemin can’t fight the amused laugh that bubbles in his chest. Because bribery does work. And he’s finally connected the dots.

You only got shy when he stopped kissing you so he could watch you. And, suddenly, so much makes sense, but he chooses to lock that thought away in the back of his mind. For now. Because your legs are parting for him again.

“Yeah?” He coos, fingers now moving freely, momentarily dipping down, collecting slick arousal that’s trickled out of your entrance before returning to your clit. He nods along with you when you let your eyes shut in bliss. “That’s it. Good girl.”

He doesn’t let you react to the praise, mouth slotting with yours like he promised, silencing whatever protest was bubbling in your throat. He knows he was treading on thin ice with that, repeatedly having been made aware how you’re not about to let a man patronise you or degrade you. Ever. Your boundaries have always been clearer than water, the harsh tug on his hair proves that much. But Jaemin’s not backing down again. He’s had enough of your shit, and so he kisses you harder, sloppier.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” You tug harder, making him grunt and rub you in quicker and firmer circles.

“Shut. Up.” He almost doesn’t recognise the harshness in his own voice, never having felt so annoyed at someone and wanting to please them at the same time. It’s usually one or the other. It seems you’ve proven him wrong once again. “Be grateful I’m not bending you over and fucking the shit out of you.”

He pulls on your hair too, his level of roughness not enough to match yours, but enough to have your teeth biting down on his bottom lip, and he’s pretty sure you’ve drawn blood.

“Fine.” He challenges, his limits already crossed. “Have it your way.”

His knees hit the floor before he can think, his hands grabbing on your thighs, dragging your body to the edge of the bed, and before you can let out more than a yelp, Jaemin’s pulling your panties to the side, revealing your dripping centre.

“What the–”

“So cute.” He mumbles as he watches his middle and ring fingers slip inside your clenching hole too easily, the wetness making everything nice and slippery for him, and when he curls them, your back arches. Too fucking pretty.

“Jaem, oh my god.” You whimper out weakly, clouding his already jumbled head.

“Fuck, I love that.” He whispers mindlessly, circling your visibly swollen nub with his tongue once. “You sound so sweet.”

He can tell it’s finally (thankfully) game over for you, when your legs open further for him, and he wastes no time. He soon finds a rhythm with his fingers that has your walls tensing, but he keeps hitting what he believes is the right spot. And when he angles a little more upwards, his doubts are instantly gone.

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck, right there.” You exclaim in despair, chest heaving, legs quaking just like before.

“I got you.” He mumbles against your folds, then engulfs your clit in his mouth, sucking gently while drawing slow circles with his tongue, finally able to enjoy your taste like he’s always wanted. A satisfied hum escapes him when your hands slip in his hair again, holding him in place as your pussy quivers around his digits. The tighter you get, the louder the squelching noises become, and when he fucks his fingers into you a little faster, he knows you’re finally climaxing.

“Shit, I’m cumming.” You exhale abruptly, like you’re caught off guard, legs closing in around his head, only this time, he doesn’t mind. Far from it. If he could suffocate between your thighs, he’d probably thank you.

Your little cries are more than gratifying. The kneading of your walls as he tries his best to drag out your high goes straight to his erection, his balls feeling so heavy and sore, and when your nails lightly scratch his scalp, he feels his abdominal muscles contract, pelvis involuntarily thrusting into nothing. It’s when his cock throbs painfully that he knows it’s inevitable, and before he can even pull away from your core, Jaemin is shamefully releasing in his pants. Untouched. Coating his boxers in his own cum.

He blames it on the edging and the fact that he's been sporting a hard-on for at least half an hour, but deep down he knows it’s just his unfiltered want for you. He knows it’s you. You and everything about you.

He can hear your overstimulated whines when the haze starts to dissipate, and he slowly slips his fingers out, realising that his mouth is just aimlessly parted against your folds, nose squished against your pubic bone as he tries to regain his breath.

“You okay?” He pants, sounding like he’s just ran a marathon instead of given head.

You let out a fucked-out laugh. “I feel like I should be asking you that.”

“Shut up.” He laughs with you, forehead defeatedly resting on your tummy as he tries to conceal his hot face. Fuck, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt embarrassed in front of a woman. It doesn’t help that he’s currently on his knees either. Your soft fingers carefully combing through his damp hair offer a little bit of calmness, however.

“Is that, like, a recurring theme or should I feel honoured?” You tease, the light heartedness in your tone making him smile like an idiot. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you like this before.

“Keep testing me and you’ll find out.” He feigns annoyance, landing a light slap on your outer thigh before squeezing the flesh hard.

You whine in protest, and even though he can’t see your face, he can picture the frown you’re sporting. His imagination not being enough, he decides to lift his head so he can look at you properly, only to find that you’re already staring at him.

“Hi.” He lands a quick kiss just below your bellybutton, where your top doesn’t meet your skirt.

“Hi.” Your lips twitching in a half-smile urge him to kiss your skin again, and then once again until you’re giggling. “Stop.”

He hums against your skin in fake contemplation, already knowing he doesn’t want to, but then he glances down between your legs, drenched core still on display, puffy folds glistening from before, panties still messily pushed to the side, and when you attempt to shut your legs, he beats you to it, holding them in place, refusing to miss out on the pretty sight. So enticing.

“Can I clean it up?” He asks without a second thought, thumbs pulling the lips apart to reveal more of what a mess he’s made, your pretty clit still protruding a little from the attention it received earlier. He looks up at you, taking in your bemused eyes, and he chuckles at your cuteness. “It’s a subtle way of saying I wanna lick your–”

“I know what it means,” You cut him off with a pointed look, clearly disapproving of his crude choice of words. “I’ve just never had anyone ask that before.”

He clicks his teeth in judgment, internally laughing at the joke he’s about the make. “Really? Chenle not that freaky then?”

“Ew!” You shriek adorably, gently kicking him on the shoulder. “Don’t talk about him when you’re between my legs.”

“Why not?” He wiggles his eyebrows provocatively, face already inching closer to where he wants to be.

“Because it’s weird?”

“You had no issue with me watching him rail you.” He blows air on your clit on purpose, watching you squirm in his hold, his hands firm on the backs of your thighs. “I gotta admit, though...” He catches your little hole clenching. “You weren’t as loud then as you were tonight.” He chuckles when your hands come up to cover your face with a pained groan. “Don’t be shy. I loved it.”

“Just fucking do it.” You huff in frustration and buck your hips towards his face.

He leaves a wet kiss on your inner thigh, sucking the supple flesh teasingly, before he darts his tongue out, licking a wide stripe between your folds, doing his best to gather as much of your essence as he can, and repeats the action again and again, clearly not doing a very good job as the more he laps you up, the more arousal keeps gathering at your opening and your whimpers get louder and louder.

“Such a sweet pussy.” He relishes in your taste and decides he needs to stop when he feels his dick starting to stir back to life in his pants, otherwise you’ll be stuck in this room for god knows how long. With a gentle kiss on your clit, he withdraws and pulls your underwear back into place before giving your thighs a gentle but condescending pat. “All done.”

Before you can sit up, he’s crawling up your body, caging you with his arms, and fuck his life, you look so good under him. So soft and pliant, legs on either side of his waist. Nothing like the girl he knows from work. He likes both versions equally, but this one he doesn’t think he could ever get used to.

“You’re hard again.” You wiggle your hips against his, cock flush against your thankfully covered centre.

“Yeah, and you’re still wet.” He responds with a subtle roll, cock sitting uncomfortably in his damp boxers, but nothing he can’t handle. “So, please can we go before I fuck you in some stranger’s bed?”

You snort, arms loosely wrapping around his neck, urging him closer, and he easily caves in. This kiss is soft, no tongue or urgency, just little sucks on your bottom lip, until he’s temporarily satiated his need for you.

“Come on, don’t want my friends thinking you’ve kidnapped me.” He leaves another chaste smooch on your lips and gets up with a dramatic groan, already missing your body heat against him.

A few minutes later, when he’s leaning against a wall next to the bathroom, waiting for you while pretending he’s aimlessly scrolling through his phone, Jaemin thinks back to how he ended up in this situation in the first place, and realises he still doesn’t really know where he stands with you. Yes, clearly, you’re both attracted to each other, and there’s no doubt in his mind that he likes you. But do you genuinely like him? Or do you just find him hot and fuckable? What if you’re just getting bored of whatever arrangement you have with Chenle and Jaemin’s just another distraction until you find someone you’re actually interested in?

“Thanks for waiting.” You interrupt his thoughts, ready to head for the stairs, but Jaemin feels like if he doesn’t clear this up now, he might lose the courage to do so later.

“Wait, hang on a sec.” He gently pulls you back by your hand, and you quickly face him, seeming clueless about his internal turmoil, eyes blinking up at him curiously.

“Is something wrong?” You ask carefully, worry laced with your tone, making Jaemin’s stomach do a little flip.

“No.” He shakes his head, and smiles when your shoulders drop in relief. “I guess I’m just still a little confused.”

“About?” You squeeze his hand, a tiny gesture of encouragement that makes him feel warm and fuzzy.

“Well...” He’s suddenly incapable of holding your gaze, your fingers posing as a distraction as observes your hand in his and how good they look like that. “I mean what I said. I want to, like, you know…”

“Be good to me?” You tease, referring to what he said earlier in the heat of the moment. Not that he didn’t mean it.

“Mm, that too,” Both hands are now playing with yours like it’s a fidget toy. “But also spend more time with you and go on dates and stuff. If you also want that. Obviously.” He lets out a nervous laugh. God, he sounds pathetic.

You step closer, leaving no space between your bodies, and Jaemin feels himself relax a little, finally able to look at you. You’ve got an adorable grin on your face, as though you can already see right through him. Like the idea of making his heart go crazy is so enticing to you. “I also want that.”

“Really?” He perks up, excitement already brewing in his chest at the thought of holding your hand in public.

“Mhm,” You nod, hand flexing in his, fingers extending like he’s just proposed to you and you’re waiting for the ring. Maybe he should start saving up for one at this point. “But–”

“But what? Why but?” The questions roll off his tongue without permission, and he hates how desperate he sounds.

“Relax, loser. I’m not rejecting you.” You laugh at his misery. It’s kind of hot. But he won’t admit that. At least not right now. “I was just gonna say, I’d rather we kept it low-key at work. If that’s okay with you.”

“I can do low-key.” He says quicker than he’d like to. “I’ll behave.”

“Okay, well, don’t behave too much.” You poke him in the chest with a smirk that makes him feel all tingly and giddy. He feels like a teenager speaking to their crush for the first time.

“Oh?” He pouts playfully, fluttering his eyelashes like he knows you hate, his arm loosely circling your waist, hand resting at the small of your back, slowly pulling you close, the proximity clearly something you’re both still getting used to. “Why? Would that be too sus?”

“It’s good you’re self-aware.” You say sarcastically, your free hand coming to squish his cheeks, surprising him. “Has anyone ever told you your eyelashes are, like, freakishly long?”

He laughs loudly at the random observation, remembering that time you said something about him flying if he blinked too fast. “Yeah, you.”

“Have I?” You tilt his face, evidently too busy inspecting his lashes to actually pay attention to what he’s saying. “When?”

“Right before you gave me the bedroom eyes and made me watch you–”

“Shhhhh.” You squeeze his cheeks harder, making it impossible for him to finish his sentence. “You’re pretty, but you talk too much.”

“Mmph–” He’s not able to complain, not due to your tight hold on his face, but mainly because you’re suddenly shutting him up with your mouth on his. You leave a loud smooch on his lips, and then a second one, and before you can pull away, he doesn’t even realise he’s got a hand in your hair, holding you in place.

Your hand trails from his face to his chest, resting there, allowing him to tilt his head so he can deepen the kiss. And just when he’s about to turn you around and pin you against the wall–

“Woah!” Jisung’s high pitched exclamation makes you both pull away in surprise. And when Jaemin looks up, there’s his younger friend, barely able to stand up due to the amount of alcohol he’s consumed, yet enough in touch with his surroundings to understand what you two are up to. “Ew, ew, ew, ew, absolutely not, stop it right now, that’s vile. Bye.” He slurs and abruptly sits down at the top of the stairs with his forehead resting on the wall.

Jaemin struggles not to burst out laughing when he takes in your comical expression, eyes wide, lips pursed tightly to contain your own snicker. And then he internally groans, realising that he’s probably Jisung’s saviour for tonight. “I think I’m gonna have to take him home.”

“Yeah, that’s all you.”

It’s maybe three or four quick kisses later that Jaemin, hesitantly of course, manages to find the will to pull away from you.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

You’ve learnt to expect everything from Na Jaemin. At this point you could say you’ve mastered the art of not getting surprised at things he says or does, regardless of the outrageousness they sometimes carry. You were confident that his unfiltered and blunt way of navigating life didn’t really faze you much anymore.

Until last night.

Last night, you were surprised. Last night, you were fazed. Pleasantly so, but still. What you were expecting were vague answers, boyish excuses, charming batting of long eyelashes and maybe the distracting smile that always gets him out of trouble. What you were not expecting was your insufferable coworker getting on his knees for you and giving you one of the most mind-blowing orgasms you’ve ever experienced, right after admitting he wants to date you (to put it plainly). What you also didn’t expect was his neediness. And how weak it made you feel. So much that you left the party wondering what his cum tastes like.

Who in their right mind wonders that about someone? Clearly you. Because clearly, you’re not in your right mind. You can’t be. Since when can you not control your impulses? To the point where you allow yourself to drag a man into a stranger’s room only to ask for explanations you don’t really need anyway? Since when do men’s explanations matter to you? Na Jaemin’s out of all men’s thoughts should be something of low significance to you. So why were you so bothered? Yeah. He kissed you out of the blue. So what? Something so easy to ignore, yet it had been gnawing at your brain like a parasite. A stupid fucking kiss that tasted like rum and coke.

You're still in bed, staring at the ceiling when your phone starts going off, slightly startling you out of your snoozy state.

“Hello?” You pick up without properly checking the screen.

“You sound cute when you’re sleepy.” Before you can even finish processing him, Jaemin’s annoyingly chirpy voice blasts through the speaker, breaking through the quiet of your room. Of course he’s a morning person.

“How’d you get my number?” You grumble, still not entirely awake but oddly pleased to hear him.

He must be in the middle of typing as you hear the keyboard clicking in the background. “Work group chat, silly.”

“And you’re calling at eleven am on a Sunday because...?” You shuffle onto your front and place your phone on your pillow after putting Jaemin on speaker.

“Well...” He drags the word as though he enjoys the suspense. Knowing his dramatic ass, he probably does. “I got up early to finish a paper, and now I’m feeling clingy with no one to cling onto.”

You catch yourself smiling into the pillow like an idiot. He should not have this effect on you. “Don’t you live with a thousand other men.”

“Just four actually.” His chuckle echoes, and you can picture his bright teeth a little too easily. “And you’d be surprised at how busy they all are. Well, apart from Jiji. He’s just dead.”

You’re not surprised in the slightest Jisung is not up and about considering the state he was in last night. What a messy boy. “What could they possibly be doing on a Sunday morning?”

“Hmm,” You imagine him swivelling in his chair in deep thought. “Haechan and Jeno are out on a double brunch date with their females, and Renjun... I actually have no idea. He doesn’t like seeing me in the mornings.”

It’s your turn to laugh. It comes out all muffled but you’re sure he can hear you. “I can see why. Also, females?”

“Yeah, speaking of females, can I come see you after I submit this?” He asks, like it’s something he’s asked a thousand times before. The question itself doesn't surprise you. You could tell it was coming from miles away. It’s just his casual tone that leaves you slightly perplexed.

“You sound awfully comfortable asking to invade my personal space.” You flip onto your back again, phone now on your chest.

“You didn’t mind me invading your personal space last night.” How can someone be so quick witted? Damn his sexy brain.

“Consider yourself lucky you’re not in my space right now.”

“Nothing lucky about that.” He whines playfully. “C’monnnn, I’ll bring food, and sweeties, and we can watch a film. Or just talk. Or you can sleep and I’ll just watch you.” He pleads hopefully, and a little too adorable for you to hold your ground.

“Creep.” You mumble defeatedly, and it’s mostly meant for yourself, but he picks up on it judging from the little hum he lets out, like he agrees.

You wonder if this man has ever had anyone tell him no in the past. If so, you’d like to ask them for advice.

When you hear his knock, you have just about finished putting fresh clothes on after your shower, your hair is still wet, and the taste of toothpaste too strong in your mouth.

Ever so punctual, there he is, leaning against your doorframe when you swing the door open. He doesn’t look as fresh and bright as he sounded on the phone, the tiredness evident in his eyes, but somehow, he looks even more handsome like this. You notice you’re matching, both wearing hoodies with your university’s logo printed on them, his grey sweatpants mirroring yours.

“Well, this is uncanny.” He speaks first, amused eyes taking in your attire the same way you’re taking in his.

“Come in before I change my mind.” You step aside to let him inside, unable to fight your smile when he takes off his shoes without you having to ask.

“I’m here now, no need to be so aggy.” He says with a reassuring pout you never fail to question. Because how does a grown man so masculine act so feminine and cutesy without a care in the world.

“We can chill in here, Winter’s at her boyfriend’s for the day.” You dismiss his antics and lead the way towards the small living room space you and your flatmate share. “We’ve got Netflix and Disney plus.”

He gasps, making you turn to look at him. “So we can watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians?”

“Absolutely not.” You deadpan. You refuse to watch something that will most likely obliterate your already barely functioning brain cells.

“Blue planet then?” He drops the takeout bags on your coffee table and you can see there’s a huge bag of Skittles and a pack of fresh cookies on top of the boxes. You try not to laugh at the thought of him standing in a bakery waiting to buy overpriced treats. As funny as it is, you can’t help but find it incredibly endearing too.

“So it’s either brainrot or full-on intellectuality with you.” You nod in fake approval.

“If you have beef with sir David Attenborough, I’m afraid I can’t invest in this.” He protests but still plops down on your sofa and snatches the TV remote off the table like he owns the place.

“Invest in what exactly?” You narrow your eyes at the ballsy statement, and he side-eyes you in return, brows lifting like the answer is self-explanatory. “Also, I don’t think anyone has beef with David Attenborough.”

“Wise.” He keeps his attention on the screen as he scrolls through Netflix, and suddenly you feel like you’re intruding in your own home. “I knew you were wifey material.”

The eye-roll is inevitable when you head for the kitchen to get water. Not because his silly comment offended you. But because it should have.

It’s maybe halfway through the first episode that you and Jaemin both have devoured your bowls of pho noodles and he quickly reaches for the cookies.

He offers you the box with a sweet smile, as if saying ‘do the honours’.

You instantly shake your head. “I’m too full.”

He pouts stubbornly, like you’ve offended him and confused him at the same time. “Wanna share one?” He asks, eyes big and full of hope and so unfairly pretty. And you can’t find it in you to deny him a second time.

“Yeah, fine, I’ll do half.”

“Yay.”

You observe him as he tears the lid off, carefully picks a cookie like it’s an important decision, and then splits it in two. You notice how cautious he is not to drop any crumbs on the blanket you’re sharing, keeping his hands above the container that’s resting now on his lap. You only realise you’re smiling when he offers you the slightly bigger half, and if he's noticed, he doesn’t comment on it, just waits patiently for you to take a bite, whales and dolphins forgotten in the background.

When the second episode starts, you realise you and Jaemin have barely exchanged any words since he stepped foot in your apartment. The silence hasn’t felt awkward at any point, but you can’t deny it’s a slightly unusual dynamic.

His newfound restlessness makes up for it, however.

You don’t say anything when you feel him staring, but you also can’t hide the little twitch of your mouth. And you know he notices when he shuffles a tiny bit closer, not enough to close the distance between you, but enough for you to get a whiff of his clean boyish scent. A chuckle brews in your chest but only escapes when he gently tugs on the blanket, trying to get your attention in a way that doesn’t require words.

He’s yet to tear his persistent eyes off you, probably amused by the deeper shade of your burning cheeks, so you bring your knees up to your chest, along with the hem of the blanket, seeking for cover. Your hand blindly reaches over to his side, fingers poking into his cheek, forcing his attention back on the TV, at which he shamelessly giggles. You don’t manage to retrieve your arm as he swiftly but so gently takes hold of your wrist and tugs the same way he did with the blanket, a subtle request for you to move into his space.

It’s way too easy. Just like most things in his life it seems. And as easily as you give in, it doesn’t feel wrong. Not when you so comfortably allow yourself to curl into his side. Not when he wraps an arm around your shoulders and lets you snuggle closer. Not when your cheek squishes against his chest, ear right above his steady heartbeat. Not when you feel his nose nudge you on the forehead. And definitely not when you hear his little sigh of relief.

You could pretend it doesn’t mean anything. You could just blame it on the tiredness and the fact that you’re both slightly hungover from last night. You could just be two people who casually ended up cuddling on the sofa while watching a documentary about creatures of the ocean. But the way your heart speeds up defies that. Just as easily as you fell into his arms just now.

“You smell nice.” He murmurs, the contentment in his voice and body language difficult to not make you feel warm and fuzzy too.

“So do you.” You slip, not really meaning to admit that you’ve been having the same thought. “Hope you don’t use one of those three in one shampoos that could kill a Victorian child.”

His chest vibrates under you, his loud sneaker making you laugh along. He lets his weight sink further into the cushions, moving you with him. “That’s actually offensive. I take my skincare very seriously.” His fingers threading through your hair make you feel woozy, goosebumps prickling on your nape, accompanied by a little shiver, which unfortunately doesn’t go unnoticed by Jaemin. “Aww,” He coos, hand repeating the action, this time lightly scratching your scalp. “That’s so cute, you like head scratches.”

“I’m not a fucking dog.” You grumble, with no intention of pulling away from his soothing touch.

“Hmm, I don't know,” He trails sceptically, fingers now scratching at the crown of your head, coaxing you further into drowsiness. “You are kind of like a puppy at times. All bark no bite.”

You nuzzle deeper into his neck, allowing your eyes to shut. “I bite when necessary.”

“I’m in deep shit right now if you’re a vampire.”

You let out a lazy giggle, hand tugging on his hoodie to reveal more of his neck. “Yeah, I could so easily eat you.”

“Sexy.” He says in a playful tone. “Doubt I’ll taste as good as you did last night.”

You’re weak. So fucking weak.

What the fuck are you even meant to say to that? And why did the words make your toes curl? You’ve been trying so hard not to let your mind wander to last night’s events, and not because you’re ashamed or embarrassed. Quite the opposite.

It would be wise to swerve the subject. Hell, it would be easier to pretend you’re asleep. But where’s the fun in that? Why miss the opportunity to see him squirm a little?

“I mean...” You hook your fingers over his neckline teasingly, before letting them trail upwards, your knuckles grazing his skin; first his neck, then the opposite side of his jaw, where your palm settles. “We could’ve found out last night if you hadn’t jizzed in your pants like a teenager.”

Silence. Even his breathing stops. You’re almost starting to worry you’ve pushed too far. And maybe you have. But his hand in your hair tightening and then pulling, even though harsh, it reassures you he's fallen face first into your trap. And a breathless laugh slips out when he forces you to look at him. The wicked smile on his face does something to your tummy.

“We could find out now.” He suggests. So predictable.

“I thought you wanted to watch Blue Planet.” You pout just like he would if he had the upper hand. Just like he did last night. Condescendingly.

His hold on your hair loosens, giving you leeway to bring your face closer to his, hand still cradling his jaw when you give him a very quick kiss on the cheek. You sense the hesitancy in his actions, both hands hovering close, but not properly touching you anymore.

“You okay?” You ask with genuine concern, urging him to look at you, not used to this demeanour from him.

“Yeah,” He nods quickly, arm settling around your waist in no time. “I’m just– I don’t want you to think that I came over for…”

“I don't.” You hold his face with both your hands, thumbs stroking his soft cheeks, a little rosy now.

His tiny nod makes your stomach do a flip. “Okay, good.” He nods again, more to himself this time, like he’s fighting an internal conflict. “Like, I know you might’ve heard things, and you probably think I just wanna get in your pants, but I swear I don’t– I mean, obviously, I do, but not in that way, you know?” He swallows visibly, and you’re too taken by his sudden outburst to interrupt him again. “Like, I do want you and I’ll do anything with you, but I don’t want that to be the main thing. Like, yeah, sex is great and I’m sure it’ll be fire with you, but I swear I just wanted to hang out today–”

“Jaemin.”

“Hm?” He looks at you with big eyes, like you’ve startled him out of a trance. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“Breathe, please.” You lightly shake his head, in hope of knocking some sense into him and bringing him back from his spiral. “I don’t know what you think I’ve heard, but I couldn’t care less about idiotic rumours–”

“Not all of it is, though.”

“Okay, and?” You straddle him abruptly, suddenly annoyed at his uncertainty. He’s blinking up at you like he needs something he’s not sure of. Such pretty eyes. “It’s sweet that you worry about this stuff. It means you care and I like that. But I'm not one to judge people based on their past. Unless they're cheaters or misogynists.”

"I've only had one girlfriend in high school and I think women should get paid more than men." He quickly admits.

Your heart overflows with fondness at how he clutches the blanket that’s loosely scattered around your thighs, his fingers fidgeting in an anxious manner you’ve never seen from him before. Adorable.

“I know you like me, I’m not dense.” You give into your instincts and shuffle closer, overcome with the need to have some form of direct contact, to feel his warmth. “And I'm absolutely fine with you wanting to get in my pants. As long as it’s not all you want.” You smile at his mouth parting, expression changing into something that resembles awe and realisation, as though you’ve solved a puzzle he’s been getting tortured by.

“It’s not.” He shakes his head in denial, his hands now on your thighs, a comforting weight.

“Good.” You encourage him with an affirmative nod, the tip of your nose barely touching his. You take in his features as he shuts his eyes and inhales slowly, his chest touching yours momentarily before he exhales, and you feel the intense want to smother him in affection. “You’re so cute.” Your lips pucker against his cheek like it’s a reflex. Like kissing his skin would scratch a long-lasting itch. “Why are you so cute, huh?” Another smooch, a lingering one this time. “So annoying.”

“Why are you being sweet?” He whines, as though bothered and confused by the sudden turn in your attitude. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m actually very clingy behind closed doors,” You trail more kisses down his jawline, letting your tongue make contact when you reach his neck. “So, you should be scared.”

He outright moans at the threat, or maybe at the way you’re lightly sucking on his pulse, his head tipping back to give you more space.

“Maybe you’re just bipolar.” He teases mindlessly, one hand sneaking into your hair, holding you in place, as the other drags up your thigh and stops at the small of your back, fingers ghosting over your ass, palm pressing you into him. You feel him growing under you, the subtle bulge poking you against the crease of your thigh, so you reposition your hips slightly, this time making sure you’re sitting directly on it.

“Yeah, I bet your freaky ass would love it if I had a mental disorder.” You tug on his hair, your mouth now on his left clavicle, teeth grazing his skin like a warning. “You’d probably wanna fix me.”

"Damn," He breathes out a fucked-out laugh, clearly entertained by your choice of words. “Am I that easy to read?”

“I just pay attention.” You say the words without much thought behind them, but the second they slip out, his mouth is on yours. And you give in quicker than you would’ve allowed if it were anyone else. His hand in your hair doesn’t give you much choice anyway, and neither does his tongue, swiping across your lips as he tilts your head gently. He tastes like candy and something familiar that has your mouth eagerly parting for more. The quietest of moans escaping your lungs reminds you of how much he weakens any restraint you always try to maintain.

Suddenly, ruining him seems more enticing than any other thought that occupies your mind in that moment. You could edge him enough to make him beg. He’d like that, right? He’d look so pretty crying.

You let him kiss you however he wants, without failing to notice how he tries to keep it languid and wet enough that it resembles the way he kissed you last night. Exactly how you told him you like to be kissed. Your tongue plays with his slowly, just like your hands slide from his neck to the zipper of his hoodie. It comes undone easily, and you can’t help but slip your hands underneath, nudging the fabric off his shoulders before you indulge in giving his uncovered arms a squeeze. He reciprocates with both his hands on your ass, kneading the full flesh and urging you to move your hips against his.

“Fuck,” He gasps against your mouth, his pelvis bucking off the sofa just a little, trying to get more friction when you keep your movements too slow.

“What do you need?” You break off the heated kiss, hands flat on his chest to hold him in place when he tries to trail after you. “I’ll do it, just want you to tell me.”

You know you’re being slightly selfish, but you also can’t pass on the opportunity to get him all putty and needy under you. He looks scrumptious with his cheeks all flushed, and his cute nipples poking through the white tank top he’s got under the hoodie that now hangs off his elbows. He looks so good that it feels wrong to touch him. Like you shouldn’t be allowed to, but he’s somehow letting you.

He’s fully erect now, his hard length resting a little too comfortably between your folds, proud and thick enough that you can feel the outline even through the layers of both your layers. He’s got a look of contemplation as he stares at your connected crotches, his legs spreading further, inevitably sliding you a little upwards, and his cock brushes against your clit just right, pulling a tiny whimper out of you.

“Anything I want?” He asks innocently, bunny teeth digging into his bottom lip as he bats his eyelashes up at you. There’s the devilish look you know.

“Mm, you gotta ask nicely first.” You match his tone, playing along whatever game he’s decided to start.

His eyes travel down, fingers slipping past your waist band just a tiny bit before letting it snap against your skin. “Just want these off.” He gestures at your bottoms.

“Panties too?” You climb off his lap to stand between his legs, already looking forward to feeling him with less layers in between.

“Up to you.” He shrugs, eyes now on your face as you slip the baggy garment down your legs, your intimate area covered by your long hoodie, that as opposed to his, is still zipped up. “Actually, yeah, those too.”

You instantly raise a challenging eyebrow, head tilting in warning.

“Pretty please?” He recovers quickly, sweet smile and obedient eyes making you feel giddy. He really does catch on quickly. Or maybe he just gets you too well.

The thin cotton tickles as it drags down your legs, some of your slick smearing on your knee as the seat of your underwear touches you directly. “Now, what?”

“Sit back down.” He doesn’t play as nice this time, and you don’t really need him to. You reclaim your seat, knees on either side of his hips, but you hover, too conscious of how wet you are and how easy to stain his gray sweats are.

“I’ll be real with you; those will get ruined if you keep them on.” You point your chin at his crotch, and he doesn’t say a word before pulling the unnecessary barrier down, letting it rest mid-thigh. His white boxers come into view, matching his tank top, making him look like he’s about to pose for an underwear ad, if you ignore the outrageous hard-on of course.

His hands feel hot on your thighs, the pads of his fingers sinking into your skin slightly. “Wigs? Please?”

“Wigs?” An unexpected giggle tumbles out of you at the somewhat new but cute nickname as you lower your bare centre onto the bulge beneath you, weight completely dropping on him. The throbbing between your legs intensifies when you witness his expression go from troubled to serene, the crease between his eyebrows disappearing, shoulders dropping. It’s like he’s just melted into the cushions, and you wish you could take a snapshot of his reaction with your brain.

“So wet.” He whispers, eyes fixated between your thighs even though he can’t see anything, and you shouldn’t, but you feel bad for him, all of a sudden wanting to give him anything he’s after.

“Wanna see?” You lean down, cupping his face in your palms, connecting your lips with his before he can speak. He moans against your mouth, the sound vibrating between your chests, your nipples pebbling at the needy sound. You kiss him harder in response, licking into his mouth like you need to quench an inexplicable thirst, and the more you keep kissing him, the louder he gets. One of his hands curls around the back of your neck, while the other one grabs onto your ass, forcing your hips to move.

“Don’t need to,” He mumbles, teeth biting onto your bottom lip, pulling at the skin before letting it snap back into place. “Can feel you just fine.”

For some reason, in your twisted mind, that sounds hotter than him begging to see the mess between your legs. What’s even hotter is the fact that you’ve barely done more than kiss him, barely shown any skin, yet he’s so responsive. His strained breathing goes straight to your mushy brain, his whimpers each time you grind on him sound sinful and soft at the same time. You're so lost in the heat that you’re not sure which pulse is more rigorous, the one in your chest or the one in your pussy.

“Ow!” You accidentally let out a loud whine when Jaemin’s hand pulls at your hair a little too hard.

“Sorry.” He laughs lightly, loosening his grip just a tad but still forcing your head back so he can start scattering kisses down your neck. The wet swipe of his hot tongue on your skin sends a shiver down your spine, hips accidentally rolling against him, exposed cunt dragging over his clothed cock, your mixed arousals seeping through the cotton, making everything slippery. Each time you grind down on him, he thrusts upwards, every movement turning into a push and pull game as his length slides between your folds just perfectly, the head nudging your clit just right.

“Shit, that’s so good.” He murmurs softly against your neck, both hands on your backside now, each one grabbing onto a cheek, guiding your rhythm whenever your hips stutter. His touch on your bare skin, tugging, squeezing, sends a bloom of fresh heat in your belly, more arousal dripping out of you and adding to the unholy mess.

“Aw, you gonna cum in your undies again?” You counter in a condescending tone, not quite settled with him thinking that he’s got the upper hand here.

“I will if you want me to.” He pants, no ounce of shame detected; his dignity clearly left somewhere behind.

You halt your movements, hands moving to his chest for support as you take in his perplexed expression. “Actually... Can you do something else for me?”

He nods without hesitation. “Mhm.” So sweet.

You scoot back on his lap, his hands dropping to his sides as he waits for your instructions. He looks like a lost puppy, staring up at you like you’ve got the solution to all his problems. And maybe you do. “Touch yourself.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, lips parting, his cute two front teeth poking out a tiny bit. “Really? Right now?”

“Yeah.” You lean back with your hands on his knees. “Wanna see.”

“Fuck.” He exhales shakily. “Why are you doing this to me?”

You catch yourself biting back a smirk at his unexpectedly shy demeanour. And you feel your heart stutter at the incredibly cute way he lifts his bum off the sofa as he shoves his briefs down, just enough to reveal what’s hiding underneath. And holy fuck.

It’s not just the length or the girth; it’s more the way it lightly slaps on his stomach, the tip not too far from his belly button, cute, pink and angry, the shade matching his swollen lips. It looks heavy, and you can’t help but wonder how it would feel to have him inside you, stretching your snug walls more than anyone has before.

“Pretty.” You mutter in awe, the word sneaking out before you can contain it.

“Did you just call my dick pretty?” He breathes out a bemused laugh.

You laugh along, more in confusion at your strange outburst of honesty, your eyebrows tensing. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

You almost feel guilty for the objectifying thoughts that pollute your brain, but it’s not like there’s much of his decorum left to preserve anyway. And how are you meant to behave yourself when he looks like he’s been plucked straight out of some sort of anime universe. Now you understand why he walks and carries himself the way he does. No one with a dick this good looking should be humble.

He wraps his fist around his twitching length, slowly teasing the head first, while his free hand reaches to grab onto your thigh. It seems more like a grounding gesture than anything else, as if he needs to be touching you somehow to stay sane. He carries a baffled expression, like he can’t believe he’s actually enjoying this, but a quiet moan proves exactly that.

“Wigs?” He squeezes your thigh lightly just to get your attention, obviously not aware that you’re transfixed by his every move.

“Hm?” You dumbly nod, the view too precious to miss, but in the back of your mind you’re very aware of the wetness that leaks out of you and onto his bare thigh.

“Can you– shit–” He hisses as his thumb brushes over the glistening tip. “Um, can you get it wet for me please?”

You obediently lean closer, head tipping forward so you can aim, and just like he so nicely asked, you let a long string of saliva dribble from your lips. It lands on the underside of his cock and trickles down to his fingers where he’s tightly gripping the base. He lathers the added lubrication all over his length, making the glide smoother and louder.

“Better?” You scoot a little closer, letting your hands cradle his flushed face, and you can’t help but push his messy fringe back, his sweaty forehead coming into view, dark eyebrows pinched in pleasure as he sets a steady pace; not too fast, not too slow.

“Yeah.” He sighs, leaning into your touch, nuzzling into your wrist before leaving a sloppy kiss there, just above the ink on your skin. “I don’t think I’m gonna last long.”

“That’s okay.” You encourage him with small pecks on the exposed side of his face.

“Fuck, I want you.” He pants needily, shattering your heart a little.

“I’m here.” You tangle your fingers in his hair, messily kissing down his neck, comforting him through the pleasure. “Want you too.”

His head lolls back, resting against the back of the sofa, and when you feel the speeding up of his arm, you inevitably look down, drinking the sinful sight like a renaissance painting. The slit of his cockhead oozes more precum with each upward stroke, the skin is more flushed than before, veins more prominent. You study how he likes to be touched, how he focuses on the tip more, fist twisting slightly before he glides down again. A tiny spasm of his pelvis sends an intense throb to your cunt, and the accidental moan you let out seems to spur his hand into faster and less coordinated jerks.

“Gonna cum.” He announces urgently, nails digging into your thigh as he starts trembling. “Oh my– fuck fuck fuck.”

You manage to lift his tank top just below his chest right before the first spurt of release paints his abs, and the second his lips part in ecstasy, you don’t miss the chance to stick your tongue past them, swallowing his deep grunts with a loud and sloppy kiss. His mouth barely moves, tongue lazily poking out to lick against yours between laboured breaths, and you feel powerless not to smile at his free hand cupping your jaw weakly, even through the haze of his orgasm and his inability to kiss you back properly.

"I'm so fucked." He whines, sounding like he's in pain, and for some reason, you don't urge him to elaborate, ignoring the need to know the exact meaning behind his words as well as the heavy feeling in your stomach.

“Can I clean it up?” You mumble mid kiss, throwing his words from last night back into his face.

He kisses you harder in response, his pleased groan vibrating between you. “Yeah? You wanna get on your knees for me?”

“Behave.” You let your fingers wrap around his throat in a quiet threat, though it doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. His wicked smile only betrays enjoyment and makes you pulse around nothing, reminding you that you’ve most likely drenched his thigh.

“I gave you a full on show and you’re worried about me behaving?” He presses a lingering smooch on your chin, then one on your cheek. “I think we’ve established the power imbalance here, don’t worry.”

What an oblivious, silly little man. He clearly has no grasp on the effect he has on you, and it couldn’t get sweeter than that. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, though, and you certainly wouldn’t want his head getting any bigger. “Whatever you say.”

“What–”

“Shush.” You shut him up with a light squeeze around his throat before swiftly sinking down to your knees between his spread legs, the carpeted floor slightly digging into your skin, but not enough to distract you. What does distract you is the mess he’s made. His fingers are now limp around the base of his softening cock, covered in his release that has somehow not reached his chest. You mentally give him points for decent aim, having experienced unwanted facials in the past. Nothing you would have minded in this case, though.

“This feels awfully scrutinising.” He points out with a playful tilt of his head, clearly unbothered by your staring but impatient enough to kick up a fuss. “It’ll dry if you– oh shit, okay.”

His reaction is almost laughable when you lick a stripe from his balls to his tip, lapping up as much of his cum on your tongue as you can in one go and swallowing the salty essence before diving in for seconds. You teasingly suckle onto one ball, before repeating the same with the other one while intentionally letting out a moan that earns you his praise. "Fuck, you're so filthy."

You slowly blink up at him as you provocatively flatten your tongue over his coated fingers, and he gets the hint with a lustful glint in his eyes. He so willingly slips three of his salty digits past your wet lips whimpering when you eagerly slurp everything up, sliding your tongue between them before sucking hard and maintaining eye contact. You drag your mouth off with another performative moan and focus on his cock again, now replacing his hand with yours and relishing in the way he feels in your palm. Heavy, warm and overwhelmingly thick like you predicted, the skin velvety soft and slippery with your spit. So fucking perfect.

"You tryna make me hard again or what?" He rasps in most likely warranted frustration, though, his clean hand on your nape says otherwise.

“As if you’d mind fucking my throat.” You whisper, scattering languid kisses up one side of his shaft, your lips dragging across the sensitive skin until you reach the bulbous head that almost begs for your attention.

“I wouldn’t. That’s the problem.” His thumb strokes along your jaw, soft as ever, making you swoon, goosebumps raising along your neck and arms, your thighs rubbing for some much-needed friction.

“How’s that a problem?” You ask innocently, glancing up at him before swirling the tip of your tongue agonisingly slowly around the shiny head, then letting your lips vacuum around it, welcoming his taste in your mouth straight from the source, like slurping on an ice lolly on the hottest day of summer.

“We’ll be here all fucking day.” He lazily laughs, wincing when you suck harder and take him a little deeper. “Easy you demon, it’s still sensitive.”

You decide to ease up on the torture and abandon his cock with one last kiss before moving onto his abs, slurping and shamelessly licking along his skin, making sure not to miss a drop of his cum. And when you’re satisfied with your work and he’s whining and squirming as you hoped, you finally resurface for air. You don’t get much of it, though. His mouth quickly finds yours in a filthy battle of tongue and teeth, and you feel helpless at the thought of him moaning at his own taste. You're pretty sure there's cum smeared on your nose and chin, but he doesn't seem to give a fuck.

“Bend over the table.” You feel the seriousness in his tone in your stomach, excitement, and uncertainty blooming.

“I thought we weren’t fucking today.”

“We’re not.” He confirms with a snap of his boxers back into place, covering your new favourite toy.

“So, why–”

“Bend the fuck over, Y/N.” It sounds more like a threat, and you can tell he’s very much done with your bullshit now the blood has travelled up to his brain again. You also don’t miss the lack of a cutesy nickname this time. And you’re positive your name has never sounded sexy in a man’s mouth before. And so, you hold back on the questions this time and do as you’re told, curious and eager to find out what his dominant side entails.

The yelp you let out when he manhandles you abruptly almost sounds animated. Your front is pressed against the wooden surface of the coffee table you remember purchasing from Ikea about a year ago, and your remaining layers are shoved up, now resting just below your tits as Jaemin hovers behind you on his knees.

"So pretty like this," He praises as he slots between your legs, easily probing them apart, and you suddenly feel incredibly exposed with your backside and pussy out in the open air. "Knew your ass would be a fuckin' dream."

“Jaem?” You call for him more desperately than you intend, arching your back a little to tempt him more.

“Yeah?” He whispers above you, running his hands over the dip of your waist and down to your hips. So gently you feel your eyes getting heavy. He's then gathering both your hands at the small of your back, hold loose around your wrists but it's enough to make a point. Enough to leave you aching and helpless.

“Please do something.” You try to sound serious, but the whiny edge in your voice slips through regardless as you waggle your hips in desperation. "My clit feels like it's about to explode."

“Awh,” He coos with a satisfied laugh, his chest now flush against your back, radiating warmth as his lips leave a trail of tiny kisses from your temple down to your ear. "Needy baby.

He gently sucks on the lobe before letting his tongue tease the shell and then your helix piercing, all while his free hand sneaks around you and down to the apex of your thighs. You’re so worked up and sensitive, even a light swipe of his fingers across your swollen nub makes you squirm, arms fighting his firm hold off fruitlessly.

“Shhh, be good.” He instructs, voice steady with a sultry edge to it, sending more sparks through your body. Your nipples are so erect and tingly against the hard surface, they almost hurt with need for attention.

Your pathetic mewl resembles a cry that sounds offending to your pride. So much that you manage to piss yourself off. “Stop playing games with me, you prick.”

You feel him falter for a second, and then he taps on your pussy lips in warning, halting any movement from your pelvis. “That’s rich coming from you.” His two middle fingers, the ones you earlier had your lips wrapped around, prod at your weeping entrance before he runs them up and down your slit, spreading your slick down to your clit where he focuses his attention after a couple more teasing strokes. “Been fucking with my head since day one.” He admits openly, the honesty sitting heavy in your guts, making your lungs malfunction as he slowly swirls his fingers around the bundle of nerves. Too delicately. So much that it feels like the wickedest game of edging. So much that your pussy contracts around emptiness.

“You’ve known for a while now, haven’t you?” He whispers against your neck, and you aimlessly try to suppress your cries when the circles on your clit become a little harsher than you can handle, the heat in your belly begging for a release that approaches shockingly fast. “That I’m obsessed with you.”

The feeling is euphoric, almost overwhelming in a way you can’t explain. You could swear it’s the infatuation his voice drips with that clouds your senses more than the intensity of the unexpected orgasm itself. “Oh my god, what the fuck.”

“You’re doing so good.” He murmurs, clearly affected as he releases your hands and brings a safe arm around you, grounding you through every little spasm of your muscles, the strokes on your pulsing nub still precise and relentless, even as your legs tremble with oversensitivity. “That’s it, baby.”

“Please, I can’t cum again.” You feel tears threatening to spill from the overwhelming pleasure. “I feel like–” You’re spluttering nonsense along with weak sobs as your cunt keeps clenching around nothing, dripping slick down your inner thighs. “Ah–!”

You’re pulled upright without warning, clearly losing a battle you’re not even fighting as you let Jaemin drag you with him on the floor, positioning you between his spread legs as he leans against the sofa with a strong arm slung across your torso like a seat belt.

“Legs up.” He instructs promptly, clearly not in the mood to hover, and the second your knees are bent and far apart, you don’t even have time to accommodate your body in the new position before two of his fingers find their way in your sopping hole this time, the stretch intense but somehow delightful.

“Shit, Jaem– wait!” You exclaim in utter shock at the unexpected intrusion, your walls fluttering around his nimble digits.

“Does it hurt?” His fingers stay hooked inside you, tickling a deep spot that only you can normally find this quickly, but he stops moving at your distress.

“No, just – just give me a sec.” You lean back in his embrace, melting against the warmth of his chest, head limply resting on his shoulder while he drapes his arm over your sternum, hand finding its way to your jaw, urging you to turn your head and meet his dark eyes, full of want and hues of brown you hadn't noticed before.

“You’re so pretty.” He mumbles sweetly, lips brushing against yours before delivering a soft peck that makes your stomach flutter along with your stuffed pussy. “You like it when I talk to you?”

You can sense the teasing lilt, but you nod anyway, not having the backbone to talk back when he’s got you spread out all to himself. And now you hope he knows there’s no point talking about power imbalance when just a few words of praise and a slow drag of his fingers against your walls have you suffocating. Your legs are already fighting to stay open when slow strokes gradually turn into short jabs against your g-spot, and gentle pecks turn into lazy open-mouthed kisses that leave you both breathless.

The fact that he's using the same hand he pleasured himself with to get you off, tickles your brain in ways you didn't think possible, making your insides feel funny. And you find yourself wanting to shake your next thought out of your lust-clouded head. I shouldn't have sucked his fingers clean. Are you really that twisted? Wishing a man would fuck his cum in you? Na Jaemin of all men?

“M’so close.” You pant into his mouth when you feel the tight bubble of tension in your tummy threatening to burst for the second time, only not as quick as before.

“Yeah?” He drags his hand to your neck, fingers tightening like a necklace over your pulse points. “Gonna cum for me?”

“Uh-huh.” You absentmindedly let your tongue brush against his bottom lip, and he eagerly sucks it in his mouth while the obscene squelching of his hand ruining your pussy echoes around the quiet room.

“Fuck, how are you so wet?” He moans, adding momentum in the motions of his wrist, fingers now pistoning in and out of you, palm faintly slapping against your folds. Just when you're about to say you need more, he buries his fingers deep and crooks them along the curve of your front wall, rubbing against your sweet spot and pulling an incoherent exclaim of astonishment from you. His thumb starts rapidly flicking up and down, stimulating your needy clit just the right amount, and when you glance down, catching a glimpse of the sinful sight – him pleasuring you like it's a mission – it’s game over for you.

“Shit, shit, shit I'm–” Your mouth parts in a silent squeak, head tilting back in eye-rolling pleasure that feels too good for your sanity to stay intact. You feel the thick arousal trickling down to your ass as Jaemin’s fingers keep pressing upwards through the constricting of your throbbing walls. Your hips uncontrollably stutter with the little aftershocks of pleasure that he forces out of you, and you realise how tightly your hands are clutching on his thighs, nails clawing onto the cotton of his sweats as you hang on by a thread.

“So fucking hot.” He mumbles against your temple, his breath warming your already heated face as he slowly drags his fingers out of your still lightly pulsating opening. He coos when you wince at the emptiness, his hot palm resting over your folds in a delicate and oddly comforting manner. “You good?”

You close your legs around his hand, trapping him there as you try to get your lungs to regain proper function. You manage to hum with a weak nod, already aware of the sweat dripping down the side of your face. “I feel like I need another shower.”

“Nuh-uh,” He keeps his free arm wrapped around your shoulders as he gently rocks you side to side, slowly bringing you back down from the clouds. "Wanna cuddle you.”

You let out a long sigh of contentment, already feeling too exhausted as you descend from cloud nine, and a little too smitten to deny him anything. "I suppose we can cuddle."

"It's so cute that you're still trying to act all mean." He giggles cutely before sucking onto the apple of your cheek, making you whine in disgust at the slobber he leaves on your skin.

"Ew! That's gross, you–"

He kisses you on the wet patch he just left, laughing at the way you try to swat him away. You can't help the giddiness that blossoms in your chest, hating how weak you feel for his odd ways of affection.

"Oh, no! We forgot about Blue Planet!" He exclaims in fake distress, finally ending the wet torture he was putting your cheek through.

A breathless laugh erupts from your chest when you glance at the forgotten TV, Netflix somehow aware of your distraction as the screen reads in big letters: Are you still watching?

The documentary has long since faded into the background. The snacks are half-finished. The blanket is messily draped on the floor.

Somewhere between pho, cookies, and whatever the hell just happened, the day has slipped away from you. And for the first time, the thought of Jaemin leaving feels a little unbearable.

Not just tonight. But eventually.

Because while you've spent the last few months trying not to think too hard about Na Jaemin, time hasn't exactly stopped moving.

You're only half a semester away from his graduation. From whatever big plans he's got for his future and from him becoming someone you'll no longer rely on to make shifts feel a little less monotonous and a little more chromatic.

Half a semester away from watching him walk out of your life just as easily as he barged into it.

Part two coming soon... <3

cookie's note: for the love of GAWD take my laptop away from me i almost went insane writing this 😀🔫 i hope it's what people wanted/hoped for and if not then don't tell me bc i will dead ass cry haha im so serious haha pls don't be mean like oc, i'm not like jaemin!! i will only accept loveeee!! part two is still in the wips but i'm hoping it won't take as long as part one (god forbid). as always pls pls pls share your thoughts with me!! i love interacting with ya'll and reading your reactions! ILY 🤎

👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 i'd also like to give an honourary mention to my beloved wife @withlovemark who read this before i posted it and shared her honest thoughts with me when i was in desperate need of a helping hand (also guys, you didn't hear it from me but i think she likes jaemin a lil too much if you ask me.... not jel or anything... just saying...)💓

✨ ps. pls spare me some liquid love on kofi if you liked this story help a girlie out i'm so broke and i need to book a flight home 🧚🏼‍♂️

📖 check out my other works here

©neogotmycookie 

The set is dimly lit, all soft reds and blacks, the kind of lighting that makes skin glow like it’s already slick. Cameras positioned, crew quiet, air thick with the industrial sweetness of lube, latex, and the faint, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline—though here, it’s not so much anticipation as it is tedium, everyone waiting for the next instruction, the next cut.

Haechan is perched in his director’s chair like always—legs spread, arms crossed, black hoodie up, expression is half-lidded, mouth slack, utterly unruffled. Bored as fuck.

He likes to watch the scene as a whole, not the parts: the shudder of a shoulder, the matched arch of spines, the geometry of bodies weaving a single shape. There’s no eroticism to it anymore, at least not for him. If he feels anything, it’s the dull, satisfying click of a puzzle piece snapping into place.

Hundreds of scenes, maybe a thousand, have blurred together since he started this job. He’s watched every way a person can cum, and half the ways a person can fake it. He has memorized the pitch and cadence of moans, the difference between a real orgasm and a theatrical one, and the precise window—usually less than three minutes—before a boner becomes a liability on camera

His discipline is legendary; he’s never popped wood on set, not even once, not even when he was nineteen and the girls were all older and he had something to prove. He’s immune—a fucking monk

To him, porn stopped being exciting years ago. It’s just product now. Lighting. Framing. Sellable shots.

So today is supposed to be like any other. The schedule says: opening vignette, oral, first position, second position, cumshot, credits. The contract talent are already running lines and limbering up in the green room. There’s nothing on the call sheet that reads as unusual.

But then you walk onto set.

You’re new—he knows this before you even speak.

You’re the new girl, and it’s obvious. Everything about the way you stand—towel wrapped tight enough to choke arterial flow, eyes darting, breath lost somewhere in your chest—screams “first real gig.” No fake lashes, no caked-on foundation, no stage persona yet to hide inside. Just you, raw and exposed, skin already flushing from the robe drop and the sudden attention of three different lenses, each click and whirr doubling your nerves.

The scene’s supposed to be “natural couple, first time,” but the male lead—some generic, muscle-thick dude with a jaw you could sand plywood on—has all the sexual chemistry of a dishrag.

You think his name might be Chad? Whatever. He doesn’t even pretend to care. He’s flipping through his phone right up to the second “places, everyone,” gets called, barely glancing your way except to ask if you’re “tight with overs or can you take a big zoom.” You have no idea what that means, so you just nod, and he laughs without looking up.

When the camera rolls, Chad’s hands come at you—too fast, all palm, no finesse. It’s like he’s using your clit as a joystick: sharp, dry, mechanical. The friction stings. You keep waiting for him to notice you’re not… primed. He doesn’t.

You try to smile, a tiny “I’m good, keep going” nod, but it’s not in your voice yet. You’re trying—God, you’re trying—Your hips roll, hoping to catch a better angle, your own fingers twitching at your side, desperate to take over. Gasps, soft and uncertain, slip from your lips; you keep pitching your lines higher, like maybe you can sell it if you play the wide-eyed ingenue and act surprised by touch itself, but it’s obvious it’s not hitting right.

The crew is silent, but not out of respect. You can feel the collective disappointment in the air, a staleness that grows with each awkward grin. You catch the boom guy’s reflection in the glass; he looks like he’s holding his breath, his mouth twisted in a grimace like he’s physically pained by how forced it all sounds.

The camera operator is already bored, drinking his coffee with one hand while the other steers the gimbal dutifully back and forth. The only person actually watching is the director, Haechan, who hasn’t blinked for what feels like five minutes.

You’ve heard a dozen rumors about him—strict, never smiles, hates ad-libs, will shut down a scene if the lighting is off by half a stop. But he’s never once yelled, never once embarrassed talent in front of the crew. He just sits there, hoodie up, one knee bouncing, hands clenched on his clipboard. Judging by the little twitch in his jaw and the way his pencil is slowly being crushed into splinters, this is not the performance he wanted.

Chad misses his mark again, hand slipping, and you yelp, an ugly real sound through the room like a burst of microphone feedback.

Haechan’s jaw ticks.

“Cut,” he snaps, voice sharper than usual. The crew freezes.

Every head in the room snaps up—boom guy, focus puller, even the veteran makeup artist, who’s been boredly lint-rolling pubes off the sheets for the last twenty minutes. Chad, the male talent, straightens up like a scolded puppy, dick bobbing stupidly.

Haechan rises from his seat slowly. The room suddenly feels smaller. The whole crew tries to look busy, but everyone’s watching him from the corners of their eyes.

He crosses the set in three long strides, he doesn’t bother with the fake set stairs—just swings one leg up onto the platform and steps directly into the “bedroom,” the mock-up of a midcentury hotel suite they’ll probably tear down by tomorrow.

Haechan steps right up to the mattress, looming at the edge, and for a second you think he’s going to just call it—wrap early and go home. But then he looks down at you.

You stayed at your position: sprawled on the sheets, hair a mess already, thighs parted. Your skin is sticky with the glycerin spray they use to make people look “just-fucked.” Your chest rises and falls fast.

“Move,” he tells Chad, low, no room for argument. Chad scrambles off the bed.

Haechan doesn’t sit where Chad was. He remains standing at the edge, close enough that you can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, undercut with the faint salt of skin.

He doesn’t touch you. Not directly.

Instead he reaches for Chad’s hand. The one that was just pawing, ineptly, at your clit, dry and imprecise and barely tolerable. Haechan’s fingers close around Chad’s wrist. His grip is gentle but absolute. Chad doesn’t even try to resist.

Then, with infinite patience, he starts to move Chad’s fingers over your clit, guiding it in slow, deliberate circles. He moves it exactly the way you like it; not pressing hard, just... teasing. Perfect pressure. Lazy figure-eights that make your hips twitch involuntarily. Just shy of too gentle, slow enough to make you ache.

“Like this,” Haechan says, and his voice is all gravel and velvet, the kind of voice you can feel in your spine. Haechan’s eyes never leave yours.

You bite your lip. Hard. Trying not to whimper.

You try not to react. ‘I am a professional. I am being paid for this.’ you thought. But your body doesn’t get the memo.

Heat lances through your core, pooling there, making your thighs tense and your toes curl against the sheets. You force your breath to stay even, but it helps nothing. Haechan’s gaze is a hand all by itself, pinning you to the bed, and your body starts to betray you: nipples tightening, hips rocking up, a sound leaking out that was never in the script.

He watches all of it. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the brown of his irises.

He's still guiding Chad's fingers under his, but it might as well be his hand. The rhythm is his. The control is his. Every tiny hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes—he sees it. Drinks it.

Chad’s breathing gets weird and shallow, but Haechan doesn’t even acknowledge him. Chad might as well be a prop now—a toy in the director’s hand, moving exactly the way Haechan wants.

Seconds stretch. Haechan keeps Chad’s rhythm brutally consistent, never speeding up, never varying, until your entire lower body is shaking. You want to close your eyes, to escape the intensity, but you can’t look away from Haechan.

You don’t dare make a sound. You do anyway.

It’s a soft, broken whine. It feels like being split open under stage lights. You can’t remember the camera or the crew. It’s just you and him and the steady, inescapable pressure building inside your skull.

You’re trembling now. Not acting. Not really. The way Haechan’s guiding—precise, patient, almost tender in its cruelty.

Haechan’s throat bobs. Once. Hard.

He leans in just a fraction—enough that his breath ghosts over your knee.

“Better?” he murmurs. It’s quiet, like it’s meant only for you.

You nod. Barely. Eyes glassy.

There’s the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth before he finally releases Chad’s hand. Chad stumbles a little, like he’s forgotten how to stand on his own, but Haechan has already forgotten him.

“Good girl,” he says, so soft it’s almost sweet. Then louder, to the crew: “Reset. We’re going again. And Chad—” He finally looks at the guy. “Watch. Learn.”

Haechan steps back to his chair. Sits. Crosses one leg over the other.

But under the table, out of frame, he has to adjust himself. Discreet. Jaw clenched.

He’s trying for nonchalance, but his face—so carefully neutral a minute ago—is barely holding together.

Because fuck.  

He’s so hard it hurts.

And he knows—deep in his gut—that this scene isn’t going to end with just one take.

Not with you looking at him like that.

The cameras roll again. Reset. Lights adjusted just so—soft, warm, flattering. The room hums with low chatter from the crew, but Haechan’s world has narrowed to one thing: you.

He’s back in his chair, legs spread wide like always, one elbow on the armrest, chin in his hand. To anyone watching, he looks the same—cool, detached, the veteran who’s seen every angle, every fake orgasm, every scripted moan.

Except right now, his pulse is hammering in his throat.

Chad’s back between your legs, trying again. Better this time—sort of. He’s following the rhythm Haechan drilled into him earlier, but it’s still mechanical. Predictable. Your body responds anyway because you’re a professional (or trying to be), arching just enough, lips parting on soft, breathy sounds that hit Haechan like a punch.

He watches your face—the way your brows knit when the pressure builds, the flutter of your lashes when it almost tips over, the way your mouth falls open on a silent gasp before the sound actually escapes. Those little, real reactions. The ones no one else notices because they’re too busy staring at tits or ass or whatever the money shot demands.

But Haechan notices.

He notices everything.

“Camera two, tight on her face,” he calls out, voice steady even though his grip on the armrest is white-knuckled. “Capture the eyes. The lips. Make it intimate. She’s the star—sell that.”

The operator nods, zooms in. Haechan’s gaze flicks to the monitor feed beside him—your expression filling the screen in high def. Cheeks flushed, pupils dark, lips swollen from biting them. Every tiny hitch, every shiver.

Your eyes flicker to him.

Just once at first. Quick. Like you’re checking if he’s still watching.

He is.

Always.

You hold it this time. Longer. Your gaze locks with his across the dimly lit set—through the haze of lights and lenses and bodies moving around. It’s not acting. Not really. There’s heat in it. Question. Challenge. Need.

Haechan doesn’t blink.

His jaw flexes. He shifts in the chair—subtle, but fuck, the friction against his straining cock makes his vision white out for a second. He forces himself still. Professional. In control.

“Slow it down,” he directs, quieter now, almost to himself. “Chad—tease. Don’t rush. Let her build.”

Chad obeys. Your hips roll up instinctively, chasing the touch. A soft whimper slips out—real, broken—and Haechan’s breath catches audibly. He covers it with a cough, but his free hand drops to his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Anything to stop himself from palming over his jeans right here, right now, in front of the whole crew.

Your eyes find him again. This time they stay. Glassy. Pleading. Like you’re performing for him. Not the camera. Not the future viewers. Him.

He swallows thickly. Leans forward just a fraction.

“Camera one—lower angle on her thighs,” he says, voice rougher. “Show the tremble. The way she’s shaking for it.”

The shot changes. Your legs part a little more, muscles quivering under soft skin. Another sound escapes you—higher, needier—and Haechan’s control frays another inch.

He’s never been this hard on set. Never this invested. Never this fucking gone.

You arch again, head tipping back, but your eyes snap right back to his like a magnet. Your lips part around a silent word that hits him like a physical blow—his name, unmistakable even from here, the shape of those syllables burning into his retinas.

He exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled.

“Good,” he murmurs, low enough that only he himself can hear it. “Just like that. Keep looking at me.”

He draws in a slow breath, like he’s trying to breathe around something lodged in his ribs.

And he knows—deep in his gut, where logic has already left the building—that this isn’t just a scene anymore.

This isn’t normal.

He’s directed hundreds of girls. Thousands of takes.

But this is different.

You’re not performing at the camera.

You’re looking at him.

And the worst part—the part that makes something tighten low in his stomach—is that he doesn’t want you to stop.

That’s the problem.

---

The break is short—five minutes, tops. Just enough time for the crew to stretch, grab water, reset lights that don’t actually need resetting. Haechan uses it to pull you aside, away from the main set, into the little curtained-off “green room” corner that’s really just a folding chair and a folding table with bottled water and a half-eaten box of donuts.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, hoodie a bit low over his eyes like he’s trying to hide how intently he’s looking at you. Professional. Always professional.

“Hey,” he starts, voice low so no one else hears. “You’re doing good out there. Really good. But listen—I know this industry chews people up if they push too hard. Especially the first few shoots.”

You nod, heart already doing that stupid flutter thing because he’s actually talking to you like a person, not just talent.

He drags one hand across his jaw, the shadow of stubble catching on his palm. “Look—I know it’s your first real set. This place, the lights, being so exposed. It’s a lot. The crew’s always more intense than you expect. They can be…” He shrugs, searching for the word, “overstimulating. Even when they don’t mean to.” He looks up, and for a split second, you could swear you see his mouth tighten, like he’s angry on your behalf.

You nod, because he’s right—it is a lot. Your body is still humming, not from what Chad did, but from the before and the after, from the fact that you can still feel Haechan’s eyes on you from across the room, even now.

He licks his lips, eyes flicking to your face, then quickly away. “I know the expectation is—” He gestures, vague, like he can’t be bothered to say the words ‘orgasm’  or ‘squirting’ out loud.

“You don’t have to cum for real every take,” he continues, eyes flicking over your face like he’s reading a script he’s memorized. “Fake it. Sell the build-up, the tremble, the little gasps—most viewers can’t tell the difference anyway. And honestly? Forcing it every time strains your pelvis like hell. I’ve seen girls limping off set after a long day. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Your breath catches. He’s… thoughtful? Actually concerned? You’ve heard horror stories about directors who don’t give a fuck, who just yell “harder” until someone cries. But here he is, warning you about your own body like he cares if you walk out of here okay.

He must say this to every new actress, right? Standard protocol. Still, the way he’s looking at you—soft around the edges, almost gentle—makes your stomach flip.

“And if anything hurts,” he adds, quieter now, “even a little. You tell me. We stop. No questions. Got it?”

You swallow. Nod again. “Got it.”

He gives you the tiniest smile—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—then pushes off the wall. “Good. Take two in a bit. Drink some water.”

He walks away first, leaving you standing there with your pulse in your throat and a sudden, embarrassing rush of warmth between your legs.

Because fuck.  

He noticed. He cared. And now all you can think about is his voice saying “tell me” and “stop” like he’d actually listen, like he’d protect you mid-scene if you needed it.

By the time they call action again, you’re already slick. Not from Chad’s earlier fumbling. Nope. It was from Haechan’s five-minute pep talk. From the way his eyes lingered when he said “good.” From imagining what it would feel like if those careful, controlled hands were the ones touching you instead.

Chad slides back between your thighs, condom on, positioning himself. You spread a little wider, trying to look natural for the three cameras positioned around the bed.

He pushes in slow—standard porn entry shot, nothing special.

But your brain short-circuits.

You picture Haechan instead.

The way he’d hold your hips steady. The way he’d watch your face the whole time, cataloging every twitch like he did earlier. The low, wrecked murmur of “just like that” right against your ear. The way he’d probably tease you first—slow rolls, shallow thrusts—until you were begging without words.

Chad moves. Steady. Mechanical. Like a metronome with abs.

You close your eyes for a second. Imagine it’s Haechan’s weight pressing you down. Haechan’s breath on your neck. Haechan’s cock stretching you, filling you, owning every gasp.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

The coil tightens fast—too fast. Heat rushes low, thighs trembling for real this time. Your nails dig into the sheets. A broken whimper slips out, unscripted. Your thighs lock around Chad's waist so hard he grunts in surprise.

Chad keeps going, oblivious.

But across the set, Haechan freezes.

He’s watching the monitor, jaw slack for half a second before he recovers. Your eyes find his through the haze—glassy, desperate—and you don’t look away.

You come.

Hard.

For real.

Waves crashing through you, back arching off the bed, a choked sob of his name almost escaping before you bite it back.

Your walls flutter and clench around Chad (poor Chad), but behind your eyelids it's Haechan you’re seeing. It's Haechan destroying you, it’s Haechan you’re coming for.

The cameras keep rolling.

Haechan’s hand shoots up—silent signal to keep shooting—but his other fist is clenched so tight on the armrest the knuckles are bone-white. His breathing is shallow. Visible. He’s staring like he’s forgotten how to blink.

“Cut,” he finally rasps, voice wrecked. Too late. The take’s already gold.

The crew starts clapping—thinking it’s great acting.

You’re still trembling, aftershocks rolling through you, thighs slick, heart hammering.

Haechan doesn’t clap.

He just watches you.

And when your eyes meet again—post-orgasm haze and all—there’s no pretending anymore.

He knows.

You know he knows.

And the look on his face says this shoot just changed everything.

---

The set lights dim one by one, the crew packing up with the usual post-shoot chatter—someone laughing about how the take was “money,” another clapping you on the shoulder with a genuine “First gig and you killed it, girl. Natural. We’re booking you again for sure.” Chad gives you a fist bump and a wink that feels oddly hollow now. You smile, thank them, heart still racing from the aftershocks, thighs sticky under the robe you’ve hastily tied.

You glance toward Haechan’s chair.

It’s empty.

He’s already gone.

No goodbye, no “good work,” no lingering look like before. Just… vanished. The director who’d been staring holes through you for hours suddenly can’t even meet your eyes on the way out.

The disappointment hits sharper than it should. You tell yourself it’s nothing—he’s busy, he’s a pro, he probably does this every shoot. But the ache between your legs pulses in protest, like your body knows better.

Meanwhile, across the city, Haechan barely makes it through his apartment door.

Keys clatter on the floor. He doesn’t bother with lights. The hallway is dark, just the faint blue glow from the streetlamp outside bleeding through the blinds. He kicks the door shut behind him, back slamming against it for a second as he drags in a ragged breath.

His cock is still painfully hard—has been since that last take, since your real, broken orgasm rolled through you while staring straight at him. The memory is burned behind his eyelids: your lashes fluttering, lips parted on that choked little sound, the way your hips jerked like you couldn’t help it, like it was *him* making you come apart.

“Fuck,” he hisses, already fumbling with his belt.

He doesn’t even get the jeans all the way down.

They catch at mid-thigh, boxers shoved just low enough to free himself. His hand wraps around his length—hot, leaking, so sensitive the first stroke makes his knees buckle. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold floor, legs splayed, head tipped back against the wood.

He doesn’t tease himself. No slow buildup. He’s too far gone for that.

He starts fast. Rough. Fist tight, twisting at the head on every upstroke, thumb smearing the pre-cum that’s been leaking since the second you locked eyes during that final thrust.

His mind replays it in filthy, high-definition detail.

Your face on the monitor—close-up, just like he’d ordered. Brows pinched, mouth slack, eyes glassy and fixed on him like the cameras didn’t exist. The way your tits rose and fell with every shallow pant. The tremble in your thighs when Chad pushed in deeper. The exact second your walls must have clenched—because your whole body arched, spine bowing off the sheets, a soft, wrecked whimper spilling out that wasn’t scripted, wasn’t fake.

He groans low in his throat, hips jerking up into his hand.

“Fuck—look at you,” he mutters to the empty hallway, voice hoarse. “Coming so pretty for me… weren’t you?”

He imagines it’s him between your legs instead.

Not Chad’s clumsy rhythm. His.

He pictures pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. Slow at first—teasing, shallow rolls just to watch your frustration build, to hear you whine his name. Then deeper. Harder. Bottoming out every time until your nails dig into his back, until you’re shaking, begging, “Haechan—please—don’t stop—”

His strokes speed up. Sloppy now. The wet sound of his fist echoing in the quiet apartment.

He replays your eyes—those little glances you kept throwing him between takes, like you were performing just for him. The way they went wide and hazy right before you tipped over the edge. The way your lips formed that silent, desperate shape—his name? A plea? He doesn’t know, but he pretends it was both.

“Wanted it to be me, didn’t you?” he growls, hips snapping up harder. “Wanted my cock stretching you open… fucking you until you couldn’t breathe… until you came all over me like that again—”

His free hand fists in his hoodie, yanking it up so he can see himself—thick, flushed, veins standing out, slick shining on every downstroke. He imagines it’s your wetness instead. Your heat. Your tight, fluttering walls gripping him so good he can barely think.

He pictures flipping you over, face down, ass up—grabbing your hips and slamming back in while you muffle your cries into the sheets. Or maybe on your back, legs over his shoulders so he can watch every inch disappear inside you, watch your face crumple every time he hits that spot that makes you sob his name.

His balls draw up tight. Heat coils low and vicious.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he pants, voice cracking. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days… gonna make you come again just watching me lose it inside you—”

The first pulse hits like a shockwave.

He chokes on a moan, head slamming back against the door as he spills over his fist—hot, thick ropes streaking across his stomach, dripping down his knuckles. His hips jerk through it, riding the waves, imagining it’s your cunt milking him dry instead.

He keeps stroking through the oversensitivity until it hurts, until every last drop is wrung out, until he’s trembling and gasping against the wood.

When it’s over, he slumps there on the floor—jeans still tangled around his thighs, hoodie rucked up, cum cooling on his skin—and lets out a long, wrecked laugh.

Because he’s fucked.

Completely, irreversibly fucked.

He just came harder than he had in years… to the memory of a girl he’s directed for one single day.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow there’s another shoot.

With you.

He drags a hand down his face, still breathing hard.

“Shit,” he mutters.

A month has passed since that day he last saw you on his way to class. Since he decided to let you go. To walk away from you.

Weeks of silence. Weeks of avoidance, and now the echo of your absence fills every quiet corner. His thoughts circle back to you constantly—small things, big things, every little memory twisting in his chest.

He wonders if you’ve smiled today.

Mark knows he did this to himself. He's accepted that he gave up too easily. But he thought he was making the right decision at the time. He was losing himself in you. He felt more fragile than ever, so he refused to let himself completely shatter for someone whose feelings were never clear. 

But you're not just ‘someone’. He knows that now. You're the girl he never admitted his love to. Simply because he was too scared. He's not entirely sure of what, and it doesn't really matter either. Because Mark's heart and head are both in shambles anyway. Utterly fucked.

His heart, especially… in constant pain. 

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. The ceiling offers no answers. The laptop stares back at him, blank screen reflecting his own eyes. He hasn’t moved since sending the file. He hasn’t wanted to. Uni is over, but he still feels like he’s trapped in some long hallway with doors that won’t open.

A knock at the door pulls him out of it.

“Markie?”

He doesn’t bother moving. “Yeah.”

The door opens anyway. Giselle leans against the frame, arms folded loosely.

“You’re alive,” she says.

“Barely.”

She huffs a small laugh and glances around his messy room. Laptop open, notes everywhere, half-empty mug on the desk.

“Done with the dissertation?”

“Yup.”

“Look at you.” She smiles. “Free man.”

He hums. Doesn’t feel like it. Free should feel like air, not this tightness in his chest.

She rocks back on her heels. “There’s a party tonight. Everyone’s going.”

Mark’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Everyone?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Post-exam thing.”

He leans back in the chair, hands fiddling. Fingers catching the little scar from where he absentmindedly cut himself during his last revision session.

He snorts indifferently. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It might be,” she says easily. “But it could also be fun.”

He doesn’t answer. Fun is a word he hasn’t attached to anything in weeks, and the idea of seeing you there, laughing with everyone else, makes his stomach twist in a way that isn’t exactly dread, isn’t excitement either—something heavier, sharper, and quieter, all at once.

Giselle studies him for a moment, then adds, casual, “I ran into Jaemin earlier. He said Y/N and the others are going.”

Mark stills. Of course you are.

He looks back at his desk instead. Pretends to be interested in the blank Word document, the half-formed sentences, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking him.

“Right,” he mutters.

Silence stretches. It’s not uncomfortable exactly, but it’s thick with everything he’s thinking and not saying. He can hear his own heartbeat, slow and steady but loud in his ears, like it’s daring him to make a decision he isn’t sure he wants to.

Giselle doesn’t push. She just leans against the doorframe, patient, watching him like she’s waiting for him to either explode or shrink into the floor.

“You don’t have to go,” she says after a moment.

“Good.”

“But,” she continues lightly, as if testing the air, “you’ve been locked in here for weeks. Might be nice to see people again.”

He rubs his face. Frown deepening. Maybe she’s right. Maybe seeing people again would be good. But maybe seeing you would make him wish he’d stayed locked in here for another month.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Another pause. He stares at the desk, at the half-drained mug, at the laptop he’s not looking at. Thinking about how free he is in theory, but how tied he still feels to you. Every quiet corner of his day, every thought that drifts past, loops back to you. The way you laughed at his silly jokes. The curve of your smile. The simple way you used to lean against him like you belonged there.

And you do, don’t you? You always have.

Then he glances up at her. “You trying to trick me into emotional damage or something?”

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “No. Just suggesting you leave the cave.”

Mark exhales slowly, letting his hand fall from his face. He looks at the blank wall again. He’s not sure if he wants to see you. He’s not sure if he’s ready for what that will do. But he can’t stop thinking about it either.

Giselle pushes off the doorframe, taking a small step into the room. “Think about it,” she says. “We’re not going for a while anyway. No rush.”

He nods absentmindedly. Just thinking about it is enough for now. He doesn’t have to decide yet. The party is hours away, and he can let the worry twist in his gut until then.

She pauses at the door. “And Mark?”

He glances over.

“You survived three years of uni. I think you can survive a party.” She says with a smile before she disappears down the hall. Quiet footsteps, nothing else.

Mark leans back in his chair again. Free, apparently. And yet every time he lets his mind wander, every quiet second, it finds you. He wonders if you’ve been resting, if you’ve been laughing with Jaemin, Karina, anyone. If you’ve thought about him even once in these weeks.

Of course you have, he tells himself, but the rational part of him—the stubborn, pessimistic part that keeps him locked in his own head—snorts at the thought. You’ve moved on. You’re happy. You probably don’t even remember what it's like having him around.

Mark stares at the ceiling. He’s free. Really free. But he isn’t. And the tight coil in his stomach says it won’t ever completely loosen until he sees you again.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The music hits him before he even steps through the door. Heavy bass leaking through the walls, vibrating faintly through the floorboards as the front door swings open and someone he vaguely recognises from a seminar last year shouts something unintelligible over the noise.

Chenle steps in front of him immediately, grabbing his shoulders excitedly, big smile adorning his face.

“Finally,” he exclaims, already tipsy. “Thought you were gonna become a hermit.”

Mark smiles at his friend's enthusiasm but doesn’t answer. He’s too busy taking it all in.

The house is packed. People everywhere. Shoes kicked off by the door, bodies brushing shoulders in the narrow hallway, someone laughing too loudly in the kitchen. The smell of alcohol and cheap candles and something sweet in the air.

Giselle nudges his arm gently as she steps inside behind him.

“You good?” she asks quietly.

He nods automatically. “Yeah.”

He isn’t. His palms are already sweating.

It’s stupid, really. It’s just a party. He’s been to a hundred of these before. But it’s been weeks since he’s properly been around people like this. Weeks of isolation, dissertation stress, quiet library corners and empty rooms.

Weeks of thinking about you. And now you might be here.

Somewhere.

That thought sits heavily in his chest as they move further into the house. Chenle greets three people before they even make it to the kitchen. Mark offers small nods, brief smiles, half-hearted greetings. Conversations brush past him without sticking.

His attention keeps drifting. Scanning the room. Kitchen. Living room. Hallway.

You’re not there. Which doesn’t help. Because now he’s hyper aware that you could appear at any moment. Walking down the stairs. Coming in from the garden. Laughing with someone in the doorway.

His stomach tightens every time someone new enters the room.

Giselle disappears into a quick conversation with someone from her course. Chenle is already halfway across the kitchen grabbing a bottle. Mark lingers near the edge of the counter, trying to look like he belongs here. Trying not to look like he’s waiting for someone.

He tells himself to relax. Just talk to people. Act normal. But his brain won’t shut up.

Is she here already? Has she already noticed me? Would she leave if she saw me?Would she pretend I don't exist?

His chest tightens at the thought.

Then—

Movement across the kitchen catches his eye.

Jaemin. Leaning against the counter, laughing at something someone said. Karina standing beside him, one hand wrapped loosely around a drink as she gestures animatedly while talking. Mark feels the small jolt of recognition immediately.

They’re here. Which means—

His eyes flick around the room again instinctively. But you’re nowhere to be found. Not next to them. Not by the sink. Not leaning against the counter like you usually would, chiming in halfway through someone else’s sentence.

Strange.

A quiet tension settles into his shoulders. Maybe you’re upstairs. Maybe you’re outside. Maybe you haven’t arrived yet. He isn’t sure which option makes him more nervous.

“Yo, Markie Lee!” He looks down. Chenle has shoved a small plastic shot cup into his hand.

“When did you—”

“We don’t ask questions now,” Chenle says cheerfully. “We drink.”

Mark stares at the liquid for a second. “Dude, you’re not even a graduate. What are you celebrating?”

“Feminism?” He says like it’s the first thing that pops into his mind.

A couple of people around the counter laugh. Someone raises their cup. “Here's to unemployment!”

Mark sighs quietly. He lifts the shot glass to his nose anyway. The smell alone is enough to make him grimace.

He hasn’t even taken the shot yet when—

“THERE YOU ARE!” Karina’s voice cuts straight through the noise. Loud enough that half the kitchen turns.

Mark freezes.

His brain recognises the tone instantly. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t need to. Your voice follows a second later.

“Oh my god, this dude just wouldn’t get off my back,” you say, breathless and amused. “Clingy ass whore.”

Laughter erupts somewhere behind him. His heart slams once against his ribs.

Then—

“Y/N!” Chenle yells it like he’s just seen his long-lost sibling.

Shut up, you little demon, Mark thinks to himself.

He finally turns. And his chest already hurts, lungs feel empty. You’re standing in the kitchen doorway. One hand still gripping some girl's wrist behind you like you’d dragged her through the crowd. Your hair slightly messy, like you’ve been outside in the warm air for a while. And for a moment Mark genuinely forgets how to exist.

You look— God. You look good. Really good.

A cute tube top sits nicely on your body, thin straps and light fabric, summery and so pretty. A short skirt hugging your hips just enough to show off your figure.

Your legs. Bare. Smooth skin catching the warm kitchen light. He remembers those legs wrapped around his waist. Hooked around his hips when you’d—

He forces the thought away immediately as he watches. Chenle barrels toward you before Mark can process anything else.

“Oh my god, hey cutie!” you laugh, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him. “It’s been so long.”

Chenle hugs you back dramatically. “Too fucking long!”

“Aw, good to know you missed me.” you reply. Your voice sounds exactly the same. Warm. Easy. Teasing.

Mark’s mouth feels dry. His fingers trembling.

You pull away from Chenle and your eyes land on Giselle.

“Hey Gigi,” you say, stepping forward again and pulling her into a hug. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Giselle smiles wide. “You?”

Giselle laughs at whatever you say. The whole thing feels so normal. Too normal.

Mark is still standing a few steps away. Still holding the untouched shot in his hand. Still staring at you.

You smell the same.

He notices it even from here. That familiar scent that used to cling to his hoodies after you borrowed them. Then—

Your eyes meet his. And you stall. Just for a fraction of a second. Anyone else might miss it.

But he sees it.

Your eyes widen slightly. Surprise. Maybe even a hint of panic. Then it disappears. Your expression smooths over so quickly it almost feels rehearsed. Like you’ve already decided exactly how this moment is supposed to go.

You walk toward him. And hug him.

Mark’s entire body goes rigid.

Your arms slide around his shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like nothing between you ever changed.

“Hi, Markie,” you say casually. “Good to see you.”

Your cheek brushes his for half a second. Warm. Familiar. Then you pull away. Already turning back toward everyone else. Already smiling. Already laughing with Chenle.

Like the hug meant nothing. Like his entire nervous system didn’t just light on fire the second you touched him.

Mark stands there in stunned silence. The shot is still in his hand. He doesn’t even remember lifting it.

You’re talking again. Your hands moving as you explain something about a youtube video to Chenle. Your head tilting back slightly when you laugh. That same little wrinkle appearing near your eyes. You look…Fine. Relaxed. Comfortable.

You lean casually against the counter next to Karina like you’ve been there the whole time. Like his presence doesn’t affect you at all.

It all hits him slowly.

You look so unbothered. Just chatting with everyone like nothing happened. Like the hug you just shared didn’t burn your skin the way it burned his. Like he never mattered. Something heavy settles in his chest. Because the truth is—

He did this. He ended it. He’s the one who decided it wasn’t worth the risk. The one who stepped back because he was scared of getting hurt. And now you’re standing right in front of him. Laughing. Moving on. While he’s still stuck exactly where he left you.

Mark swallows hard. His eyes drift over you again before he can stop himself. The faint shimmer of lip gloss when you talk. The curve of your smile. The way you roll your eyes at Jaemin. All the tiny details he hasn’t seen in weeks. All the things he used to notice without trying. And now he feels them like a punch to the ribs. Because you don’t look like someone who’s been thinking about him. You look like someone who's already forgotten.

Mark finally realises something then. Something that makes his stomach drop.

He didn’t just end things. He gave up. And now you’re showing him exactly what that looks like.

You living your life like he was never part of it. And he can’t stop staring. Because the version of you standing in front of him now—

The confident, laughing, completely unbothered version—

Feels even further away than when he forced himself to walk away from you on that pathway a month ago. And for the first time since that day…Mark understands the full weight of what he did.

He lost you.

And you look perfectly fine without him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The air outside is noticeably cooler. Not cold — early summer, the pavement holding onto the warmth from the day — but it’s enough to make Mark realise just how stuffy the house had gotten. The music is muffled now, bass thumping faintly through the walls behind them. Every time someone opens the front door it spills out louder for a second before being swallowed again.

Mark stands near the low brick wall bordering the front garden, arms crossed over his chest. He’s staring down the street without really looking at anything.

Cars parked unevenly along the curb. A group of people laughing further down the road. The quiet hum of late-night traffic somewhere in the distance. Anything to keep his mind from drifting back inside. Back to you.

Giselle stands a few feet away from him, leaning casually against the porch railing. He feels her pity before she can even say anything.

“You’re not even trying,” she says eventually.

Mark lets out a slow breath through his nose. “I did.”

“Yeah, for like fifteen minutes.”

His eyes roll in frustration. “It felt longer.”

She snorts softly, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve barely spoken to anyone.”

“I spoke to Chenle.”

“Chenle forced you to do a shot.” She says pointedly.

“Which, by the way, tasted like piss.”

Giselle shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth lifts slightly.

Mark drags a hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly before he lets his arm drop again. His gaze drifts back toward the house, watching the flicker of light every time the door opens.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” he mutters.

Giselle groans immediately, tipping her head back dramatically. “Oh, come on.”

“I’m serious. You stay.”

“You just got here.” She whines dramatically.

“Dude, it’s been two hours.” He can’t help but chuckle at her reaction.

“And you're still alive,” she says, faking a shocked expression.

Mark stares down at the ground for a moment, scuffing the sole of his sneaker against the concrete. “I feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “I dunno, just weird.”

Giselle studies him for a moment, her expression softening.

“That’s just because you haven’t socialised in weeks,” she says gently. “Your brain forgot how.”

“Cool, so I’ll just go home.” He offers the sweetest smile he can put on.

“I really don’t think that’s gonna help.“ She scolds with a sigh. “Mark, you're the one who ended it. If you still—” 

Before Giselle can argue further, the front door creaks open behind them.

They both glance over.

You step out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind you with one hand while adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder with the other. For a moment you don’t notice them. You’re looking down at your phone, scrolling in thought.

Then Giselle brightens immediately. “Look who it is.”

Too loud for Mark’s buzzing ears.

You glance up, a cute startled expression adorning your face. “Oh— hey.”

You walk down the porch steps toward them, your black converse tapping lightly against the ground before landing on the pavement.

Up close, you look a little tired, cheeks flushed. Not messy, just softer around the edges. Hair slightly looser than it was earlier, your makeup still neat but less perfect.

“You leaving?” Giselle asks.

You nod, rubbing lightly under one eye with the back of your index. “Yeah. I’m exhausted.”

“Already?”

You shrug one shoulder, shifting the strap of your bag again.

“It’s been a long week,” you say, gaze meeting Mark’s for a second and he instantly panics, heart racing.

“Well,” Giselle says casually, “Mark was just about to leave too.”

Mark blinks. He was?

You look between the two of them, your expression immediately skeptical.

“Right,” you say slowly.

“I mean,” Giselle continues, entirely too innocent, “you guys could just walk together.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “It’s fine, I was literally about to call an Uber.”

Mark opens his mouth before he even realises he’s about to speak.

“No, I’ll walk you.” The words come out quickly. A little jumbled. He sounds embarrassingly keen.

For a second nobody says anything.

Your eyebrows lift slightly in surprise or maybe amusement.

The pause that follows is small, but it stretches just enough to feel awkward. Mark suddenly becomes very aware of Giselle standing right there beside him. Watching.

“Umm…” He clears his throat quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… if you want.” He adds.

You study him for a moment. Not suspicious exactly. Just… unsure.

Then you shrug lightly. “Okay.”

“Perfect,” Giselle says triumphantly, already getting ready to head back inside.

Mark shoots her a quick threatening look she pretends not to notice.

“Text me when you get home,” she instructs loudly.

“Yes, ma'am.” you reply with a smirk. 

God, he's missed you.

You glance back at him, your expression is calm, neutral. Like this isn’t strange at all.

“Ready?” you ask.

Mark nods. “Yeah.”

He steps away from the wall, falling into place beside you as you start walking down the street together. The music swells again as someone opens the front door. Then it fades. And just like that, the two of you are alone on the quiet pavement, the noise of the party slowly disappearing behind you.

The first few seconds of silence are what Mark would define as ‘torture’.

He’s starting to think that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve let you get an uber and he should’ve walked alone. Maybe in that scenario he’d want to disappear a little less than he does now.

His eyes drift over at you quickly before focusing on the pavement again. And he can’t help but feel very conscious of your eyes on him.

“So, how have you been?” Your calming voice breaks the unbearable silence and Mark feels like screaming from relief.

He sighs instead, and then tries his best to sound convincing. “Yeah, not too bad. Busy with deadlines, you know.”

You nod in understanding. You seem to relate, and Mark wonders if you’ve been stressing as much as you normally do when it comes to exams and assignments. You always used to pretend stressful situations don't affect you, and to be fair, you were good at it. But he could always tell. It was so obvious and he hates that he's not been there to say the right things. To calm you down with a hug. With his fingers in your hair. With a kiss on your cheek.

He’s missed feeling you giving into his comfort, allowing him to coddle you and treat you like you deserve to be treated. He can almost visualise the moment your shoulders go from tense to relaxed, your body melting into his with trust. The sigh you’d let out. The way you’d bury your face in his chest. The way you’d breathe him in like his scent is some kind of stress antidote. He can almost feel the softness of your skin. Almost.

He doesn’t think he’s missed anyone the way he misses you right now. Even as you’re walking beside him. Even as he feels the warmth radiating from your bare arm brushing his.

“You?” He asks, his walking pace slowing down to match yours.

“Same.” You say with a light tone. But it holds something. Melancholy. “Not too bad. Just hard to believe uni’s over.”

“Yeah, I know.” He breathes out a bittersweet laugh. “Kinda feels like I’ll still be revising tomorrow.”

You let out a low hum of agreement. “Weird right? We’re like, real adults now.”

“Speak for yourself.” He jokes, and he’s pretty sure that’s the first time in a while. He barely recognises the tone of his voice. You have that much effect on him.

The little chuckle that escapes you, makes something in his chest bloom. Another thing he’s missed.

“Please, if one of us is the adult, that’s you.” You say with a smirk, eyes meeting his for half a second.

“You think so?”

“I know so.” You blurt without hesitation. It’s subtle, but it’s a reminder of facts. Because you do know. You know so much about him. Too much.

It’s quiet again for a few moments. And then Mark succumbs to asking a question he’s been dying to ask since you started hanging out.

“So, what’s your plan now?” He hesitates to look at you, eyes on the concrete.

“I’m staying here, actually.” You state plainly, like it's not news.

Now it’s inevitable. His head lifts quickly, surprised eyes meeting your neutral ones. “Really?”

You nod once. “Yeah, I’m starting an internship next month.”

“Oh, shit.” He exhales. “That’s—wow, congrats.”

“Thank you.” Your amused smile blinds him. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not surprised you got an internship. Just didn’t think you’d be staying.”

“How so?” You ask curiously.

“I thought—you know, cause of the year abroad, maybe you’d move to a different city? I dunno…” He explains, still sounding a little taken aback.

“You thought or you hoped?” You ask, bluntness evident.

Mark stares at you, a little baffled. “Why would I hope—”

“Don’t worry.” You wave your hand in dismissal. “Forget I said that.”

“Y/N,” A confused sound leaves his throat. “I’m happy for you. Genuinely. Whether you stay here or move to fucking Antarctica.”

Your small laugh sounds real. Genuine.

“Thanks.” You purse your lips in thought, an indication of nervousness. “Are you staying or…?”

A hopeful smile threatens to spread on Mark’s face, but he tries his best to hold back. You care about his plans. And he can tell you're not just being polite. He can sense the genuine interest. “Yeah. Both me and Gi. We thought it’d be best for interviews and job stuff.”

You bob your head adorably, your subtle grin difficult to miss. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

The rest of the walk fills itself with safe topics. Exams. Deadlines. Job applications. Anything neutral enough to avoid the things sitting between you.

Mark keeps wanting to ask things he’s not allowed to ask. He also keeps hoping you’ll ask him questions you shouldn’t be asking. But you don’t. Neither of you do.

And when you both reach your apartment building, another unsettling silence engulfs you as you move to stand in front of him, swaying back and forth with your hands behind your back. You’re so adorable like this, it hurts him.

He looks around, unsure of what to say next, but once again you save the day.

“Thanks for walking me back, you didn’t have to.” You say with a gentle voice, smile lopsided, eyes warm, reminding him of moments that he never really stopped thinking about.

“I wanted to.” His honesty slips, but he doesn’t really mind at this point.

You look like you’re close to saying something before closing your mouth again. “Okay, well, it was good to see you.”

“You too.” It was more than good. It was painful. It reminded him things he’s been trying not to cling onto.

“Bye, Markie.” You utter the cute nickname with such ease, like you never stopped saying it. Like you never stopped thinking it.

Mark hates this. He hates that you’re right here with him while he feels incapable of telling you what has been tormenting him the last few weeks. He feels like his brain and heart are working overtime. To come up with something. Anything to let you know that he’s regretted letting you go since the moment he forced himself to.

So, as he watches you approach the main entrance, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’m glad you’re staying.” It barely makes sense, the words a little too jumbled, voice raspy due to the dryness in his throat.

You halt, keys already in hand, the little jingling sound echoing. He notices the subtle movement of your shoulders, tensing and loosening. And then you turn around again, eyes hard, but glossy, jaw clenching visibly. And Mark can tell.

You’re holding back tears.

He instinctively moves closer, hand stopping mid-air and then dropping to his side before he can touch you as you take a step back. Like any contact would have caused pain.

You might as well kill him. The shaky breath you let out almost does. Too vulnerable. Too fragile.

“I think you should go.” You whisper, voice sounding unlike you. He really has never seen you like this before. Your composure hanging on by a thread, eyes refusing to meet his as you blink quickly.

“No.” He rushes. “Wait.”

You don’t move this time when he takes another step forward. You just keep staring at the ground. And what scares him the most is how quiet you remain. Not a single word uttered. It’s just your breathing that he can hear. And his heart that he can feel trying to jump out of his chest.

He pushes past the fear and carefully reaches for your hand, expecting you to flinch or push him away.

You don’t.

You let him hold onto your fingers. Loose. Gentle. But it’s enough for him, after not being able to touch you for such a long time. It’s much more than he can ask for. Definitely more than he deserves.

He feels the slight twitch of your fingers, but you don’t pull away, and he finds himself exhaling in relief.

“I don’t—“ He stops himself to take a deep breath, hating how unstable it sounds. “I thought I knew what I’d say if I saw you tonight, but now I can only think of one thing.”

“What?” You whimper, and he feels an ache in his chest. Not because you refuse to look at him. Not because your eyes shut closed. But because of the tear that rolls down your cheek.

He doesn’t need to think too much when he weakly confesses, “I miss you.”

For a moment you stay quiet, eyes still shut, lips pursing, and then your head drops forward, the hand that's not in his lifting to cover your face. The sob that tumbles out is quiet, a little broken, more than enough to shatter Mark’s heart.

“No, no, no.” He panics, immediately wrapping his arms around your trembling shoulders. “No, please, don’t cry.”

It’s pointless now. Too late. You’re already sobbing harder, but at least now he’s holding you, your face hidden in his chest, and he wishes he could keep you there forever. He breathes in the familiar scent he’s missed so much. Your shampoo mixed with your perfume, but your little cries prevent him from feeling relief and happiness. He’s just desperate to make you stop. To make you feel better. To make you happy.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers against your hairline. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure if he’s apologising for making you cry or for the way he handled things. But he hopes you know. He’s sure you do. You always know.

He tries to soothe you by pressing you closer, carefully, making sure there’s not a single centimetre separating your body from his, swaying you gently from side to side, fingers stroking the back of your head.

He keeps you there, safe, until your sobs eventually turn into cute little hiccups, until you’re finally starting to breathe properly again. But when he attempts to create some space so he can look at your face, your arms come to slither around his middle. Light at first, and then he feels you grabbing onto his shirt, letting him know you’re not ready to face him yet.

So he patiently waits. He gives you time. It’s the least he can do.

If Mark ever doubted you, now he knows for sure that he’s made a big mistake. He’s fucked up. Massively. Not only because he hurt both of you in the process of trying to protect himself. But because he let you down. Because he misjudged you. Because he undermined your feelings for him.

But now he knows. You don’t even have to use words. He just knows. And he’ll happily spend the rest of his miserable life making it up to you if he has to. Because there’s no chance he’s letting you go now.

“Talk to me.” He says softly, desperately needing to hear your voice, even if it is you shouting at him, he just needs to hear you. “Please.”

Your hands come to his sides, your head slowly lifting, and when your tear-stained face comes into view, he can only hold it. His palms envelop your cheeks, shaky thumbs clumsily wiping at the fallen tears.

“You just left.” You sniffle, voice still trembling, your eyebrows tense. “You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know, I know.” He hates hearing you say it. Hates how he treated you that day. Almost like a stranger. He still remembers feeling like he was going to be sick after. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“I know I hurt you that night we had a fight.” More tears fall as you speak, but now your eyes are blinking up at him, all pretty and needy. “I wanted to apologise.”

He quickly shakes his head. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

“No, I do. I know I do.” Your hands fist his shirt again as you swallow. “I was mean and I’m sorry. I’ve thought about what I said to you every day, I swear.”

“Y/N—“

“But I didn’t deserve that.”

It hurts him. That you’re the one to say it first. Because Mark is very aware of what he did and what he should have done.

“I know you didn’t.”

“Then why—“

“Because you were right. I’m a coward,” He admits. “And I acted selfish. Cause I thought I was protecting myself. I’m sorry.”

You let out a little sigh. “You said that this isn’t for you.”

He remembers the look on your face when those words left his stupid mouth. Betrayal.

“I lied.” He says truthfully. “You know you're right for me, Y/N.”

“But—“

“I love you.” The words roll out naturally, like he’s said them a million times, and in his head he has. They’ve been sitting in his chest for weeks, burning a hole through every excuse he’s tried to hide behind. “You don't have to say anything, but I think you should know. I should've told you sooner.”

Your eyes are wide, the epitome of shock as he continues stroking your cheeks with his thumbs while taking in your reaction. Your chest moves up and down erratically, hands grabbing onto his wrists, then his elbows, as though you’re unsure what to do with them, until they settle on his chest.

“Are you lying again?” You whisper, searching around his face for proof. For a second Mark feels like his chest caves in. The idea that you think he might lie about this makes him sick.

“No.” He shakes his head so quickly he gets a head rush.

“You love me?” You repeat the words like they’re forbidden.

He doesn’t think twice when he leans down to connect his lips with yours. It’s the only way he can answer your question without stumbling over his words. And he almost pulls away when you don’t reciprocate right away, but the hand that curls at the front of his collar holds him in place. And the soft exhale you let out against his mouth, makes him kiss you a little harder.

He’s sure he’s ascended to heaven when your lips start moving in sync with his, your little whimpers making his heart ache with adoration.

“I do.” He breathlessly mumbles mid-kiss. “I really fucking do.”

You make a sound that’s something between a sob and a whine, and Mark swears he forgets how to breathe. So he just keeps kissing you, now tilting his head so he can deepen the kiss, fingers curling in your hair as your taste invades his senses. Exactly the same as he remembers, mixed with a hint of saltiness, from your tears.

You let him in like he’s come back home, curling your tongue with his, still letting out those little sounds that render him useless.

“Say it again.” You plead — gasping before kissing him again — like you’re not sure the words will still exist if you stop hearing them. “Please.” 

He accidentally moans at your neediness, relishing in the way your hands tangle in his hair, and he doesn’t even realise that you’re walking backwards, until he’s got you backed up against the wall next to the entrance of the building.

“I love you.” He whispers pliantly, as he lets his lips descend, leaving tiny soft kisses along your jaw. “I love you.” Then your neck. “I love you.” Then he’s back on your lips. “I love you.” Then your cheek. “I love you.”

He wishes he could drown in you. Suffocate in your sweet scent.

Before he can say it again, your hand that trails up to the side of his neck pulls him back up with more determination, this time your tongue invading his mouth, making his knees feel weak. So much that he stumbles forward, his hands finding the wall, searching for balance, body flush against yours, the erection he didn’t realise he had, poking into your tummy.

He decides to pull away when you mumble something incoherent between kisses.

You’re both panting loudly, foreheads touching briefly before your hands cup his face in the sweetest manner. Like they always used to.

You’re staring at him like he’s someone precious, like he matters so much. And before he can speak, you beat him to it.

“I love you too.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You barely register the ding as the lift doors slide open, too occupied with Mark’s mouth devouring yours. He presses into you, warm and insistent, and your hands twist into his hair, pulling him closer as you struggle to maintain your balance.

He catches you, arm wrapping around your waist, holding you flush against him as you stagger down the corridor, mouths still locked. Breathless, messy, desperate.

Your apartment door is right there, and your hands fumble with the keys. They shake, making noise, but all you can hear is the smacks of your lips and Mark’s low moans. You bite your lip, too flustered to focus as he starts leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Sucking a little too hard, making you whine as your back finally crashes into the surface.

“Shit—hang on.” Your fingers fumble with the lock, shaking too much to line the key properly. The metal slips against your skin, and you curse again, breath hitching as he shamelessly licks a wet stripe up to your ear before sucking the lobe into his mouth.

“Here,” he murmurs, low, brushing his fingers over yours. He guides the key, helping you fit it in the lock without breaking away. His mouth barely leaves your skin as he shifts, pressing you gently against him while you twist the key.

Click.

The door swings open, and you messily tumble inside together, lips still tangled, completely lost in the heat of the moment. Keys and bag hit the floor behind you, clattering, door slamming a little too loudly but you couldn’t care less.

He’s here. In your space again. After what feels like an eternity of hell.

He presses you against the wooden surface again, gently but firmly, hands on your waist and lower back, pulling you closer as his mouth finds yours in a wet kiss, sloppier than before. He’s greedy, and your knees tremble against him. You moan softly in delight, tilting your head, letting him taste you. Needing his tongue in your mouth. Needing to feel the rush you’ve been missing for weeks.

The strap of your top slips fully from your shoulder, sliding down your arm. You barely notice it, brain foggy, too busy focusing on the heat radiating off his skin. Your hands yank at the hem of his T-shirt, at his chest, anywhere, trying to press closer, to pull him into you even harder, and before you know what you’re doing, his jeans are unbuttoned and you’re shoving them down along with his boxers. Just enough for his cock to spring out.

He lets out a surprised gasp but still doesn't hold back from grinding into your stomach and within seconds your panties are shoved down to your ankles, his hands bunching up your skirt as you try to step out of the flimsy and now soaked through material.

Mark lifts you suddenly, too smoothly for your walls not to clench around nothing, one arm under your ass, the other secured around your waist, and you wrap your legs around him instinctively, skirt at your hips now. The press of your chest into his, the sway of your bodies as he holds you tight — it makes your head spin, makes your breath catch, makes everything you’ve been holding in for weeks feel unbearable. The friction, the heat, the ache of being pressed together like this — it’s all-consuming.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your nails catching lightly as your hips press into him, legs tight around his waist, ankles locked. Kisses become more chaotic, tongue meeting tongue, teeth clashing, moans tumbling from both of you in uneven bursts. Your head tilts, his groans vibrating against your lips, and you feel your knees weaken further against him. The ache in your chest is almost unmanageable, but it makes every touch, every press, every frantic motion more intense.

Your brain malfunctions when you feel the tip of his hard length brushing against your hypersensitive clit.

“Please.” You whimper with a wiggle of your hips, tongue messily swiping across his bottom lip before licking directly into his mouth, one hand curling behind his neck, holding him in place.

He lets out a strangled breath. It sounds so devastating your chest hurts.

The hand on your ass sneaks between your bodies and as you’re about to beg again, you feel him prodding at your soaked entrance. With a single thrust he’s breaching past the tight opening, just the bulbous head making it in before you clamp down on him with a broken cry, the burn more intense than normal, and that’s when an ounce of sensibility flickers in your fogged-up brain. The situation suddenly dawning on you. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” you gasp, voice trembling, breath caught in your throat. Your pulse races, your chest heaving against his.

“Shit. Sorry. Sorry, fuck, I—” His forehead rests against yours, lips hovering, dark eyes intense. 

“I can't.” You whisper, barely audible, shaking. You need air. You need solid ground. You need to feel your own body against something other than his. “Put me down.”

He hesitates, fingers tight on your waist and thighs, then he carefully slips out before lowering you. Your legs slide down, skirt slipping back into place, top strap fallen and forgotten, and you adjust, chest still heaving, heart hammering, pulse racing.

You take a shaky step back, trying to catch yourself, glance flicking to his heaving chest, then his hands. The tremble in them. Just like yours.

He stays close, body brushing yours, still radiating heat. The pull, the ache, the want, hasn’t diminished in the slightest, but before he can touch you again, you quietly walk past him, fingers touching your tingly lips as you head toward the kitchen, feet unstable, hands shaking as you grab a glass and pour yourself water. The simple sound of liquid hitting the glass echoes faintly in the apartment, grounding you slightly.

You gulp down half the glass, finally feeling somewhat sane.

His presence is subtle but still easy to feel as he leans casually against the counter behind you, letting you breathe, letting you regain control, giving just enough space while still being there. Weeks of wanting, aching, longing for him, all compressed into this single, messy moment.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You turn to face him as you hold out the glass. “Here.”

He takes it, fingers brushing yours, lingers with the touch, then lifts it to his lips. You watch him drink, quiet, steady. The air between you is thick but calmer, a slow settling after the chaos of whatever just occurred.

“Better?” you ask softly, letting yourself glance up at him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low, still rough.

He’s slightly more presentable, his baggy shirt now hanging low enough to cover the front of his trousers. The clank of the now empty glass touching the counter makes the wires in your brain come to life, yet you still keep quiet for a few moments.

You approach him with a sigh, calmer this time, more composed, but still unable to hold off touching him. He doesn’t help either, arms slinging around your waist like it’s their rightful place.

“I just needed a moment.” You explain quietly, hands loosely linking behind his neck, thumbs caressing the skin. “Felt overwhelmed.”

“Don't explain.” He smiles adoringly, the dimples you’ve missed so much making their appearance. “That went from zero to a hundred real quick.”

You let out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a gasp.

“I feel like,” You purse your lips in contemplation. “We should, you know…”

“Talk?” He tries, smile still intact.

You nod, feeling shy suddenly, not used to having conversations this serious with him.

“We can.” He reassures, already better at this than you are.

“Can you help me out?” You ask with a bashful smile. “I don’t really know how to go about this.”

He chuckles softly, shoulders shaking under your arms. “Do you wanna start by telling me how you feel right now?”

You think about it for a few seconds, eyes focusing on the loose collar of his top before drifting back to his face. “I feel relieved. And my chest doesn’t hurt anymore, but I'm scared.”

“Okay.” He nods understandingly. “Why scared?”

You shrug. “I’m not sure.”

“Are you scared I’ll fuck up again?” He asks tentatively, sounding like he hates bringing that up, eyes full of regret.

“No.” You admit. “I’m just worried this whole thing makes no sense.”

He blinks. “To me it does. More than most things in my life right now.”

“Stop.” You whisper, covering his mouth with an unsure hand, his words sounding too good to be true, flustering you. 

“I'm serious.” He gently takes hold of your wrist, pressing your palm to his chest. 

You exhale shakily, taking in his sincere expression. “So, like…”

“I wanna be with you.” He states with such certainty, you feel like crying again. “Like, for real. Properly this time.”

You never thought words could make you feel safe. Mark’s silly confession does though.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, tight this time, bringing him as close as possible. He instinctively leans in, nuzzling in your shoulder while you bury your face in his neck, breathing in his aftershave.

“Okay.” You say with an inevitable smile. “Be with me then.”

He lets out a satisfied hum against your skin. “I’ll make you so happy, I promise.”

“You already do.” You steal a tiny kiss off the base of his neck, sighing as he holds you tighter, arms firm and safe around you, chest warm against yours.

And when he kisses you again, it’s slow. Patient. Soft. A lot less chaotic than before.

“Can we just sleep tonight?” He asks, voice sultry, not really helping. “I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”

You know he’s not just referring to the stressful exam period, and instantly you nod.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You don’t know what time it is when you wake up, but you know it’s too early. There’s definitely an hour or two left before sunrise, and even though you feel tired, you can’t find sleep again.

Mark hasn’t moved a single limb since the moment he dozed off — arm still draped heavily over your waist, holding you close, face hidden in your chest, bare legs tangled with yours.

You’re suddenly hit with the memory of the first time you woke up in the same bed as him. Almost three years ago now, when you were just fresh into uni and you barely knew anything about life. It’s so bizarre how it works. Who could’ve known back then? That this random boy whose dorm you sneaked out of would be your favourite person three years later. The boy who entirely owns your heart. Someone life wouldn’t make sense without.

You tried it. A whole month without him. No sense.

He was there one night, then he wasn’t. And now after all this time, after the whole shit show that uni is, he’s here, again. In your bed. Exactly where he belongs. Like he never left.

His leg twitching brings you out of your trance, leg hair lightly tickling you. He mumbles something incoherent, hot puffs of air hitting your chest, and you hold him close, hand curling around the back of his head.

And then he’s speaking more clearly. “Pass the ball.”

“Mm?” You glance down in confusion only to find him still sleeping soundly.

Then again. “Ball…pass here.”

Is he…dreaming about basketball?

You unintentionally let out a snort at the hilariously annoyed expression he’s sporting. Frustrated about a ball even in his sleep.

“Markie?” You whisper, fingers stroking his hair softly.

He responds with a moan, clearly still asleep, leg twitching once more between yours. And you’re about to let him settle back into his slumber before he abruptly shoots up, like someone electrocuted him.

“Yo…” He says, completely out of it still as he glances around the room like he’s lost. “We won.”

Another quiet laugh slips out as you wait for him to recognise his surroundings. And then he looks down at you, eyes squinting in the dark, trying to adjust.

“You’re not Chenle.” He mutters groggily, voice still holding confusion.

“Sorry.” You say with an amused grin, and then allow yourself to laugh more freely as he slumps back down onto the mattress with a tired huff.

“Dude, what the hell.” He buries his face in your chest again, a cute sleepy groan vibrating between you as he tries to get comfortable again, cuddling closer into you.

“Good game?” You tease, resuming your absentminded threading through his messy strands.

He hums in response, voice a little deeper than normal. “So good I thought I jizzed my pants.”

You muffle a laugh in his hair, the fluffy strands tickling your skin.

“Sexy.” You joke, shuffling closer, leg bending to curl around his hip. You can’t prevent your smile when his hand sneaks under your long t-shirt, making direct contact with the small of your back. You try to ignore his pinkie slipping under the waistband of your panties. “You often dream about Chenle?”

“Why, you jealous?” He retorts, a little too quick, almost sounding sassy, and then glances up at you.

He looks too good for someone who’s just woken up from a dream about a basketball match. Hair messy, lips a little puffy from sleep, but it’s his raspy voice that affects you the most.

You hold back a smile, thumb outlining his bottom lip carefully. “Yeah, actually, I am.”

“Hm.” He brings his face close enough that your noses are touching. “Don’t worry. I dream about you pretty much every night.”

Your heart flutters at the unfiltered words. “Really?”

“Mhm.” His delicate touch trails up your spine, knuckles leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Probably cause I think about you too much.”

“As you should.” You say teasingly, thumb still tracing his bottom lip lightly as he smiles cheekily. You forget your next words when he presses you as close as possible, your hips flush against his, his palm flat on your back, and his quite prominent erection nudged into your belly. And you couldn’t be more thankful that he chose to sleep only in his boxers. “Are you hard because of Chenle or because of me?”

He doesn’t give you much time to tease him for longer. You don’t realise when his hand travels to the back of your neck, forcing your lips onto his, clearly much more awake now.

“You.” He mumbles, the answer very serious compared to the mischievous nature of your question, indicating that he’s not in the mood to play around anymore. “Always you.”

Your moan is low, but it’s still audible in the quiet of the early dawn, and you don’t even contemplate on giving into him. You know you want to. And so he’s flat on his back in an instant, with you sitting right on his hard length, only your panties and his briefs separating you as you both desperately seek for some friction.

It turns frantic quickly, neither of you holding back. Lips parted, tongues gliding together, moans and whines mingling as his hands sneak down to your ass, pressing you down hard, the cotton of your underwear jumbled messily between your wet folds already, his cock so hard against your pubic bone, it feels like it’s bruising as you grind back and forth.

“Ah, fuck.” You exhale into his mouth, struggling to keep up with his intense kisses, your mind too clouded with want and so many sensations. You choose to sit up, hands planting on his chest, hips slowing down, picking up a lazy pace, which he doesn’t seem to mind.

His hands slip under your shirt, holding onto your hips, thumbs digging into your hip bones as he breathes frantically, his eyes focusing on your face first before dropping down to the mess between your legs.

The way he’s staring at you, makes you want to please him, show him everything he's been missing, and the fabric of your top suddenly feels too suffocating.

“Shit, baby.” He pants as soon as your shirt hits the floor and your naked body comes into view. “So pretty.”

And before you can resume the movements of your hips, he’s sitting up, arms are locking around you before you’re swiftly manoeuvred onto your back, your legs instinctively parted far apart for his hips to slot between as he hovers above you, chest just centimetres off yours.

You whine in frustration, needing him closer and he seems to catch on quick, understanding flickering across his soft features as he lowers himself until you’re skin on skin. Your erect nipples deliciously rubbing on his warm chest, the heat radiating off him so grounding and safe-like, making you sigh in contentment.

“Yeah? Better?” He whispers into your neck, scattered kisses amplifying your need for him, the throbbing between your legs unbearable at this point, pussy throbbing with emptiness as he takes his sweet time with you.

“Please, please, please.” You beg like you’ve never begged, not really knowing what else to do, your whole body shaking from all the emotions. “I’ve missed you. I miss you so much. Please.”

A broken moan echoes from him, hot breath hitting your wet skin as he grinds his hips into yours a little too hard, making you cry from ache and pleasure. And when your hands bury in his hair, finding something to hold onto, his lips are back on yours, tongue in your mouth, messily tangling with yours. It’s wet and it’s dirty and it’s everything that you need but not enough either.

The kiss is cut short as he pulls back with a loud wet smack, and then his hands are impatiently tugging at your panties. You lift your hips, knees bending to help him out and when he’s back on you, you don’t waste time shoving his boxers down as far as you can reach while he tries to kiss you again. Your foreheads lightly bumping at the awkward angle, but neither you or Mark seem to care.

“Just fuck me.” You plead when you’re both completely naked and he’s kneeling between your legs. You’re out of breath, totally lost in him, not caring about foreplay. All you want is to feel him inside you, as close as possible, to feel that stretch your body's missed so much, that slight sting that feels more good than painful.

“Baby,” He leans over you again, bracing one arm beside your head, weight settling over yours comfortably. His other hand engulfs your jaw, thumb stroking your skin tenderly, eyes full of adoration as they stare into yours, calming the flame in your chest just a little. “Wanna take care of you first.”

You shake your head in protest, hands cupping his cheeks. “N-no, I just want you. Please, Markie…please baby.”

You would normally feel embarrassed, pleading like that. You’re near tears, your voice trembling with insatiable need as you hold his face like he’s the only thing that can keep you grounded. You can tell by the shift in his eyes that his resolve starts to break, and before he can react, you’re claiming his lips with yours in a hungry kiss, all tongue and spit. You try to focus on the way he kisses you, slow enough to make you impatient, deep enough to make your hips buck into his.

And when his cock slips between your folds — a perfect slide — rubbing against your clit, you let out the most shameful moan, outright pornographic, yet you can’t bring yourself to give a single fuck.

“C’mon, just be a good boyfriend and fuck the shit out of me.” You whisper in a sultry voice, the challenge clearly getting to him as he ruts into you with a deep grunt.

“I’m tryna be fucking sweet and take my time with you.” He whines, frustration laced with his tone. He rests his forehead on yours, eyes shut, patience hanging on by a thread.

“I know, I just need you right now.” You’re so close to breaking him. “You can fuck me nice and slow after.”

His jaw slackens when you grab onto his ass, fingers digging into the flesh, urging him to move his hips with yours. “Fuck.”

“Feel how wet I am?” You whine, the sound of his cock sliding through your slick is obscene. “I’m such a mess, Markie, I’m gonna fucking lose it, please.”

“Yeah?” He pants, sounding almost drunk, his eyes dark when they meet yours, gaze intense. “You’re a mess for me?”

“Yeah,” You whisper, completely at his mercy.

“Keep talking.” His tone hushed, eyes refusing to leave yours and you love it. You love the intensity of it all, the raw passion, the way the tip of his cock meets your clit every time he thrusts forward. Everything.

“Want you in me.” You blink slowly, your legs spreading even more for him, knees bending all the way until they're touching your ribs. “Wanna feel how much you missed me.”

A groan rumbles in his chest, eyes rolling back for a second before his mouth crashes into yours. “Gonna fuckin ruin you.”

“Mmhm,” Your hands grab onto his shoulders, nails clawing, and you hope they leave a mark. “Yes, please.”

You’re so beyond composure, you moan too loudly even at his hand slipping between your bodies, just at the thought of what could come next. And when you feel his hand cupping your whole sex, your legs start to shake. He slides his fingers over the whole expanse of your mound, spreading your arousal everywhere, creating a mess, setting your skin ablaze and without warning his middle and ring fingers circle your clit once — too lightly for your liking — before sliding through your slit and down to your entrance.

“You think you’re the only one who’s a mess?” He whispers against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom one before he sucks onto it. “My dick stopped working because of you.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” His fingers get replaced by what you recognise as the tip of his thick erection. He slides it up and down your slit, stimulating your clit just like he always used to before entering you. “Haven’t been able to cum since the last time we fucked.”

“I’m sorry.” You whimper, feeling guilty but also a pang of pride in your chest. “I couldn’t either.”

“Did you try?” He asks, prodding against your leaking hole, igniting all your nerve endings as he slowly starts pushing in. Just the tip, but still enough to make you bite down on your lip to keep quiet. “Did you think of me?”

You nod, eyes watering at the memories of loneliness, of the miserable times your fingers unsuccessfully tried defusing a heat that was his to defuse. “Always thought of you. Still didn’t feel the same.”

He returns the nod, length sliding in just another inch, making your eyes flutter up at him. A tear escapes, rolling down your temple. Not from the stretch, just from the unbearable ache in your chest.

“Felt wrong?” He asks softly, hand coming to cup one side of your face as he starts kissing the other side. “Like nothing was good enough?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, relieved that he knows the feeling. Your hands slide down his sides and then back up to his chest, feeling his sweaty skin until your arms loop securely around his neck, hugging his body close to yours. “Felt empty.”

With one smooth thrust, he’s completely sheathed in. To the hilt. His hips flush against yours, making your breath hitch and your walls flutter. At how the emptiness you felt for a whole month has started to dissipate. Your body and heart basking in the delightful fullness. The love you feel for him.

“My pretty girl.” He murmurs against your neck. “I’m so sorry.”

You let out a pathetic sob, the heartfelt apology sitting heavy in your chest as he starts moving his hips, pulling out before sinking back in slowly, giving you time to adjust even though the slide is easy. Careful, shallow thrusts gradually turn into deeper rolls, his tip brushing your cervix each time he bottoms out, and when you bury your hands in his hair, lips finding his, you feel more tears escape.

He slides an arm around your waist, angling your hips up just enough to start hitting the spot inside you that makes you roll your eyes back. The sounds of wet slaps reverberate around the room as he starts delivering faster — but still not hard enough to hurt — snaps of his hips. It’s quiet apart from that and the soft cries you let out along with his muffled breaths that hit your damp skin.

“Always feel so good.” He whispers softly, sounding completely lost in pleasure, tongue making contact with your skin as he starts kissing across your collarbone. “Missed you so much.”

You feel useless, only able to cling onto him and wrap your legs around his waist, not letting him pull out more than half his length. You bury your face in his shoulder, lips parting in a quiet moan when he increases the intensity of his thrusts, finally fucking you properly. Hard and fast. Exactly like you’ve been begging him to.

“Oh my god, yes.” You sigh in relief, completely surrendering to him, letting him do as he pleases. Because you’re his.

“Like that, yeah?” He rasps, his free hand curling in your hair, forcing you to look at him. “Take it, baby.”

He looks so dreamy, it’s earth shattering. His swollen lips nothing short of delicious, his eyes hooded, glazed with pure desire. It’s scandalous. He shouldn’t be allowed to look at you like that. 

Unable to stand it, you cup his chin in one hand, gently squishing his cheeks before devouring his lips in a heated kiss. Your tongue shoves in his mouth like nobody’s business, and your pussy clenches at the way his mouth parts for you. Like it’s second nature.

His grunt vibrates against your tits, your nipples achy and sensitive against his slippery chest. You love how you can feel him everywhere all at once, your whines getting louder by the second as he keeps plunging into you, stretching you in the best way possible. It’s all too much, but so good. Too good. 

His cock drags against your walls in a way that has you hyperventilating, your cunt squeezing around him like he’s not allowed to pull out.

“You gonna cum?” He asks mid-kiss, although it’s more breathing in each other’s mouths than a kiss.

“Yeah, don’t stop.” You pant in urgency, voice hoarse, almost unrecognisable. “Fuck fuck fuck, right there, I'm so close.”

He moans in response, maintaining the same vigor and angle. He doesn’t even need to use his fingers, his pelvis is stimulating your clit just perfectly in quick intense slaps that drive the tip of his cock right into your g-spot.

“God, you’re squeezing me so good—ffuck.” He’s hugging you so close, one arm still around your waist, the other one curled around your shoulders, hand cupping the back of your neck as you grip onto his shoulders and arms like a lifeline.

Your legs start shaking violently, pussy clamping around his thick length, body locking up for a second.

“Please baby, cum for me.” He utters in his soft voice that you adore so much, lips brushing against yours. And then he nearly kills you. “Love you.”

It’s all-consuming. Soul-crashing. Life-altering. You feel like you have no control over your body anymore. Completely giving yourself to him as the tension in your lower abdomen unleashes. You cum with a shattered cry, body convulsing with intense pleasure, walls clenching, uncontrollably kneading his length in quivering pulses.

His thrusts increase in tempo, fucking you harder, becoming messier, pushing through your climax as he lets out a choked up grunt. 

“Love you too,” you whisper, eyes shut in white bliss. Legs tightening around him, trapping him exactly where he needs to be. 

“Look at me.” He requests softly, his arm unlocking from your waist before he grabs onto your thigh, prying your legs open again, one still bent over his hip, the other one hooked over his elbow. The new angle allows him to pull more of his dick out before slamming back in. Harder. Faster. Making you mewl from the sensitivity.

You do open your eyes, meeting his heavy-lidded ones, pupils blown out. His skin is flushed as he rams into you, lewd slaps and wet noises sounding around the room, making you unintentionally clench around him. 

“You gonna cum for me?" You whisper, voice needy and strained. 

He nods, eyes closing for a second when you adoringly cup his face in your hands. And a tiny ‘Yeah’ falls from his pretty lips. 

“Wanna cum inside me?” It sounds like you're pleading. Maybe you are. 

His eyes flutter, full of hope. “Fuck, really? Please, can I?” 

He's definitely pleading, and you're in love with this side of him. So in love. “Yeah, baby, wanna feel you.” 

He groans and lowers himself a fraction, lips crashing into yours, arm releasing your leg and coming to rest by your head, caging you in, as he lets his body rub against yours. His tongue licks obscenely against yours, the sounds he lets out swallowed by the kiss as you clench your cunt intentionally this time, urging him to let go. 

“Oh my god.” He whines, sounding unlike any other time you've been with him. The pants he breathes are burning hot against your skin as he gives up on trying to kiss you properly, mouth hanging open against yours now. 

“That's it, keep fucking me like that.” You breathe, feeling like you're close to another unexpected climax just from looking at his face. He's drenched in sweat, hair swaying around his face messily as he fucks desperately into you, eyebrows pinched with a look that resembles pain as his lashes flutter. 

The brutal pace he's set, combined with all the longing and intensity, sends you through another frenzy as you cream all over his cock again. The sensation so unreal you have to look down, and you can see it. The white substance coating his length each time he pulls out. It's filthy. And perfect. 

He gasps, almost chokes out, “Yeah, god- I'm cumming…fuck, baby gonna-" 

“Uh-huh.” You nod eagerly, hands still grabbing onto the sides of his face. “Yes, yes, yes.”

His body tenses, and then you feel a familiar warm sensation spreading inside your snug walls as he plugs you to the hilt, burying himself as deep as he can, making you shiver. His release shoots out in a hot mess, filling you up in the best way possible.Your pussy still clenching as you feel every throb and jerk. 

His arms relax, allowing his weight to slump on you completely, hips slowing down, lazily thrusting into your heat, milking himself and extending both your orgasms for as long as possible while causing some of his cum to spill out, making you feel dirty and content at the same time. 

You don’t know who moves first, but you’re suddenly kissing. Slow and deep. Lips somehow matching the rhythm of your bodies. Touches become gentle, your fingers gingerly trailing up and down his spine as you breathe against each other like it’s a need.

“Shit.” He whispers tiredly, sounding like he's realised something, head hanging low as he stares at the mess between your bodies. 

“It’s okay.” You reassure him with a chaste kiss on the lips. “I’m way past my ovulation, you’re good.”

He visibly relaxes after that, forehead resting on your shoulder with a sigh, and you both hiss when he slowly pulls out. Your legs twitch a little before dropping limply on either side of him. You lean down a little, reaching for the tangled covers, now resting just below his cute bum, and you bring them up to his shoulders, cocooning him in your chest and then wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers combing through his damp strands.

You lie in the quiet after he rolls you both on your sides. His arms holding you safely, skin still tingling, breathing slowly returning to normal. The memories of the month apart — the ache, the loneliness, the empty nights — feel distant now, replaced by the warmth of him pressed against you and the first hints of sunrise.

It all feels familiar, yet it doesn’t — no blurred lines this time. No wondering. 

Just contentment and soft touches and fluttering hearts.

You press a soft kiss to his chest. “If you ever leave me again, I’ll hunt you down and kidnap you.”

He sighs a tiny laugh, nuzzling your hair. “I’d probably come crawling back anyway.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

It's only after a few days that you and Mark finally decide to leave the comfortable confines of your love bubble and socialise with your friends. 

It's one of the first hot days, sunshine all over the place, everyone very much still riding the end-of-exams high, still excited to celebrate and make the most of the remainder of student life before summer. 

The reality of everything sort of hits you when you and Mark are walking down the street, his fingers intertwined with yours while he's on the phone to Chenle, trying to figure out the whereabouts of the picnic your friends have decided to organise. 

"Dude, what damn tree?" He complains with a laugh. “It's a fucking park, there's plenty of trees. Can you just turn on your location? No one's stalking you for crying out loud.” 

You hear muffled voices through Mark's speaker before he just agrees to something with a hum. “Alright, sweet, we'll see you in a sec.” 

His eyes are instantly on you the second he hangs up, smile bright. “Shall we go pick up some drinks? There's that corner shop just before the bridge.” 

You nod excitedly, smiling at the way he playfully sways your connected hands. “Yeah, it's too hot to raw dog it.”

The sun is hitting him just right, his skin glowing, eyes looking a brighter shade of brown in the light, outfit simple but sexy at the same time. Baggy white tee and cargo shorts. Effortless. 

Dreamy as always.

When you're in the store, trying to decide whether you want to get a peach ice tea or a canned cocktail, Mark's hand casually comes to rest at the small of your back, just above your ass. The gesture is so small, barely noticeable, yet so domestic. And of course, you do notice, butterflies letting loose in your stomach, giddiness difficult to contain. 

“Just get the iced tea and a couple of those aperol spritz cans you like.” He suggests, his front pressing against your side. Gently but enough to cause goosebumps. “You always get them for pre gaming, don't you?” 

He's not even looking at you, totally oblivious to the effect he has on you. He's too busy scanning through the shelves, warm hand absentmindedly trailing to your hip, thumb stroking ever so softly, the subtle heat of his arm around your back seeping through the thin fabric of your summer dress. You're thankful for the store's aircon being on, somewhat helping with the heat creeping up on your cheeks. 

For some reason, the moment, though insignificant, makes you feel so many emotions. You carefully observe his side profile. The way his eyelashes touch his cheek each time he blinks. The way his lips form the most adorable pout as he's in deep thought. The word ‘boyfriend’ keeps ringing in your head and you find it hard to believe that Mark finally holds that title. 

Your boyfriend. 

You realise you haven't spoken for a few seconds when he looks down to inspect your face, expression baffled. “What?” 

You shake you head, bringing yourself out of the trance, eyes staring into his. “Nothing. I just love you.” 

His face beams. Eyebrows shooting up, eyes wide as a blinding smile takes over his features, teeth on full display. “I love you too, baby.” 

The hand on your hip, drags you closer as his lips press the sweetest kiss on your cheek. The skin-on-skin contact settles your heartbeat a little, but the flutters in your tummy persist. And you accept that they'll be there for a long long time. 

It’s all clearer than ever to you now. Because you just know that you and Mark Lee were meant to be ever since that first messy night in freshers’ week. And annoyingly, even back then, you could tell he wasn’t just a fleeting encounter. He left an imprint you were never able to erase. 

Looking back now, you realise that you should’ve just accepted your fate. You should’ve let him in your life much sooner. 

But he’s here now. 

And everything finally makes sense.

taglist: @neotannies, @ppeachyttae, @14juno, @meowieshibal, @withlovemark, @haluenx, @snapcracklen, @aliquidexnihilo-blog1, @cathamada, @hyusunn , @slightlyunhingedsagittarius, @mellikestoread, @malak41, @monoseoul, @yutasloverr

“If it’s morning for you, good morning,” Haechan’s ears ring as he watches the flat TV screen in his living room, “If it’s night, then, goodnight! And remember…”

“If you don’t see me again, have a nice life!” Haechan repeats the words of the host. His words. Words that he, himself came up with. His punchline — which was stolen by the crusty rat who took his place, who managed to steal from him even the intonation as he spoke the words.

Haechan scoffs, turning the TV off, and throwing his slippers away, not caring where they land. 

He made a colossal mistake, and he’d like to shirk his way out of it easily by saying it wasn’t him. The only problem? He said it on television, everyone has seen his stupid face plastered on their TV’s as he possibly fumbled his career forever. 

But how was he supposed to know people don’t have a sense of humour? Right after it slipped past his lips, his bosses warned him about the repercussions of such a joke, and even if they thought the joke was great and howled with laughter while slapping him on his back repeatedly, the audience didn’t appreciate it.

He sits back on his disgustingly big couch, and rewinds what happened that one night. 

He told his usual jokes, everyone laughed, the live band used the drums and trumpets for effect. And then, just because he felt very brave and his ego was skyrocketing after looking at the amused faces in the audience, he thought it would be a good idea to add one last joke — instead of his usual concluding line for the end of the night.

“And since this was a topic tonight… before I get to wish you a good night,” He announced, grin stretching from ear to ear, showing his pearly white teeth — a smile everyone loves or, better said, used to love, “I got one last joke about abortion that never gets old… just like the baby…”

Crickets. No one laughed, not even a sound coming from the live band — not even the disappointed sound of the trumpet at his flopping joke. 

He cringes remembering how he ended the night, the phone calls from his producers and bosses, and them wishing him the whole thing wouldn’t escalate into something bigger. 

Except, it did escalate.

His amazing rating dropped and, to put it simply, he got called in the office and put on unpaid leave until things settled and waters calmed down.

And even after being put on leave, people still came for his head. Women, activists, whole communities fuelled the online debates, criticism, and hate train over his words and actions. He saw his life being desiccated, under a magnifying glass for everyone to judge and study thoroughly, trying to find past mistakes that could be the final nail in his coffin, and which could erase him from being in the public eye.

Lee Donghyuck, who managed to work hard and make a name for himself. Lee Donghyuck, who moved on from his passion and dream job, leaving being a prosecutor for a better and, what he was hoping to be, a calmer future.

Lee Donghyuck, the almighty county prosecutor left his life behind after audiences loved his presence and made him famous, turned into his television persona — Lee Haechan — and the audiences stepped on him like a disgusting cockroach, ready to get discarded of him, who he once was, and what he once represented.

And worst of all, he got a call asking him to come into office tomorrow — and Haechan knows that’s not a good sign for him. 

You know who Haechan is. Of course you do, whoever claims not to know who he is is either lying or has been living under a rock for the past couple of years. 

He used to be a very diligent prosecutor, who took his job seriously and did his best trying to catch bad guys and getting them convicted for the longest times for their heinous crimes. He used to be one of the best in his field, of the highest competence, so much that lawyers already knew they were on thin ice trying to fight him in court, their clients most likely ending up in jail.

He had an innate talent at what he was doing, and an honest love for his profession — so much that people could just tell he lived and breathed to be a prosecutor. This passion opened a door for him — in television this time. 

There used to be this one program, with people dropping by either in person or with a phone call, and they brought up their legal battles asking for advice — all televised. And Haechan was the one expert the producers called most of the times. 

Phone calls turned into physical appearances at the studio, where he interacted with the audience. He walked in the studio like he owned the entire planet. Expensive suits, expensive leather shoes, Rolex and jewellery adorned his wrists. He had a glint in his eyes, one that could make anyone fall for his charms. 

He was cocky, and for a good reason. He knew just how good he was at his job and, quite frankly, at everything in his life. And although his cockiness might have rubbed some people the wrong way — a handful of people out of an ocean of amazed and satisfied audiences — Haechan was very talented with his charms. He talked to people like he was close to them, like they were long lost friends. He gave them pieces of advice that one would have given to the people you only cared about the most, or to real clients. Not some random person on a TV show. 

He connected with the people, and everyone loved him. He became a legend, well known, well liked — and viewer rates skyrocketed. 

So much that they gave him his own night show. That’s when he became Lee Haechan — but you’ve known him for far longer than you’d like to admit. 

You’ve known him from when he was Lee Donghyuck, a simple student. He studied law and was an insufferable presence in your classes. Your opinions clashed, but then you united against people who had opinions that not only were different than yours, but also wrong. It’s like you were allowed to fight each other, but the moment someone else tried to intervene or take either one of your places, you teamed up to fight back.

You can’t really say you were total strangers to each other. You acknowledged each other, and each other’s talent at what you were doing. Back then, you thought his presence was aggravating, with his usual talent at picking up fights with you and bickering during debates and classes, and you swear he had a sick glint of satisfaction in his eyes every time he saw you getting worked up over him contradicting you.

You got to work on some projects together, and he was close to some people from your small circle of friends. When you’re a law student, there’s not much time you can spend relaxing or going on dates, so the friends you make in your first year are basically the ones you’re stuck with. You heard stories, whispers, but not once did you consider Donghyuck more than what he was — a friend of a friend, who liked driving you insane with every chance he got. 

Everyone liked him, got along with him well, yet you kept your distance — mainly because you couldn’t stand his cockiness when he was so satisfied with his driving you up the wall, or when he knew he was right and that he won an argument or debate.

And then your studies ended, and he climbed the success ladder with big and quick steps, while you liked taking your time. 

You focused on your career, and you liked gloating that your success rate was almost impeccable. Sure, the amount of work load couldn’t compare to what Donghyuck had to work with as a prosecutor, but you never diminished your efforts and your talent. 

For this exact reason, you picked up doing pro bono work every chance you got — being driven by the thought that you could do your part and help people out, with this small aspect at least, and it became an important part of your life, one that helped you stay grounded.

After reminiscing the past, and knowing what’s to come in the next weeks, it boosts your confidence and makes you completely satisfied with yourself, like nothing — and no one — can take you down. 

Which is exactly why the drive to the studio feels extremely exciting, like your skin is tingling to get to work — this being the first time you work on this type of case. 

Your heels clink on the shiny floors as you make your way towards the conference room, where your bosses and your client are waiting for you to make an appearance.

And with a few minutes left to spare before your meeting starts, you stall on the hallways of the headquarters, because you hate showing up earlier — or later, for that matter — for appointments. You like being very precise, organised in every little aspect of your life because, after all, these are the only moments you try to stay away from unpredictability. 

“Oh, hi!” You’re snatched out of your thoughts as you look at your watch. Two more minutes left before going in. “Is there a reason you’re not going in?” Johnny Suh, one of your bosses, smiles while looking at you, all confused.

You shrug, taking a sip from your coffee, “Still two minutes left,” 

He shakes his head like he doesn’t take you seriously, and the sly smile on his features makes you understand he really isn’t, “Don’t be silly,” He gestures for you to walk towards the door, huge hand barely touching your tricep respectfully in order to guide you in, “He’s already here,”

He opens the door for you, and you give him a small smile, complying with his request to go in. He’s your boss, after all.

“I told you that’s not it! I didn’t mean it that way, I was jus-” You recognise the voice, high in pitch with frustration, and he stops his rambling when he turns his head to look at who’s walking inside the conference room. 

“Y/n?” He’s in disbelief, and a small crease forms in between his eyebrows.

“You two know each other?” Johnny asks, sitting down at the huge table, “Of course you do! I forgot you used to work in the same field,” He looks over a few papers as he takes his blazer off, “Then there’s no need for formal introductions, right?”

You take your seat right across from where Donghyuck is sitting, and you watch as he pouts with confusion while looking at you. You smile, a kind of devious and calm smile he’s never seen on your face before — and it almost creeps him out.

“What are you doin’ here?” He asks you, leaning in over the table as if your answer is meant to be a secret, for his ears only. As if the room isn’t filled with producers and executives.

“Y/n is your lawyer,” Another executive speaks up before Johnny can ease Donghyuck into it. 

You’re impressed by the straightforwardness, realising that the sooner the bandaid gets ripped off, the better for everyone. 

“My what?!” Donghyuck’s voice is high in pitch, proving to you that his usual exaggerating persona from the past hasn’t changed a bit. “I don’t need a lawyer,”

“Yet,” the CFO intervenes, and Donghyuck’s head snaps to the side to look at her. 

His eyebrows furrow while taking his sweet moment trying to understand what is going on. 

“I’m sorry but-” He snakes his head incredulously, his gaze moving between your figure and Johnny’s, “Am I being sued for something?”

“Not yet,” The CFO corrects him, and judging by the crease between Donghyuck’s eyebrows, you know he’s getting frustrated. 

“But we can’t take chances on this, Haechan,” Johnny speaks up, “We know that your image is being taunted right now, and that people are very much against you,” He explains, like it should be obvious to Donghyuck that things aren’t going to calm down so easily and so soon. “Shall anything happen, Y/n’s here to assist you the best she can while also trying to work on your public image and clear your name,”

“Shall anything happen,” Donghyuck snaps, “I can represent myself very well, you all know this already,”

You look at him, now that you have the proper opportunity to see him in real time, and not on a screen. It’s been so long since you last saw him in person, you’re almost in owe at how his features remained the same, yet they became bolder, stronger, more contoured. He matured, and it brought a glow to him that you never imagined possible — not to his annoying face, anyway.

Eyes have become fiercer, like they’ve seen so many things. His jaw is visibly more defined, stronger, and when it sets with annoyance it shows you just how much he’s changed. You saw this exact jaw so many times in the past, and with every little sign of contradiction coming from someone else against him, he acted the same — jaw setting when upset, tongue in his cheek when he was taking it lightheartedly.

You look at his hands, that have also changed over time. Veins are more prominent under his tanned, honey-like skin, jewellery now adorning his wrist and fingers with beautiful golden rings and bracelets complimenting his skin tone. 

It’s like he hasn’t changed when it comes to his behaviour, but physically he’s become something nearly out of this world — as much as you hate to admit it. Never in a thousand years were you thinking you’d ever be admitting to yourself how good-looking he’s gotten, and certainly you don’t plan to share your thought with anyone else. You guess you’ll have to take this secret to your grave, especially because you know that if your thoughts made it to his ears, you’d never know the end of it. 

“Haechan,” Another executive calls his name, as a warning. “This is Y/n’s job, not yours. I think you’ve done enough, ”

Donghyuck turns around to look at you, straight in the eye. Everything the execs are telling him, all the instructions and pieces of advice they’re directing his way, you know he’s not listening. He’s looking at you like he’s ready to take a bite out of you, and if you didn’t already know him and his ways you’d be afraid right now.

Instead, you pucker your lips trying to mask your smile, trying to keep a professional façade in front of everyone. 

What is he so worked up for, anyway? You ask yourself. No one said he’s not capable of representing himself, but you were literally hired for this kind of matters, and it’s ironic that he’s your very first client since becoming a corporate lawyer. 

You’re fairly certain Donghyuck has paid no attention to anything going on during this meeting, so you already know you’ll have to pay extra attention to everything he does until everything calms down.

As the meeting comes to an end, and everyone gets up to leave, Donghyuck doesn’t move — doesn’t even bid anyone goodbye as they exit the conference room. 

It’s just the two of you now, and you look at him as he watches every single movement of yours. The way you click on your retractable pen before putting it away in your tiny and fancy pencil case; the way you pile your files before putting them back inside your shoulder bag.

“Why are you here?” He rasps, still not relaxing in his seat. His elbows seem to be glued to the table as he keeps his fingers intertwined, not letting emotions betray him. Or so he hopes, because you know him pretty well to know he’s pissed by your presence. 

“Have you not been paying attention?” You mock him, raising your eyebrows at him, “I’m the corporate lawyer,”

He huffs a mocking breath, rolling his eyes at you before clicking his tongue, “I don’t need a lawyer,”

You sigh, suddenly at your limit after hearing him going on like a broken record, “You don’t. Yet.” You snatch your bag away from the table, gracefully placing it on your shoulder — albeit its heaviness, “You’re a fool if you think I’m here for you, though.”

“What?” He barks, not able to refrain anymore. He has so much pent up rage from the past few weeks that he’s been dying to let out, and you’re doing your best to make him snap. Just like the old days. “What does that even mean?”

“I thought you were smarter than this,” You reply, but it comes out more as a question dripping with mockery, and it has him pushing his tongue in the inside of his cheek, “I’m a corporate lawyer, which means that I’m protecting their interests and their image, not yours. I’m sure you already know how that works… When you get in trouble, they also do,” You remind him, and you’re not even sure why you have to go through this with him right now — he’s supposed to know all this stuff already. 

“I need to go now,” You announce, finally turning your back to him, “We’ll keep in touch,”

There’s a gram of satisfaction jubilating inside your body, and you can’t help the smirk that takes over your features as you leave him behind, knowing his ego and pride are now sore.

Haechan’s ears pick up a muffled sound, but he’s still too tired to care. He’s been home for a while, still on a leave, and he hasn’t seen you ever since you left the office with that arrogance that makes him want to climb walls. 

The muffled sound becomes clearer, like someone properly banging on his door, and he waits a few more moments praying that whoever is at his door will soon go away. He’s not expecting anyone, he’s sure security downstairs didn’t let anyone get to his door, yet the knocking is incessant — and it gets on his nerves.

His barefoot steps thud as he makes his way, dizzy and sleepy, towards the front door. He looks through the peephole before letting out a groan, but unlocks the door nonetheless.

“Why are you here?” He locks the door after you, and you kick your heels off, out of politeness, walking  down his entry hallway towards his living room. 

He lives in one of those luxurious buildings — and you didn’t expect less coming from a former prosecutor who made a fortune out of his job, and a fortune more from his new job in television. His living room has you fighting the urge to let out a low whistle in appreciation, and you throw a quick glance around trying not to be too obvious with your curiosity. Everything is tidy; the decor is neat, showing his personal taste with every item of eclectic furniture and memorabilia, and the place smells like him. 

You turn around on your heels, facing him once again, “You didn’t pick up my calls,” You explain, looking him up and down.

He snickers as he looks for his glasses around the living room. His hair is ruffled, his voice is raspy, and he’s still in his pyjama shorts — you definitely snatched him out of bed.

He sits on the couch, placing his glassed on the bridge of his nose before looking at you, “I don’t pick up calls from unknown callers,” He shrugs, getting more comfortable in his seat, but not offering you to take a sit.

Not that you would need him to offer you anything, not even an invitation. But because you’re in a hurry, you decide to just stand a few feet away from him. 

“I told you we’d keep in touch,” You bark, furrowing your eyebrows at him, “So didn’t you think that maybe, just maybe, your lawyer is the one calling?”

He shrugs, muffling a yawn, “You could have sent me an email,” 

“I did,” Your reply is dry, and you see him avoiding your gaze. “Go get ready, we’re going out,”

“Oh?” He squeals delighted, “Like a date?” He quips, grinning ear to ear, but stands up nonetheless.

You roll your eyes at him, “Just dress nicely,”

“Where are you taking me? I’m not a brunch person, I prefer candlelit dinners, you kn-” He’s interrupted by your steps, following him to his dressing room. “What are you doing?”

You let out the fakest, most mocking sound of endearment while looking at him and at how he keeps his hands over his clothed chest, as if you could see through his t-shirt.

“I didn’t realise you are a prude,” You mock him, looking at the enormous dressing room. “Go ahead, it’s not like I haven’t seen a man’s bare torso before,” You instruct him, and you can’t help but look at how an entire dresser is full of expensive suits and shirts made of Egyptian cotton. You suppress the need to let out a low whistle for the second time today, “I need you to look impeccable, I know the press is still after you. They can’t catch you lacking,”

He hums, and you’re sure he didn’t pay attention to what you just told him. That, or he just doesn’t care if he’s caught dressing like a homeless person. But it would be disastrous to his image, especially because most of his public appearances have been nothing short of perfect — and dressing badly right now could start discourse around press, and around everyone actively being against him. 

You see him pulling his white t-shirt off his back, tossing it on the loveseat in the corner of the room. 

Your eyes fall on his V line, out of instinct. It’s defined, it travels down to the waistband of his pyjama shorts, that are hanging dangerously low on his hips, and you feel like you can’t take your eyes off of him. Like there’s a magnetic force that doesn’t allow you to look away from him — and the same force has your eyes travelling across the waistband, gaze shifting to the happy trail on his lower abdomen.

You gulp, finally taking your eyes off his tanned skin, looking for something more appropriate to gawk at — like the vanity behind you. You turn around as if you didn’t just momentarily lose yourself in the sight of Donghyuck’s bare torso. 

If he noticed your gawking, he doesn’t say anything — and you go about your inspecting his vanity while he gets dressed, moaning about you invading his privacy. 

You look at the many bottles of perfumes scattered on the vanity, realising just how neat he is even with arranging his cologne and perfume bottles. You pick up a few, smelling them, and you’re instantly slapped by his usual scents — the ones he used back when you were students. 

“Excuse me, miss… sorry…” He mumbles while sliding up next to you and into your personal space, snatching the bottle of Diptyque from your grasp and spraying it on his bare chest and, surprisingly, all around himself.

You cough, stepping away from him, and you see how his slim fingers button his shirt up with dexterity. 

You shake your head, “Did you not apply deodorant?” 

A cocky smirk appears in the corner of his mouth, “I don’t need that,” He licks his lips, “You’ll learn that about me,” 

You throw him an incredulous look, “And how would I do that?”

That insufferable cocky smirk makes an appearance once again, and he shakes his head while styling his shirt, “There are a few ways. You’ll see… eventually,”

His cockiness irks you. You liked him better when he was sulking over the fact that you are his lawyer. 

You managed to book an important interview for him, one that can straighten his career back to the way it used to be. 

He’s going to talk about his old cases, he’s going to talk about all the times he helped people struggling with legal matters. He’s going to bring back all the good he’s done to society, and you’re sure that will stop the online hate train he’s still being the victim of. 

You explain everything to him, you line the whole plan down for him to understand, to know what he should expect from the interview. Given that today is going to be just about getting a new suit for the interview, you think he needs to have enough time to mull over his thoughts and possible answers involving the topics about his past. 

You also made sure they wouldn’t bring up the recent controversy — you made a clear script of topics to be addressed, you’ve made it clear to the producers. And you think this is the perfect opportunity for him to clear his name, save his career, and dodge any more criticism from the public. That, and the fact you know the editor working on said program, so it’s going to be easy to have everything under control. 

“As always,” You start, touching the collar of his shirt, styling it on his nape as he looks at himself in the big mirror, and your fingers comb through the strands of hair that are getting longer, “Don’t talk to the press. Ignore them, I know you have a big prosecuting mouth, but try your best not to make this even worse,”

Your words irk Donghyuck, who follows after you as you stand by his door, putting your heels back on before heading outside. 

You’re acting like he’s an idiot who runs his mouth. Like he doesn’t know what he has to do now that he’s walking on thin ice, and he wants to remind you that he’s been around the press more than you have.

“Stop bossing me around,” He rasps as he locks his front door, and you can tell that he’s getting worked up, by the way he’s pouting while talking. You walk ahead of him, going towards the lifts, “You show up to my place, dictating orders that I have to follow because you’re… my lawyer,” He barks, and it comes out more as a question, “You think you know best, but I’m not your puppy! I’m not following you around!” 

You stop in your tracks, and he nearly slams into your back as he doesn’t catch your pausing. You turn around, pouting at him. 

“I’m not asking you to follow me around, Donghyuck,” You mock him, posing and looking up at him, “You’re the one literally choosing to walk behind me, puppy boy,” You point your head at him, and you grab his cheeks with your free hand, squishing them together to make him pout, “You’re my puppy because you genuinely want to,” 

You turn around, heels clinking on the marbled floors of the hallways as you make your way towards the lifts once again, “Ya comin’?” You ask him without halting your steps.

Donghyuck stays still for a moment, right as and where you left him. He looks at the way you sway your hips as you walk down the hallway, and he feels like the collar of his shirt is strangling him. He’s very confident about what he said about not needing deodorant, but he didn’t think you’d have him in the palm of your hand, talking down to him and making him sweat.

He clears his throat, choosing to stay silent as he follows you, and the thought that he is your puppy is starting to be very convincing inside his brain. 

When interview day arrives, Donghyuck walks inside the studio like he owns the place — his usual confidence overflowing and becoming obvious even to the blind. 

You pull him by the sleeve. “Tone your ego down,” You whisper through your teeth, for him to hear, “Be humble,”

“I am humble,” He looks down at you, the proximity of your bodies making his minty breath fan down on your face. “Imagine just how insufferable I am when I don’t have to walk on glass,”

“Oh,” You push at his chest, taking a step back, “I don’t have to imagine,” You turn around, your back now facing him, and you roll your eyes out of frustration. 

He snorts, “I know you rolled your eyes at me,” He comments, voice low and raw with amusement. You turn around to look at him, and you see him grinning at you, pearly teeth on display as he tries to control his laughter, “You might not realise this yet, Y/n, but I know you,” He rasps, still amused, yet the glint in his eyes  seems serious.

His words dawn on you, and your stomach flutters — but you don’t want to overthink about his words and the implication behind them. There can be endless, and you choose not to think about any right now.

Donghyuck gets dragged towards the changing room, and you follow after him and the stylist. You keep a close eye on him. 

He’s leisurely making conversation with the stylist, making her ease into conversation and talk to him like they’re long lost friends. His innate gift of communicating is once again proven to you, and frankly to anyone else too. Even the ones mad at him seem to forget why they’re keeping away, once he opens his mouth. 

Such charms are a gift, but also a curse — judging by where it got him these days.

You look at him, all styled, all ready to go in his beautiful navy suit you personally handpicked for him a few days ago. The blue brings out the tan of his skin just perfectly; he smells like Diptyque once again, and his longer strands are styled beautifully in order to frame his face. 

You look up at him, while he plays with the buttons of his suit. The slope of his nose is perfect, and he pouts his full lips seemingly without realising, too busy paying attention to his sleeves.

You look at him in all his glory, and you let out a sigh. 

You place the palm of your hand right in between his shoulder blades, your other hand grabbing him by the base of his neck. You push on his back and at the base of his neck simultaneously, making him adjust his posture.

“Uh,” He huffs, and his eyes widen as gets startled by your sudden actions. He clears his throat, trying to fight a smile.

“You need to learn to stand up straight,” You judge, still pushing on his spine and throat.

He finally breaks, smirk obvious even to you, and you look up at him just in time to see him licking his bottom lip. 

“How’d you know I like this?” He provokes while smirking, looking down at you with the corner of his eye, but doesn’t change posture the moment you take your hands away from his body.

“Pervert,” You mumble, averting your gaze.

He chortles, turning around to look at you, posture still straight. He’s even taller than before, towering over you, and you hate that you have to look up at him.

“Oh c’mon!” He pulls you by the arm to get you to look at him, “You act like you weren't gawking at my naked body the other day,” He rasps lowly, keeping the banter between the two of you as you wait for him to be called for the interview, “I might be a pervert, but you’re not better than me!” 

His hands extend towards you, trying to grab you by the arms to get your attention — or any other reaction out of you — but you’re quick with your movements as you slap his hands away. He manages to grab you by the wrist, and you stop squirming as you feel his warm and velvety skin touching yours.

You look up at him, only to notice his eyes trailing across your features, and right after looking you straight in the eye for a few seconds, his gaze falls on your lips. His gaze is sultry as he doesn’t look away, he doesn’t even let go of your wrist, yet you become relaxed to his touch.

You feel your stomach fluttering. It’s the look in his eyes, it’s the tongue still playing on his bottom lip, his cologne flooding your senses thanks to the proximity of your bodies. Your senses are alert, he managed to wake them up with a simple touch, and you suddenly feel like hotness it starting to pool in the pit of your stomach.

Your doe eyes, and the slight blush of your cheeks are enough to rile Donghyuck up, and enough to give him a reason to believe that maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t feel so wrong. 

Just as you see him smirking once again, opening his mouth to let out something that you are sure is going to be pushing your buttons, he gets interrupted.

“Y/n?” A man’s voice snatches you out of the childish banter with Donghyuck, and you turn around to look for whoever just called your name. 

A big smile stretches on your face, “Sungchan!” 

The tall man takes a few steps, draping an arm around you, “You’re here, finally!” He smiles down at you, and then his gaze shifts towards Donghyuck, who's standing like a lost puppy behind you, “Lee Haechan! It’s so nice to finally get to meet you in person!” 

Donghyuck nods, seriousness suddenly taking over his features, and he looks at the tall man who’s now on the receiving end of all your attention. He seems like a positive person; a helper, maybe. Someone you can rely on at all times — but he doesn’t want to imagine you, of all people, relying on the man who has you grinning from eat to ear right now. It should be him, the source of your grinning and decompressing, not this person you probably don’t even know as well as you know him.

He feels hotness starting to bother him, creeping up his neck — all the way to his jaw and ears. He feels uncomfortable, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a long time. He starts feeling like a puppy once again, and he has the urge to take his tie off and possibly beat this man with it. Who cares if he adds one more controversy to the whole fiasco? Certainly not him, because he’s ready to do it if it means he has your attention back on himself.

Just as he’s ready to intervene in your conversation — even if he doesn’t know how, but he thinks he can find a way to ruin the shameless batting of eyelashes from your part — a voice calls for his name, announcing that he’s ready to go. 

You turn around to look at him one last time, signalling him to be calm and level headed. 

“I’ve always wanted to meet him!” Sungchan’s eyes sparkle while looking at the small screen as you follow the interview. 

Donghyuck makes pleasant jokes to break the ice, witty sarcasm dripping off the tip of his tongue, enamouring the host, and you know he’s safe. He’s got this — like always.

Your attention shifts to Sungchan. You met him a long time ago, fresh out of university, during language classes you picked up as a hobby. You bonded over common interests and the fact that you attended the same course allowed you to study together from time to time, and spend more time together.

But then you started becoming busier with your career, and attending those classes became close to impossible. You kept in touch with Sungchan, and now he promised he’d help you out with Donghyuck’s interview.

You take your eyes off the small screen yet again, once you hear Sungchan humming.

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” He asks, voice raw, “Would you like to have dinner with me?” 

You blink at him, and you try to keep your usual seriousness, but it becomes difficult when you notice how much his eyes are sparkling as he looks at you. You move your weight on your other leg, averting your gaze as you try to mask your delight. 

The interview will air in a couple of weeks, and by that time everything will calm down with Donghyuck’s issue. Plus, this gives you the perfect opportunity to discuss more about how you’d like the interview to come out.

“Pick me up at eight,” You tell him, smiling softly, right before your gaze returns to the small screen.

Time goes by, Sungchan eventually leaves the studio, and Donghyuck seems to have the host wrapped around his pinky finger. 

He waltz towards you, confidence coming out of every single pore on his skin, and he winks your way as he goes back to changing in his casual clothes. 

He’s relaxed, he’s his usual self as he bids everyone goodbye, and even stops to shake hands of a few executives, all while carrying his expensive suit over his shoulder. You watch him being in his natural habitat — surrounded by people, being loved and appreciated by them. He smiles, lips curving while his smile reaches his eyes as he tries to dodge certain topics and turn people down in the most polite way. And he has the tact for it, he has diplomacy, yet he has the easygoing humour that knows exactly when to attenuate conflictual topics.

You’re still wondering why he got himself in this position in the first place. Going from being a prosecutor — profession which, by the way, endowed him with all the skills he sports nowadays — to becoming a tv host who has easily fallen in disgrace, victim of sensitive judgement and especially of cancel culture.

“So,” He starts, approaching his Porsche in the parking lot, “Should we have dinner together, tomorrow? You know… to celebrate the fact that tonight was a success,” 

You raise your eyebrows, and you see the unfaltering glint in his eyes only getting bigger with excitement. You think it’s because your plan was successful, he enjoyed the interview, and it will be enough to clear up all sorts of confusion when it comes to his controversies. 

“I’d love to,” You start, and you think the glint in his eyes became even more sparkly, “But…” You suck air through your teeth, wrinkling your nose.

Donghyuck doesn’t like how you wrinkle your nose — or, to put it better, what it implies.

He nods insistingly, pushing you to continue, “I’m fairly sure you didn’t have anything planned,”

You shrug, “Sungchan kinda beat you to it,”

The sky falls on him. While he was following your orders, another man worked his charms on you? 

“You’re ditching me for someone you barely know?” He’s getting worked up, but he’s trying to keep it light by pushing his tongue in the inside on his cheek as he smiles with disbelief.

“Sungchan and I are friends,” You retort, suddenly not liking how you have to explain your life to Donghyuck — who has been a total stranger to you, and with whom you only reconnected a month ago.

“Friends?” He sniggers, disbelief making his voice high in pitch, “If you’re friends with him, then what does that make us?” 

“You’re my client, Donghyuck,” You spit out, arrogance matching his during his worst days. This is the first time Donghyuck hates the way you say his name. “I’ll call you soon. You better pick up my calls!” You warn him as your heels clink on the concrete, as you walk towards the exit.

And Donghyuck feels his insides churning as he thinks of what you’ve just told him. 

Unbelievable.

It’s unbelievable how he is at home, bored out of his mind, and you’re out on a what? A date?

He likes to think it’s just a simple chit-chat with an old friend, but he’s a man and he knows how the ones of his kind can get when there’s a pretty girl around. 

You called him his client, but he remembers how you called him a fool for believing you were his lawyer. 

Your usual biting back every time he tries to get closer hasn’t changed. Maybe you misunderstood his intentions, and no, this isn’t about him asking you out — because he totally did that, and was hoping you’d finally warm up to him. 

You literally rocked his world when you reappeared in his life, yet you’re now out with that Sung-something, and he feels like he is going to lose all progress made with you up until now. Is it a crime that he wants to crash your supposed date? That he doesn’t care if the press finds him wandering the streets as he looks for the restaurant that man took you out to?

Instead, he picks up his phone. He wants to send a text, just to make sure you’re having fun — but who is he kidding? He wants to send a text to bring your attention on him. 

How long have you known this Sung person for, anyway? Donghyuck bets the history between him and you feels heavier, fuller than whatever friendship you have with that guy because, after all, as much as you might not have liked it, you two were always around each other all those years back. 

He sighs, taking a sip from his glass of wine, and he lets his intrusive thoughts win. He dials your number,  but just as expected, you don’t pick up. So he insists, because that’s what he’s best at — pushing your buttons.

“You better be dying and for some reason I’m the last number in your recents,” You spit through gritted teeth, as you pick up his call. 

He smiles like a fool when he finally hears your voice, “I am dying,” He chuckles, playing with the rings on his fingers, “Dying to see you again,”

“Unbelievable,” You let out an outraged mumble. He can’t see you, but he knows you just rolled your eyes at his comeback. 

If only you could see him now, you’d see his pupils are the shape of hearts as his eyes glint just imagining you reacting to him. 

“Why did you call me? I’m kinda busy,” You burst his bubble, and he’s the one rolling his eyes now. Just the thought of your whereabouts and the company you keep right now is making his throat go dry.

“Oh, really?” He plays dumb, yet he knows he can’t fool you, “Was it tonight? I forgot about that,” He’s shameless, and he hears your scoffing.

“We literally talked about this last night, Hyuck,” His heart skips a bit at the way you call his name, because only people who are close to him can use his government name — and he certainly feels you being close to him, as much as neither of you have ever addressed this before. 

“I must have forgotten,” His tone drips with fake innocence, a pout forming on his plump lips. 

You hate that you can envision him right now — in his home attire, his fluffy hair unkept, only combed through by his fingers, glasses resting on the bridge of his pretty nose, bare feet taking steps between the living room and kitchen. 

“So, what? Are you on a date right now?” He challenges, finally letting you know why he’s calling. You make a sound that he takes as a confirmation of his fears, “With Mr Lanky?”

“Donghyuck!” You warn, outraged and tired. “You’re lucky he’s gone to the restroom and couldn’t hear this useless conversation,”

“Oh, I don’t know, gorgeous,” He smirks to himself, “He’s been gone for a while. What if he’s got the runs after talking to a gorgeous girl like yourself?” His tone is low and, as much as you want to hang up the call, his voice makes your stomach flutter. 

That, or the cheese soufflé is the one to blame. 

“Come by later,” He rasps, and you almost think you didn’t hear him right, “If things are disastrous and he really shat himself… just come by,”

And he doesn’t wait to hear your reply. He doesn’t want to hear a smart comeback coming from you, but he hopes you’ll come to him. 

And while you don’t show up to his place like he asked you, you certainly think about him for the rest of the night. Sungchan, who seemed like a knight in shiny armour when he picked you up, has suddenly shifted in your eyes — especially after the phone call from Donghyuck. 

Your energy deflects, you’re sure the man across the table picks up on this as well. The more you look at him, the more you realise he just isn’t what you want and what you need.

His jokes aren’t obtuse, offensive, or genuinely funny either. The sparkle in his eyes is there only when he talks about work, and you hate that you reached a point in which you’re comparing him to the obnoxious person hunting your mind. 

Truth be told, no one does it like him. You realise that even your past so-called rivalry between the two of you was something you missed while he was out there trying to conquer the world. 

Suddenly, the night seems wasted. The cheese soufflé too insipid, the steak too dry, the company not what you were hoping for. And not because Sungchan is a bad guy with an abysmal personality, but because he’s not Donghyuck. 

“Everything okay?” Sungchan asks you at some point, and you realise you haven’t been listening to him, and that he probably noticed. 

You nod, giving him a small smile, just hoping that it’s enough to fool you both. Everything seemed to be going well until Donghyuck called you. 

“Do you think you can send me a copy of the interview after you’re done with it?” You mumble absentmindedly, playing with the fork in your hand.

Sungchan smiles, teeth on display, “Y/n, I’m not here to talk about Haechan’s interview,” He announces, and a lump sets in your throat, “I wanted to have this opportunity to ask you out,”

Oh, you mouth as you find it difficult to keep your eyes on him.

He lets out a huff of laughter, albeit you know it’s not light and genuine, “But I guess it’s better if we keep  our friendship this way, right?” He’s hurt, but he’s faking it not to make you uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, Sungchan, I didn-” You try to explain but he shakes his hand, smile still present on his lips.

“No worries! I dropped it on you out of the blue, I apologise for that!” He doesn’t have to apologise for his feelings, yet he does — literally thinking that he made you uncomfortable with his small and innocent confession. 

Your chest suddenly hurts, and your eyes feel like they’re becoming fuller with unspoken feelings and emotions, and he pats your hand from across the table as he senses his mistake. 

“I don’t want you to feel bad, ‘kay? We’re just at different places in our lives, even if your and someone else’s are perfectly aligned right now! I just had to shoot my shot, I hope you can understand,” He’s awfully comforting, and somehow if feels even heavier inside your chest.

You try to shake this strange feeling away, but your insides start churning at the unbearable thought that you rejected the man in front of you, and at the thought of your bubbling feelings that need to be addressed soon.  

The door swings open, and you already think this is a bad idea. The smirk in the corner of his mouth confirms that maybe you were better off at home, in your pyjamas.

It’s been a few days since you last spoke to Donghyuck, and as much as you hate do admit it, your last interaction with Sungchan planted a thought in your brain. One that you can’t really ignore. Instead, you show up to his doorstep trying to get the answers you need.

“Wowza, gorgeous!” Donghyuck smirks, eyeing you from head to toe. He moves away from the doorway, allowing you to walk in, and you stop by the entrance. “I think you really like my place, that’s why you drop by all the time,” He rasps, eyes glinting, “That, or maybe you just like me,”

You roll your eyes, glance stopping on one picture by the entrance — that you didn’t notice last time you were here. Probably because his sleepy figure was standing in front of it, unknowingly blocking your view. You recognise the picture, it’s one of the last pictures you took with your friends as a whole group, back during your university years — before Jaemin relocated to another big city, before one of your girl friends got herself into rehab; back when everything seemed normal and felt whole. You spot yourself in a corner, hugging Jaemin and Yizhuo — your closest friends during university — and you spot Donghyuck in the other corner, smiling at the camera like he’s the sun itself. 

It was one of the last outings you did as a group, right before graduation, and right before life got busy for all of you. Looking at all the faces in the picture, you realise that was one of the best trips you took, and you think of all the times Donghyuck made the outings better and less boring. 

He sees how you’re getting lost in the nostalgia of the past, as your gaze travels along the faces in the picture. Truth be told, that picture is there for one reason only, and said reason is now looking at it with eyes full of emotion. 

He looks at you once again. You look spectacular — black dress that kisses your curves and shapes the right way, your naked shoulders seem so soft and smooth and he has to fight the thought of what your skin might feel like under the burning skin of his hands. 

You’re gorgeous, and a lump forms in his throat as he feels like you’ve never been more unattainable than right now.

Are you… perhaps…

“Going on a date?” He can’t help but ask. He sees as your gaze moves from the picture, to look at him, and you put the frame down, “How’s skid marks?” His tone is bored as he turns around to walk towards his kitchen island.

You take your heels off, and you follow him towards his kitchen with angry patters as your bare feet take steps on the hardwood floor. 

“Don’t call him that!” You bark, his nickname for Sungchan suddenly upsetting you, “Be nice, he’s helping us,” 

“Is he?” He asks, not interested in the slightest to hear your reply, “Is that why you’re going out on dates with him? Or is it because he’s your friend and I’m your client?” Suddenly he’s attentive like a vulture — he wants to hear your reply to this one question.

“Can you be serious for one moment?” You question, not wanting to bicker with him right now. 

His cocky smirk makes an appearance, “I’m a prosecutor, Y/n. I can see you’re stalling,” He retorts, and he takes pleasure in seeing you biting your bottom lip, trying your best not to snap at him. “But alright, gorgeous. To what do I owe the immense pleasure of having you here tonight?” 

You shift your weight from one leg to the other, and your hands go to your dress before you can control yourself. 

“I was promised a dinner,” You purr, matter-of-factly. 

Donghyuck wants to grin, but fights it. How did you manage to stay out of his life for so long? It’s beyond his understanding. You make him want to start howling at the moon like a depraved dog, which reminds him of how you called him a puppy before.

And remembering the way you looked up at him as you did so, touching him, talking down to him — it literally gives Donghyuck goosebumps. But he’s not ready to admit this to anyone other than himself so, instead, he does what he knows best — he acts like he’s unfazed. 

He gets ready, as you look around his place. Despite him being home ever since he was put on unpaid leave, the whole place is spotless. You think it’s because he’s been living off take out all this time, and that he’s used one or maybe two cups to drink from, but you’re impressed either way.

He shows up wearing a tux, and he steps out of his dressing room manoeuvring a bow tie.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You fake a gasp, “I didn’t know we were attending the fucking Oscars!” 

He’s in front of the mirror, styling his bow tie while looking at you through the mirror. His eyes are piercing, he doesn’t dare look away — eyes locked onto yours — and he smirks.

“You did it first,” He points at your dress, “You thought we’d be staying in with you looking like that?!” He exaggerates, wrinkling his nose, “No way, baby,”

“Don’t call me that,” You mumble, moving towards the door, but you grab him by the sleeve to get his attention on you, “But do you think this is a good idea? Going out right now… with you and your problems?”

“Y/n,” He sighs, quickly checking his pockets for everything he needs before heading out, “You have to know me better than this by now… to know that it’s been so long that I don’t give a fuck anymore,” He opens the door for you, and this time you wait for him by the door, instead of walking in front of him towards the lifts, “And I can get us a table literally anywhere. Name the nicest place you wanna go to, and we can get in,”

“I think that’d be the case if you weren’t a prosecutor who turned into a disgraced tv personality,” You ridicule him as you walk on the long hallway, but he doesn’t seem too offended by it. You might be right, anyway. 

“It’s worth trying, at least,” He shrugs, and then he turns around to look at you with that cocky smirk that’s so typical him.

“What?” You sigh, looking at the led arrows signalling where the lift is coming from.

“So basically you admitted to showing up looking like trouble, thinking we’d be staying home?” He rasps, stupid grin of victory on his face, and then he tsks, “You just wanted to seduce me,”

You punch him in the stomach, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, you step inside the lift before he can register what you’re doing, “Let’s see how seduced you get by me making you take the stairs,” And you press the button, urging the doors to close before he can stop them with his foot or hand.

“That wasn’t very nice,” He retorts when you’re finally out on the street. 

You discovered he has four luxury cars parked in the underground parking lot of his building, and given your dress code tonight, he went straight to the Porsche.

“But you did it nonetheless,” You point out, looking at the pedestrians crossing the street, “Just like a puppy,”

He doesn’t even fight it, because he knows you’re right. Instead, he chooses to ignore it for his own good. 

He looks at you, as the red lights from the cars ahead contour your pretty features. And to think that out of endless possibilities you got back into his life by being his lawyer makes him feel like becoming a disgraced tv personality really helped him in his destiny. If it weren’t for his big, problematic mouth, he would have been alone and miserable right now — in his luxurious apartment, with his four cars parked underground, with lavish dinners and a reckless dating style. Instead, you showed up.

He can’t and won’t take it for granted. 

“Where are you taking me?” Your voice is small, almost as if your mind is somewhere else.

“I have a few options, if they take us in,” He jokes, using your words, “Is there something you’re craving, gorgeous?”

You actually think about it. As you take your sweet time trying to think of something, your glance wanders around his car — and it finally lands on Donghyuck. 

He’s relaxed, even as he speeds. His tux brings a certain air to him, like he’s the most expensive and most untouchable man on this entire planet. Confidence oozes from all his pores, even as he does nothing but keep a hand on the steering wheel — and you feel your insides churning, but you desperately hope for it to be because of hunger.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” You speak up before you can control yourself. His curiosity makes him throw you quick glances before his eyes go back to the road, seemingly taken by surprise by your change of tone. This isn’t going to be about food, and he knows it, “You were too good at what you were doing for you to be remembered by the public as nothing but a fragment of a proper scandal. It actually upsets me,”

Donghyuck doesn’t know what to answer, mainly because he doesn’t see it as you. He’s sorry you’re upset about this matter, and he wishes he could take it all away from you. He also wishes he could speak up and have a proper conversation about this topic and why he thinks you’re wrong, but it’s like his lips are sealed when it comes to speaking up about the matter. 

He didn’t know you cared about him, or anything involving him — including his career — this much.

His silence feels heavy as your ears start ringing waiting for his answer, and it never comes. You’re left waiting as you listen to the purring of his Porsche’s engine, and at the way he breathes evenly — not rushed, not panicked, not even upset. He just breathes as he refuses to make any kind of comment to what you just told him. Did you really think that opening up about this to the guy with the biggest ego in the world was a good idea?

Too lost into your own worries and overthinking, you fail to notice how the car slows down, and then you finally notice him carefully looking for somewhere to park. You look outside the window, not recognising this side of the city.

“Do you remember the greasy, meat sandwiches we had on our last trip together?” He asks, and he actually sees how your gaze starts sparkling at the memory he just brought up, “It’s one of the things I’ve been craving the most lately, thinking about that day. And luckily for us, this guy right here seems to have the exact recipe,” 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be having sandwiches with Donghyuck at the outskirts of the city, bought right from a street food truck, while the grease trailed down your forearms as you tried to keep it away from your outfit. Because obviously, looking straight out of a fashion magazine, like you’re ready to go to a charity gala and eat the most expensive food ever served to you could ever compare to seeing melted cheese and grease smudged on Donghyuck’s cheeks as he chewed his bite.

The first bite taken from your sandwich almost got a moan out of you, while Donghyuck’s got a proper grunt out of him. 

It feels almost painful to admit that he’s right thinking this was something you’d end up enjoying. It helps you go back to the past, when his smile was more carefree, when his jokes were even more obtuse than nowadays, when the sparkle brought to his eyes during classes or fights with you was more prominent. 

You know he’s hiding something, and you wish he’d open up to you — at least a little bit. But you don’t want him to shelter himself behind a shell you never knew he had. He’s always been loud, proud, morally upright — and something took that away from him. 

“Tell me this sandwich isn’t so much better than sex,” He moans, mouth absolutely full to the point it’s difficult for him to chew. 

You nearly knock the tall glass of non-alcoholic beer you’ve been sharing with him, and you give him a quizzical look.

“What kind of odd experiences have you been having?” Your tone is high in pitch, full of disbelief. 

“Oh, c’mon,” He swallows his bite, “Like you’ve never had a bad experience? With a man? Hard to believe,” 

“Were your bad experiences also with men?” You pout at him sympathetically, almost on the verge of pinching his cheek and ridiculing him.

He lets out a howl of laughter, almost choking, “Touché,” He comments, licking his lips, all content with the progression of your conversation. 

The interaction quiets down, and you see him eyeing you curiously before going back to his sandwich. But you know him just too well, and as expected, he throws the ball in your court after taking a big sip from your shared beer. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” He smiles softly, setting down his sandwich on the aluminium foil on the high table. When he sees you nodding, he waits a few more seconds, “Why did you not become a prosecutor?” He asks, cleaning his hands with a wet wipe — definitely needed in order to get rid of all the grease.

When he sees your questioning gaze, seemingly not understanding the question — or where it’s coming from, he clears his throat. “I mean, you had the skills. You and I were unbeatable at what we were doing, so when I didn’t see you in the field as one of my colleagues, I got worried. I was thinking you wasted so much potential being God knows where, doing God knows what. I had no idea of your whereabouts because, God is my witness, I really looked for you as a last resort to try and reach out and make you change your mind,” He rasps, but his tone is gentle, and it brings you comfort, “So where the hell have you been?”

You guess this is a good start for the candid conversation you were planning on starting with him, but didn’t know how to approach him first. Almost because you opened a small door earlier, during the car ride, and he seemed like he closed it shut in the blink of an eye. 

You set your sandwich down on the foil, right next to his, and you grab one of the wet wipes he extends towards you. 

“Becoming a prosecutor was never my goal,” You admit, cleaning the corners of your mouth, “I always wanted to study law to help the underprivileged. Yes, prosecuting bad guys always seems like the best choice when you think of a career in law and the whole concept of justice. But what about the people who can’t afford to be represented in court by someone who’s actually capable and confident with their skills? What about the NPO’s and charities that need someone to represent them? What about the people?”

He looks at you, at the small crease between your brows as you get so passionate about your love for your job, and he has the next question he wants to ask you, on the tip of his tongue. Yet you beat him to it.

“Why did you throw out a successful and rewarding career? Just to become a tv host?” You ask him. This question has been bothering you ever since you stumbled upon his show on television, right after he gave up his career.

“It’s more complicated than that,” He gives you a tight-lipped smile, and you understand that it really doesn’t come easy to him to open up about this change. So it really wasn’t about him loving being in the centre of attention on television, and the shift to a career in this field that could mean fulfilling this crazy need for attention faster. You judged him too harshly, even if it’s just Donghyuck.

“Then open up to me!” You plead, because it’s something you need to understand about him, “I’m the one that can understand you on this, better than anyone else,”

You’re right. Donghyuck knows this, and as much as he would have loved to tease you a bit for your choice of words and wanting to get closer to him, he refrains, understanding this is not the right time for this, for neither one of you.

“Everything was going well, I was on a roll,” He starts, finally giving in. If he wants to get somewhere with you, anywhere near where he wants you two to be, he needs to open up and finally face his past. “My success rate was unbeatable and, as you might have seen, they even talked me into helping people on national television,” He looks straight ahead, thinking of the past few years and what he’s gone through, “They made me their product and I enjoyed the money and the attention, this is one of the truths,” He clears his throat, reaching for the cold beer.

So what? Is that all he has to say about this drastic change in his life? You wonder to yourself. Were you right from the beginning? Did he really do it for the attention?

“But another truth is that… I did something I can never forgive myself for, not even today,” His voice breaks, and he’s still avoiding your gaze, “One of the last cases I worked on was just… atrocious. We’re talking about abuse of the worst kind, and it all ended with murder. This motherfucker murdered his entire family… and he got away with it,”

Realising the gravity of the story he’s telling you, you keep your mouth shut. 

He takes a big breath, “Someone tampered with key pieces of evidence in the case, so he walked out of court almost trotting. That piece of shit was beaming with satisfaction, and for the first time ever I could do nothing about it,” 

Your weight shifts from one leg, to the other, “Any internal investigation that could find the culprit?”

He nods, finally looking at you, and you get to see just how affected he still is by the whole matter, even if it’s been a while since it happened. Something this big always stays with you. 

He licks his lips, “Of course! I started an internal investigation to find answers, but then after a while I got a call from my higher ups telling me to drop it,” He pauses for a few seconds, and then lets out a ridiculing scoff, “Of course I didn’t! What kind of prosecutor with a moral compass does that?!” 

You think you have a faint idea of where this story is headed. He’s getting upset, eyebrows furrowed as he recalls his past.

“It took a call from a politician to threaten me, for me to stop the investigation. That’s also when I decided to quit,” His voice is small, yet upset. 

He’s playing with a peace of foil on the table, wrinkling and then smoothing it, and your eyes fall on his crooked pinky.

“But!” He snaps, suddenly back to having a good mood, and the enthusiasm takes you by surprise. “My turn!” He picks up your sandwich, taking a bite of it. “Why did you quit your career to become a corporate lawyer?” His mouth is full, but you understand him nonetheless. 

He keeps his eyes on you as you pick up his sandwich, and you shrug, “I needed a change,” You avert your gaze, looking at where his teeth sank into the soft bread, “I needed to see if there were more exciting things out there,”

“And how did that work out for you?” He giggles, thinking of the irony of your choice. You wanted to help the underprivileged, yet you ended up working for a corporation straight out of hell. 

He looks at you, and he can’t believe just how beautiful you are. You features are so soft in the food truck’s lighting, your skin literally shines in the cold hues. 

He sees you taking a bite from the sandwich you’re holding — his sandwich, and a smirk plays in the corner of his mouth.

“You know we’re basically kissing right now, right?” He rasps, squinting his eyes at you while he sports a shit-eating grin.

You roll your eyes at him, “Your kiss is greasy,” You retort almost instantly, dropping the last bits of sandwich back on the foil, and you clean the corners of your mouth. 

“Yours is worse,” He mumbles, side eyeing you. 

“What are you even talking about?” You’re confused by his nonsense, eyes scanning him from head to toe as he takes another bite from your sandwich. 

You find yourself gawking once again. He seems so relaxed, so comfortable around you, so confident even to be in public making a mess on his face when literally anybody can see him — not just you anymore. 

And it hits you. Since when did you think you and him were close enough to imagine yourself as the sole person allowed to see him in all sorts of circumstances? Your long history of knowing each other has never properly allowed you to go there with your thoughts, and yet you did — and it makes you feel completely out of place. 

Yet for some reason, you’ve always felt comfortable around him. Thinking of it now that he shuts up and lets you be alone with your thoughts for a little bit, you think of the past. Never, not even once — not even when you wanted to kill him for starting a contradicting argument for his sole entertainment — did you feel like he repulsed you. 

“See for yourself,” He bursts your bubble, and your eyes get back in focus as you look at his tan forearms, while he extends your sandwich towards you. “I know you didn’t believe me. Take a bite,” 

You throw him a skeptical look, and you see his eyes studying your face closely, searching for something. But you give in, nonetheless. And you touch his hand as he directs the sandwich to your lips.

And then, he snatches his hand away, his lips smacking yours instead. It happens in a split second, and you don’t even have the time to register it happening, but it doesn't feel bad, or wrong. He retracts for a bit, the hand holding the greasy piece of bread far away from your figure, and he grabs your chin with his fingers.

His thumb travels, caressing his way up from your chin to your bottom lip, and he keeps studying your face for any sign that this might not be what you want right now. And the moment he feels your eyes on his lips, and sees you kicking your lips out of habit, he bends down once again.

His kiss is fervent, almost desperate, like he feeds off of it. His lips are just as plump and soft as you thought they would be, and you don’t even think twice before parting your lips, granting him access. It feels hot, something you’ve never experienced before — not from a single kiss, anyway. 

His free hand travels towards the side of your face, fingers combing through your hair to pull you even closer. His abilities are to be praised right now, as he gets to control you to get you to do anything he puts his mind to with one hand only, the other still kept away from your bodies. 

The kiss gets deeper and heated fast, while neither one of you feels like pulling away. This might be a monumental mistake, but it surely doesn’t feel like that right now. Right now, you think you’re exactly where you want to be — while Donghyuck is absolutely certain he is where he’s always wanted to be. 

Your hands go up his neck, which has gotten incredibly hot, and you keep him close to yourself as your fingers play with the longer strands of hair from behind his ears. He grunts into the kiss, and you suddenly become breathless.

He retracts slightly, eyes still closed as he keeps giving you small pecks, allowing the both of you to get your breathing back to normal, as gracefully as possible. 

“Was my kiss greasy?” He rasps, tone low sending shivers down your spine.

You gulp, keeping your eyes closed, “No,” You shake your head almost imperceptibly, but he feels you moving your face in his grip, “But your greasy hand is in my hair,” You open your eyes just a bit, looking at him through your lashes, and you see him smirking.

“Shhhh, don’t ruin our moment,” He nudges your nose with his, then going back to pecking your lips.

And you give in once again, feeling his fingers pulling you towards him.

Your leg bounces as you sit on one of the leather armchairs in the waiting room, right outside of your boss’s office. 

Anxiety is pooling in the pit of your stomach like never before, not even when you had stressful cases on your hands did you ever feel like this. It makes you sweat, it makes you want to throw up, especially because you know you’re in big trouble.

You woke up with a terrible headache, like your body was preparing you for impact first thing in the morning, like it was giving you a sign that a shit storm was coming your way and that the headache was just the tip of the iceberg. 

And then you checked your phone. Texts, missed calls from Johnny, articles about you and Donghyuck. Apparently all the times you warned him about the press being on his trails should have been a reminder for you as well, because you appear together in all the pictures published. 

Pictures of you and him strolling around the street, pictures of you and him spotted shopping together. Pictures of you two at the studio, when the two of you were bickering, except no one knows that. From the looks of it, it seems like you two are being very close, to the point of Donghyuck grabbing you — which is totally true, but the circumstances were absolutely different than what they’re being made to seem like in these pictures. And then, the worst of all, pictures from two nights ago, when you and Donghyuck made out in the middle of the night right in front of the food truck, and then in his car — and there’s no excuse or any other explanation for these last pictures, there’s no way you can deny it. It’s all out there for everyone to see, like a reminder that lines have been crossed and you acted recklessly. 

You didn’t even try to call him, to try and talk to him about this, to try to find a version of a story plausible as to why the two of you — a lawyer and her client — were eating each other’s faces the other night. 

Instead, you called Johnny and came to the headquarters as soon as you managed to calm down the erratic  beating of your heart. 

You’re sure everyone around has heard the news or seen the pictures, and you fear of what they might be thinking of you right now. You’ve never been a fan of judgement, and being in the limelight now makes you incredibly anxious. 

Your temples are still throbbing, your throat is dry, and it feels like you’re living a nightmare. And right as you think about this, the lift dings, announcing someone is about to come out, and then you see him — your real nightmare. 

The man that turned your world upside down with just a smack of lips and a foul mouth full of smart comebacks and obnoxious jokes. He spots you right as he steps out of the lift.

“Good morning, gorgeous!” He takes a seat right next to you, on the other armchair, “What brings you here so early?” 

You look at him, genuinely wondering what is wrong with him. He looks at you like an innocent puppy, eyebrows raised and lips pouting, all while he swings his leg from left to right as he sits leisurely. 

“Are you being for real right now? Did you not see the news?” You bark at him, ready to start punching him. You’re at your limit, and he’s on very thin ice right now. 

He shakes his head, shrugging with innocence, “Johnny called me in as soon as I woke up, so I didn’t really have the time to be on my phone,” He explains, and you believe him — knowing that he’s not the type to be on his phone, given all the times he hasn’t picked up your calls or replied to your work emails as proof of this. “Why? What happened?” 

“You and I happened,” You point your index finger, moving it between you two.

“Right,” He smirks, and you genuinely think he’s doing it to provoke you into hurting him, “It certainly is a good morning!”

“Hyuck!” You slap his leg, turning towards him. The crease on your forehead is terribly cute to him, and he feels an urge to kiss your worries away — even if it might put his life in danger. “This is serious. There are pictures everywhere! We’re in so much trouble, and Johnny has been on the phone all morning,” You explain, and then you sigh, “What do you think they’re gonna do to us?”

He looks at you like he doesn’t understand what it is you want from him, “I don’t know, gorgeous,” He shrugs, feigning innocence, “They might have to hang us right outside this building,”

“See?! This is exactly the kind of shit you end up saying that gets you in trouble!” You cry, getting upset with him not taking anything seriously. 

He can see you’re getting worked up over this issue, and even if he feels bad for upsetting you with his jokes, he finds it incredibly endearing for some reason.

“You’re right, but let me ask you a question,” He turns his body to face yours, almost sitting on the edge of the cushion, “Now that we’re addressing this properly,” He moves his hand between your bodies, “My joke from that night wasn’t that bad, right?”

You roll your eyes, looking the other way as you try not to snap at him, “No, it was pretty good actually,” You confess, remembering that after the initial shock of seeing him making such joke on national television subsided, you let out a howl of laughter, “Too bad some people have boundaries they don’t joke about,”

“Thank you!” He lets out a sigh of relief, relaxing into his seat, almost as if your last line didn’t make it to his ears, “I agree that I should have made that joke in a different environment, but the backlash was too strong for just a simple joke,” He concludes, mumbling as if he wants you to know he’s not that bad as a person. 

The office door opens, and a very stressed Johnny appears in the doorway, “Y/n, get in,” He calls your name, but his gaze shifts to Donghyuck, “Great, you’re here too,” He doesn’t seem too ecstatic, and Donghyuck certainly does not appreciate the coldness of his boss’s tone, “Get in,”

You enter the office, taking a seat on the velvety couch in the corner of Johnny’s office. He sits across from you, and gives you a smile.

“I’d say we have a problem,” He relaxes into his seat, crossing his legs.

“And I’d agree,” You reply, noticing with the corner of your eye how Donghyuck’s head snaps to the side to look at you.

Johnny nods in understanding, seemingly content that you’re on the same page regarding this issue, “But we’d both be so wrong!”

“What?” You squeak, getting on the edge of your seat. You’re so confused right now, you squirm your eyes while looking at your boss. 

“See, dearest… the dating scandal brought you into the limelight, and people seem to be talking about you more than Haechan’s controversial joke,” Johnny explains, and you still don’t understand what the good part is to all this, “People are going to be curious about your life, and truth be told Y/n, your record is impeccable. They’ll talk about you, they’ll say you’re the perfect match for Haechan, and everything will calm down.” He claps his hands, satisfied with his explanation, “See? Everything will work out perfectly! I talked to our PR team and, between us, this is the perfect move! How did you end up thinking of this? This was a genius move!” 

You look at him, still confused, and then your gaze shifts to look at Donghyuck, who looks back at you just as confused. 

“Erm…” You clear your throat, tilting your head, “We didn’t do it as a PR move,” You explain, still very much confused. So much that your words come out as a question. 

Johnny opens his mouth, surprised, and then points at you, “Oh well, in this case… Congrats!” He looks at Donghyuck, “And good luck to you!” He eyes you this time, still smiling.

After being dismissed from Johnny’s office, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. The headache is now gone, you feel like you can finally go back to relaxing after an entire morning spent thinking you’re three heartbeats away from having a stroke. 

You’re pretty much at peace with the fact that they’re going to focus on desiccating your past for a while, thus giving Donghyuck a bit of space after a long time. You’re not as problematic, you don’t make bad jokes, you’ve always been in your lane — and have always done your best to be respectful and good at doing your job, as best as you could. You’re sure that your life isn’t nearly as fascinating as Donghyuck’s, but you really don’t mind. 

Even as you walk inside his luxurious building and towards his apartment, Donghyuck follows your steps. He smiles at the thought that, even after weeks, he’s still following you wherever you’re going — and it doesn’t matter that you don’t have a key to his place. He looks at how determined your strut is, like the place is yours and not the other way around.

“What?” You ask him, not accustomed to having him silenced for so long. 

“Nothing,” He opens the door for you to walk in, still in front of him, “I might have to give you a key to my place,” He says nonchalantly, like it’s not a big deal.

You choke on air, and you turn around to give him a horrified look, “A key?! Already?” You’re in disbelief, and quite frankly terrified of this man’s pace, “We haven’t talked about this stuff yet,”

“What is there to talk about?” He asks, and he seems genuinely confused. He seems relaxed, very comfortable with your presence even if you haven’t even been able to define your relationship yet. 

“This,” You point your finger at him, and then towards yourself, “We haven’t even defined what we are. We have stuff to talk about, and steps to take,”

He snaps his head to look at you, shaking it all confused and with his eyes squinting, “Again… what is there to talk about? Just move in, gorgeous, we can talk at home,” He’s serious as he approaches you, grabbing you by the chin before he guides your face to get closer to his.

His lips capture yours in a sweet yet passionate kiss. They're soft on top of yours, and for a moment he gets lost in the taste of your lip balm, “Is this enough to label us?” He rasps, letting you go before he starts heading towards his dressing room.

When you fail to answer, he comes back, bare feet loud on the hardwood floor, “You’re stalling. Again,” He warns, getting closer to you once again, “I don’t like that. I want things to be quick, precise, orderly. And I want you, Y/n,” 

His confession sets a lump in your throat that’s hard to gulp down, words suddenly too difficult to get out of you.

“Years passed and regrets amassed, and not acting upon my desires at the right time made me miserable. I don’t want that for myself, and I thought my intentions were clear enough for you to understand that I don’t need a label to define us, because I quite literally want to put the world at your feet, Y/n,” He speaks, and you try to fight a smile from creeping up on your features, “You came back into my life and you rocked my world and knocked some sense into me, one that was long forgotten and which I ended up despising. I will not sit back and watch you slip through my fingers again,”

He looks silly, but it makes your chest fill with warmth as you see his pout while he concludes his statement. He’s standing in front of you, wearing his pyjama shorts which he managed to change into right before he felt the need to come back and chew your ears off, and he’s still wearing his light blue shirt, cardigan discarded of as soon as he stepped back inside. 

“This reminds me just how good you are with argumentation,” You grin, but he knows you heard him loud and clear, and you’re not out the door — so that must mean you’re not turning him down, “Is this gonna be our thing? We get off complimenting each other on our argumentation skills?” The thought seems horrifying, but it gets a snort of laughter out of Donghyuck, nonetheless.

He shakes his head, unbuttoning his shirt. “I have a few other ways to get us off,”

“Is that so?” You purr, desire suddenly making your insides melt. 

Your eyes fall on the tanned skin of his chest, trailing all the way down to your favourite spot — the V line. He gets closer to you with dangerously slow steps, like he has you exactly where he wants, where he’s planned to have you all along. 

Just one quick glance up to his face, with your gaze locking into his, and the look he’s giving you makes you suddenly want to avert your gaze. He’s confident, proud, standing upright, walking towards you like he’s literally going to take a bite out of you — not that you would mind, anyway.

He stops in front of you, his breath hitting your face as you suddenly feel small, shy to look up at him. His gaze feels intimidating, and makes your skin burn with desire, your flimsy blouse suddenly too clingy and too uncomfortable on your skin. 

“I need to know, gorgeous,” He mumbles, slender fingers playing with a strand of your hair, pushing it back behind your ear, “What about that spare key,”

You hum with delight, stretching your arms around his neck, glueing your clothed chest to his bare one, and his hands travel hungrily behind your back with a tight grip.

“I think I’ll have no choice but to agree. The prosecution side had a very compelling argument,” You sing, finally looking up at him, and he keeps his mouth awfully close to yours, but your lips don’t touch.

He hums, nose nudging yours, and you can feel his fingers traveling under your blouse, fingertips touching your ardent skin and giving you goosebumps.

It makes you literally burn up with desire. His fingers squeeze your sides and the pressure feels almost too good given the force with which he’s doing it, all because of how much he wants you right now. His arms are around you in a split second, and you don’t even realise he’s taken you off the ground, determined steps making their way towards where you suppose his bedroom is. 

Normally, you’d look around yourself, but right now your mouth is too busy on his, tongues clashing as he moans into the kiss. Your fingers travel around his nape, up all the way into his hair, pulling gently at his strands — getting a proper grunt out of him. 

He puts you down, bare feet planted on what feels like a rug right by the foot of the bed, and he plays with the waistband of your pants, pulling them down but leaving your panties on.

 You push him back on the bed, and you get on top of him — you can feel he’s already rock hard, and your mouth is literally watering at the thought of tasting him. His hot mouth is on your neck, tongue playing around and leaving wet trails everywhere it can get, one of his free hands travels to your back to unhook your bra, helping you getting rid of your blouse and bra in a split second. 

You feel like you’re on a cloud, high on desire and pleasure — he could literally manoeuvre you around and you wouldn’t realise. His hands keep you steady on his lap, on top of his hard-on, not allowing you to move because he’d quite literally lose his mind if you gave him even the slightest friction. 

He keeps his mouth busy, lips kissing the plush of your breasts before his mouth latches onto your nipple, and he grunts with pleasure now that it finally dawns on him that he’s getting all of you to himself.

“So, so gorgeous, my baby,” He breathes on your swollen nip, right before his mouth latches onto the other, and hearing his airy praise from him has you moaning, head tilted to the side as you get lost in the pleasure, and you can’t help but move your hips on top of his lap.

He moans, fingers digging forcefully into your hips to stop you, yet the force with which he’s doing it makes you even more aroused. 

His moan vibrates around your nipple, and you push at his shoulders slightly, clearly giving him instructions on what to do. All the bullshit he pulled a while back about being your puppy and not taking orders from you? Totally bluffing. The man would do anything you’d ask of him, no questions asked.

You look at him in all his glory, admiring every single inch of his skin. Your fingers travel to the waistband of his pyjama shorts, and your nails pull at it, trying to move them out of the way. With a tiny bit of help from him, you managed to discard of the clothing item right before your gaze falls back on him, and you nearly let a gasp escape you.

Perfectly girthy, one vein travels from the base of his cock all the way up to his leaking tip. Trimmed at the base, his happy trail travels up his lower stomach, and you can’t resist the urge to graze it with your nail — going from his belly all the way back to the base of his cock, where you gently grab him. 

You bend down on top of him, and he doesn’t hesitate to capture your lips in a messy, desperate kiss. But you don’t allow him to enjoy your lips for too long, as they move down to travel on his jaw and across his chest, breath fanning over all the wet spots your lips leave behind. You finally stop your journey on his chest, where you playfully graze his nip with your teeth, while your eager hand gets back on his cock, squeezing his base lightly before travelling further down, making him grunt at the feeling. 

“Stop,” He’s out of breath, and the sound of his voice — laced with desperation and lust — makes your walls throb around nothing, “Please,” He pleads, throwing his head back.

The image of him being totally at your mercy makes you feral, almost like you want to continue your ministrations just to get more out of him. But it’s too much even for you, at least for right now, so you take pity on both of you.

You bend down, kissing his tip quickly before you take him inside the warmth of your mouth.

“Fuck!” He bucks his hips up, “I don’t think you should do this,” He’s almost crying, and his hands go up to his head in order to grab strands of hair he can pull at. 

But you ignore him. Flattening you tongue as you take all of him, you indulge in the pleasure of finally being able to suck him off. Salty and heavy on your tongue as you move your head up and down slowly, you moan around him, and for a moment you think Donghyuck is going to throw you off and away from himself.

You touch him one last time after you release his cock with a pop!, and he lands forcefully on his back once again.

“I think you’ll be the death of me,” He mumbles, breathlessly as he lays unmoving, waiting to catch his breath a bit. He’s painfully hard, tip still leaking with precum, but he raises his head when he feels you getting on top of him. “No,” He shakes his head, “Wanna taste you first,”

You feel like you could cry. You want to have him in all the ways possible, yet it’s becoming unbearable for you to be deprived of any proper friction. 

“Maybe later,” You tell him, already sliding your panties down your legs, “I need to feel you inside of me,” You moan as you sit on him for a bit, and he swears he can feel your clit throbbing on top of his unmoving and hard shaft.

You align him at your entrance, throwing your soaked panties at his head — and he doesn’t even bother to catch them on time. They land on his face, and he only moves one hand to grab them and keep them close for just a tiny bit to be able to smell your scent.

His eyes become glossy the moment you sink down on him, painfully slowly, and he can’t help the moan that rumbles out of his chest. 

“Fuck, fuck, baby,” He curses through gritted teeth, sucking his stomach in a few times, “I don’t think I can- I don’t think I’ll last,”

He overestimates your willpower right now, because he’s not aware that your insides are melting with lust and pleasure, feeling the need to feel him all the way deeply inside of you.

The moment you start undulating your hips, walls squeezing him deliciously, he looks down at where your bodies meet, and he can’t help himself from bringing his thumb so you can get off faster. You moan at the friction his thumb provides you every time your clit hits against it as you move your hips, and he swears the sounds you’re making are not helping his cause right now, already feeling like he’s on the verge of spilling inside of you.

Instead, his thumb does the right thing, and you reach your climax fast, surprising him. It comes in powerful, delightful waves that are prodding you to go on and continue your movements, and Donghyuck is too lost in the image of you climaxing on top of him to remember to take his thumb away from your sensitive clit.

Your thighs are burning, everything below the belt feels like it’s about to melt, but you stretch your hands up to his chest as your hips keep rocking on top of his. He’s speechless, he’s feeling too many things, especially because he’s been on the receiving end all the time, and this way he found it easier to get lost in all the pleasure he’s been feeling. 

He raises his head a bit, in order to have a better look at you, and he opens his arms before his hands travel to your hips.

You bend down, teeth grazing his jaw before you remember something, and you smirk as you get right up. Your hand travels to his neck, hand wrapping around the sides of his throat and putting the right amount of pressure.

His eyes become the size of saucers as he looks up at you, trying his best not to let out all the moans catching in his throat.

You giggle, and the sound of it has Donghyuck throbbing, “What happened to my talkative puppy boy?” You pout, delighted at seeing him squirming.

The choice of words, your tone, your relentless riding, the pressure around his neck, and the way your walls are squeezing him too tightly, it all becomes too much for Donghyuck to bear, and you see him rolling his eyes back before he lets out the loudest moan from the pit of his ribcage — and that alone is enough to turn you on again.

But you give in, stopping your movements yet still keeping him inside of you, and you collapse on his chest. You’re too spent to keep yourself upright right now, and Donghyuck feels limp as he tries to gather his bearings. 

You place your hand on his chest, drawing soothing circles as you wait for him to catch his breath, an you giggle when you hear him cursing. His sweaty skin sticks to yours, and he grabs your hand to bring it to his lips.

He keeps you close, he’s literally where he wants to be — with your weight on top of him, he feels like this is the safest and best place for him.

He raises his head, looking at your intertwined bodies, right before a stupid but spent smirk shows up on his face, “Given our last activity, I think I just proved to you that I don’t need deodorant,”

You smack his chest when you register his words, but giggle nonetheless because only Donghyuck could get to ruin a moment by bringing this nonsense up.

“Pervert,” You move on top of him just slightly, but it’s enough to make him suck air through his teeth.

He smirks, voice already raspy as he mumbles out loud, “Oh, you have no idea!” 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: SPEAKING MY TRUTH: we need to see more of obsessed and pervert!hyuck around (◞‸◟,) thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting for me to drop fics from this series! this series means a lot to me and im not planning to abandon it, in case you were wondering — it's just that i have to be in the right place with my creativity <3 i hope you enjoyed this one, and i'll see you babies for the next one! ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶ ꒱ྀིა

It’s a law of the universe that polar opposites are irresistibly drawn to one another. Perhaps it’s the allure of complementary forces coming together in perfect balance, each half making the other whole. Yin and yang, light and shadow, order and chaos.

Jeno and you were a textbook case of antipodes attracting. Where you were colorful sweaters and mini skirts, he was crisp dress shirts and tailored slacks in somber shades of black and navy. Your voice filled any room you entered, words tumbling out in an endless torrent, while Jeno was a bastion of calm quietude, content to listen with undivided attention. You created chaos wherever you went, a beautiful disaster leaving a trail of forgotten items and unfinished projects; Jeno brought order to that world, everything in its proper place, not a hair out of line.

When you first got together, your friends took bets on how long you’d last, convinced your differences ran too deep. A month, tops, most predicted. “He’s too boring for you,” they said, convinced that some fundamental law of life would surely tear you apart.

Eight months later, you were still going strong. Oh sure, you had your share of lover’s quarrels - more often than not sparked by some silly thing you got into your head to be upset about. But your sweet Jeno, ever patient, couldn’t bear to see you sad for even a moment. He made it his mission to soothe whatever ailed you, even when your “ailments” were petty and ridiculous.

“Baby, I really don’t know what’s got you so upset,” Jeno said, his voice edged with fond exasperation.

He’d always come to your place straight from the office, not a crease or wrinkle marring his crisp white button-down, hair slicked back in that severe style that never failed to make your knees weak. The way his fitted slacks hugged his toned thighs was downright criminal.

Even now, annoyed as you were, you couldn’t help but ogle him appreciatively. If you worked together, you’d never get anything done, too busy staring at this gorgeous man all day. You frequently fantasized about showing up at his workplace and mussing up that perfect hair, undoing a button or five on that shirt, making him come undone on a desk…

“I am not upset,” you huffed, but a pout was already forming on your lips quite without your permission.

Jeno chuckled, a warm, pretty sound that reverberated through his chest as he pulled you onto his lap. You went willingly, already feeling your irritation start to melt away.

"Is that so? Then why are you all..." He trailed off, imitating your pouty frown before quickly kissing it away, as if he just couldn't help himself.

"This is just my normal face. If you don't like it, you can always dump me or whatever." You crossed your arms, but the action ended up pushing your boobs up and practically into Jeno's face.

His gaze drifted down, eyes darkening with desire as he took in the view. God, he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in your soft curves, to get lost in you for days. But first, he had to figure out what was bothering you.

"Why would I ever want to break up with you? You're my girl." His hands slid down to span your lower back, fingers splaying across the dip above your hips.

"I don't know. I can just tell when a guy's not as into me anymore," you muttered, stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze.

Jeno frowned, all traces of amusement wiped from his face, replaced by confusion and concern.

"Hold on. Where is this coming from?" He sat up straighter, the sudden movement making you bounce lightly in his lap. If you weren't so annoyed, you might've taken the chance to tease him a bit, maybe wiggle around and really get him going. "Baby, what are you talking about? When have I ever made you think I'm not completely crazy about you?"

"Well, I don’t know... You've been working late constantly, I barely see you these days. And then the other night, you clearly didn't want to...you know..." You waved a hand vaguely. "Touch me."

"Oh, that... it's only because I—" Jeno sighed heavily, shoving a hand through his perfectly styled hair and messing it up. "Well, I... I thought I hurt you then. I didn't want to make it worse. Sometimes I just get too carried away because, god, I can't control myself when you're under me like that. Baby, I was trying to hold back so I wouldn't hurt you—"

You pressed a finger to his lips, silencing his rambling explanation. "What, why do you think you hurt me?"

He dropped his gaze, shame etched into every line of his handsome face. But for the life of you, you couldn't recall a single moment during sex when he'd caused you pain. If anything, Jeno was always too gentle, as if you might shatter if he dared go too hard.

"Well... you were crying..." he admitted slowly.

An incredulous laugh bubbled up in your throat, but you managed to tamp it down to a grin when you saw how genuinely distraught he was about this.

"Jeno, oh my god." A giggle escaped despite your best efforts. "I only cried because it felt good," you explained, gently grasping his chin and tilting his face up to meet your gaze. His eyes went wide, lips parting in surprise.

"Good? But... you've never cried before," he said, confusion clear in his expression. In that moment, he looked so boyish, his eyes shining with an almost innocent bewilderment.

"That's just because...you've always been so careful with me. And don't get me wrong, I love that. But the other night... I don't know, it was different. It felt like you weren’t holding back anymore. And, well... I really, really liked it."

Jeno was completely at a loss. He had no idea you felt this way. Being significantly taller and more muscular than you - a result of his rigorous daily gym routine - he always took great pains not to be too rough during sex. It took immense restraint, too. Because his deepest desire was to well and truly ravish you, to fuck you through the mattress until you were screaming his name and woke up sore. But when it came to you, his own wants and needs always took a backseat. He only wanted what was best for you.

But now, to discover you wanted the same thing all along? Well, color him shocked.

"What's with that face? Are you just now realizing you've got a freaky girlfriend who wants you to manhandle her with these big, strong arms?" You punctuated your teasing by giving his bicep an appreciative squeeze.

Jeno let out a breathless chuckle. "I just never thought my self-control was leaving you unsatisfied," he admitted. "I didn't realize you wanted me to be...rougher."

"Jen, you're so unbelievably hot, I practically have to physically restrain myself from jumping your bones every second we're together. Honestly, I'm the one holding back here."

A fierce blush crept up his neck. Why was he feeling so shy all of a sudden? For god's sake, you'd been together nearly a year, sex was a near-daily occurrence - sometimes more than once a day even. But now it turns out he didn’t know the first thing about your preferences? Upon reflection, your sex life was pretty vanilla. He'd assumed you were content like that, but now a horrifying thought struck him…  What if you'd been faking it this whole time?

"Oh god," Jeno groaned, burying his face in your neck. "I'm the worst boyfriend in history."

"What? Don't be ridiculous. Of course you aren't. You're the best, most incredible boyfriend a girl could ask for, Jen. You're perfect."

He emerged from your neck, glasses adorably askew. With a tender smile, you adjusted them, then let your fingers card through his hair as you settled more firmly in his lap. "Whatever ridiculous idea is running through that brilliant, overthinking brain of yours right now, it's not at all what I meant."

Somehow, with a single glance into his eyes, you'd read his mind like an open book.

"You mean the fact that I've probably never truly satisfied my girlfriend even once because I stupidly thought I was being considerate by holding back? And that she's probably faked countless orgasms just to spare my fragile ego?" His tone was laced with self-recrimination.

"Okay, whoa! That's completely absurd, baby. None of that is even remotely true, and you know it." Your fingers continued their soothing path through his hair, and he let his eyes flutter shut, momentarily lost in the calming sensation. “But I'll admit, this is partly my fault for not communicating my desires more clearly”

"And what exactly are those desires?" he asked, hands once again finding a spot on your hips.

Now it was your turn to blush and avert your gaze. Why oh why did you have to open this particular can of worms? How were you supposed to look your boyfriend in the eye and confess all the deliciously filthy, kinky things you wanted him to do to you - and you to him?

"Um, was that the dryer?" you blurted out, making a feeble attempt to extricate yourself from his embrace, only to be tugged right back down onto his lap.

"Y/N." The use of your full name made it clear he wasn't fooling around. "Tell me. Please."

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "It's stupid, really. Not even worth discussing. Aren't you exhausted after working all day?" you deflected, fussing with his now-wrinkled shirt. He covered both your restless hands with one of his own (god, his hands were massive), stilling your fidgeting.

"Believe me, I have no problem staying right here all night until you talk to me. I'm quite comfortable like this, actually," he murmured, a hint of amusement coloring his words.

You sighed in resignation. "I just don't want you to think I'm some kind of weirdo or something..."

"I could never think that, pretty girl," he reassured you, punctuating his words with a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. "Go on, tell me."

"Well..." you began, nervously twisting your fingers together. "There's something I've always wanted to try with you. But I thought it might be a bit...much."

Jeno's curiosity was piqued. "Okay, what is it?"

"God, this is so mortifying," you whined.

"Come on, it can't possibly be any worse than that time you confessed to having a massive crush on Shrek," he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Oh, to hell with it. You'd come this far, might as well just let it all out.

"I've always wanted to...to tie you down. To my bed, I mean." The words tumbled out in a rush, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

Jeno was perfectly still for all of two seconds before he let out a slightly strained chuckle. But then, seeing the deadly serious look on your face, he sobered. "Wait... what exactly do you mean by that?"

You cleared your throat. "Just that... I want to tie you up... and do whatever I want to you, for as long as I want."

"Oh." Jeno blinked owlishly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "That's, uh... Wow."

You couldn't quite decipher the look on his face. Shock, definitely. But was that a spark of intrigue in his eyes, or were you just projecting your own desperate hopes onto him?

"I know, I know, it's super weird. Just forget I said anything," you babbled, squirming in his lap, suddenly desperate to escape this mortifying situation. "I mean, what kind of girlfriend wants to tie up her boyfriend like some kind of pervert, right? God, I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I actually told you that. Can we please just pretend this conversation never happened and go back to—"

"I want to try it," He blurted out, his deep voice cutting through your nervous rambling.

You froze, certain you must have misheard him. "Wait, what?"

Jeno’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze intense and unwavering on yours. "I said... I want to try it. What you said, about tying me up and..." He cleared his throat, a distinct flush creeping up his neck. "...having your way with me."

"You... You do?" you asked, scarcely daring to believe it.

"Yeah, I really do." He leaned in close, his breath against your lips.  "The thought of being at your mercy, completely helpless while you do whatever you want to me... It's really fucking hot."

Your breath caught in your throat, desire pooling hot and heavy in your belly at his words. "Oh my god, Jeno..."

"So," His large hands slid down to cup your ass, pulling you flush against the rapidly growing bulge in his slacks. "Why don't you show me exactly what you want to do to me, hm? Let me be a good boy for you."

You didn't need to be asked twice.

He’d barely finished the sentence before you had his tie undone and draped around your own neck for later use. You felt the unmistakable shiver that ran through his body as you worked open the top buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. It felt almost illicit, the way he allowed you to take control so easily.

Jeno. The consummate rule-follower who color-coded his gym schedule by muscle groups, who maintained a spreadsheet tracking his protein intake down to the gram, who ironed even his workout clothes—breathtakingly vanilla until this very moment. Here he was, his abdomen tensing with each shallow breath as you traced the hollow of his collarbone with your tongue, tasting salt and clean soap. His pulse hammered visibly beneath the thin skin of his throat when your teeth grazed his jawline.

It was amazing how a few words could completely upend someone's entire operating system. Yours included—desire unfurling hot and liquid in the pit of your stomach, climbing upward through your chest, making your fingertips tingle and your thighs clench as it threatened to spill from your lips in a gasp or a command, you weren't sure which.

You had always felt a little bit monstrous about your deepest desires. Not in a depraved way, you would never dream of doing anything without enthusiastic consent, but there was a shadowed, primal need within you, an itch at the base of your skull to be the one in control, the one who upset the delicate balance just when things began to feel too predictable.

The kind of need that often got suppressed in relationships, because men liked the idea of a woman "taking charge" until, inevitably, she actually tried it, and then suddenly it was too much, not sexy anymore, a bridge too far from the unspoken script. But apparently, Jeno was different.

"You want to be a good boy for me?" you purred, relishing the effect your words had on him. His breath quickened, Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to conceal his shudder with a slight tilt of his head. 

Jeno never allowed himself to relinquish control. Not at work, not at social gatherings, not even at the gym. But now, under the heat of your gaze and your touch, he was so beautifully vulnerable it made your heart flutter wildly in your chest.

You paused your kisses on his neckline, mouth hovering above his skin, and let your breath fan out in a slow exhale. His fingers flexed on your hips, tightening imperceptibly. Just the faintest tremor. It was a revelation, seeing him so uncertain and yet so hungry at the same time.

"Lie down," you commanded, surprising even yourself with the steadiness of your voice.

He complied, moving onto the bed with a curious sort of grace, as if he feared shattering the charged atmosphere by making one wrong move. The mattress dipped and groaned beneath his weight. You smiled, giddy with the thrill of this newfound power, but also a little awestruck. Was this alright? Was it too much, too fast? Jeno gazed up at you, his eyes swirling with both trepidation and anticipation.

You looped the tie around his wrists, securing it with a knot, and gently pressed his bound arms above his head. The action felt at once absurd and profoundly meaningful--as if you'd crossed a point of no return together, one that had been beckoning to you all along.

"You know, people usually have a safe word for this kind of thing," you said, settling your knees on either side of his hips. His thighs tensed, then relaxed, as if you'd just handed him a Get Out Of Jail Free card and he'd simply ripped it to shreds right before your eyes.

"Should I choose one?" he asked, and the sheer guilelessness of his tone made your heart ache for reasons you couldn't quite articulate. Perhaps it was because Jeno had never looked at you quite like this before: vulnerable, eager, a little lost. The dynamic had always been slightly inverted--him guiding you, patient and careful, a steadying hand at the small of your back in a crowd. You thought you enjoyed being cared for, and you did. But this thrilling new arrangement, with him splayed out beneath you, ignited a heat low in your belly that threatened to consume you from the inside out.

"Yeah," you breathed, trailing your fingertips down the smooth expanse of his chest with agonizing slowness. "If you want."

He hesitated, his lips silently forming and discarding a litany of options, before finally settling on: "'Spreadsheet.'"

A surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat, the unexpectedly nerdy choice conjuring an oddly arousing mental image of Jeno in a sexy office roleplay, his tie askew and his glasses fogged. "You want your safe word to be 'spreadsheet'? Really?"

"Too dorky?" he asked, a little self-conscious.

You leaned in close, hands planted on either side of his head, and murmured, "It's perfect. Just like you."

Before he could protest or make a joke, you captured his lips in a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of your desire, your adoration, your hunger into the press of your mouth against his. Jeno melted into the mattress, surrendering himself completely to you. His hands, bound in that tidy little knot, flexed helplessly. You suppressed a grin. This look suited him, the utter lack of control, the complete surrender. It made you feel not only powerful, but deeply trusted.

You refused to let him off easy, though. Where other women might have pounced on him, riding a fleeting high of feminine dominance for a scant few minutes before gratefully lapsing back into the familiar status quo, you enjoyed every second of this reversal like it was the last luscious bite of dessert on earth.

So you took your sweet time. You explored him as if laying eyes on him for the very first time, mapping the contours of his chest, his jawline, even the delicate shell of his ear with gossamer, butterfly touches. You let your tongue swirl around his nipples, languid and unhurried, drinking in the way his eyes widened first in bewilderment, then understanding, then abashment. (He'd always been oddly self-conscious about his pecs, as if they were some shameful secret. Perhaps they were too sensitive, or maybe he'd simply never had a lover lavish them with genuine curiosity rather than perfunctory attention.) You suckled gently, barely applying any pressure, and he arched beneath you, his entire body shaking once before he instantly reddened, averting his gaze as if mortified by his own visceral response.

"Are you--fuck, enjoying this?" Jeno gasped, his chin tucked to his chest, a bashful, almost petulant furrow marring his brow.

"God, yes," you breathed, and to underscore your sincerity, you laved a leisurely path up his sternum, savoring the salt of his skin and the heat emanating from beneath. "You're so sensitive here, baby. It's adorable."

He tried to match your breezy tone, but his voice cracked when he protested, "It's not adorable. It's humiliating." He was achingly hard now, a fact he couldn't possibly hide with your thighs bracketing his hips and his arms pinned above his head.

You let your fingertips tease along the edge of his waistband, but left his pants in place, the fabric pulled taut by his obvious erection. Instead, you splayed your palm over his clothed erection, letting the heat and weight of your hand linger there. Jeno went still, his breath coming in shallow, rapid puffs. You waited. Then you eased your palm just slightly, applying a little more pressure through the fabric, and watched as he bit down hard on his own lip. So serious. So determined not to give you the satisfaction of hearing him beg. You decided to test how long that resolve would really last.

You murmured, “If you want something, just ask, baby.” You gave a gentle squeeze to the base of his cock, feeling, through the layers of his trousers and underwear, the heat and tension coiling there. You softened your touch, tracing lazy circles with a single finger. Jeno squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, his wrists flexing against the tie, but he said nothing.

You loved this about him. The quiet stubbornness. You wondered how many people in his past had ever seen him this exposed. How many had been allowed to glimpse the frantic need pent up in his body, or the brittle fragility behind his wit? You felt almost protective of it.

You bent low, lips grazing the edge of his trembling jaw. “I like you like this,” you whispered, your hand stroking down the length of him, just to watch his composure slip. “You don’t have to hide how much you want it. You know I could do this all night, and you’d just get needier, wouldn’t you?” His whole body shuddered with the effort of not answering.

“Word?” you asked softly.

Jeno’s laugh was hoarse. “Spreadsheet,” he replied, so fast it was almost a moan.

Abandoning his groin, you circled back to drag your nails up his sides, then dipped your head to press a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat. "So sensitive," you type, this time letting a note of faux astonishment color your words. "Who would've guessed?"

He shot you a baleful look, but with his arms trussed up, it only served to make him appear more deliciously helpless, more endearing. "You're mean" he grumbled, though his hips canted upward of their own volition when you ghosted your lips over his collarbone.

You almost felt guilty. Almost. Instead, you pulled back, eager for his next reaction with the slightly cruel edge of a cat toying with a cornered mouse. You knew exactly what he wanted. You could sense it in the desperate way he strained toward you, in the way he flexed his hands against his bindings, in the way his breathing had gone from even to erratic and labored. But you had no intention of giving in, not yet.

"Is there something you want, baby?" You let your fingertips dance up and down the sensitive skin of his inner arms, gossamer-light, so soft it tickled. He shuddered, his muscles rippling beneath your ministrations.

"I'm fine," he bit out, his voice strained.

You beamed down at him. "You sure?" you pressed, leaning in to nuzzle the tender spot just behind his ear. "Because you're about to burst."

His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking. "I'm not—"

You nipped at his earlobe. "You're not what?"

He pressed his lips together, eyes screwed shut. "I'm not going to beg," he ground out, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

You clicked your tongue, feigning disappointment. "That's a shame," you slid off him just enough to trail your hand over the length of his body, lingering at the waistband of his trousers. "Because I think you're dying for it." You unbuttoned him with a slow flick of your thumb, savoring the way his chest lifted with each shallow breath. He wore sleek black boxer-briefs under his slacks, and the sight of him—so painfully, embarrassingly hard, a dark stain already spreading at the tip—gave you a rush of adrenaline.

You drew back, just to drink in the sight of him, to admire the delicate flush staining his cheekbones and the desire smoldering in his eyes. His lips were kiss-swollen and slightly parted, as if poised to say something before he clamped down on the words and glowered up at you, defiant.

God, you wanted to absolutely wreck him.

He thought he could out-stubborn you? How funny. You'd been emotionally tormenting older siblings and exes since you were in middle school. Jeno, for all his seriousness and self-discipline, was woefully outmatched by the age-old feminine art of slow-burn, high-stakes teasing. If he wanted to engage in this battle of wills, you'd ensure he regretted the day he ever underestimated you.

You charted every last inch of his torso, every rib and divot, every spot that elicited a hitch in his breath or a twitch of muscle beneath your touch. His nipples were exquisitely responsive, and you traced languid circles around them with the tip of your tongue, just once, before neglecting them entirely as he squirmed under you.

You bit his hipbone, and he startled with a strangled whine that reverberated through the room. Grinning, you pressed a soothing kiss to the spot immediately after. "Sensitive everywhere, aren't you?" you mused, your fingers skating over his erection.

He managed an incredulous groany laugh. "I didn't realize you were this intense," he panted, his head tipped back against the pillow, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck. You took the invitation for what it was, trailing the line of his vein with your tongue before sucking a dark mark on the hollow above his pulse.

His hips jerked, and he muffled another moan. Your grin was uncontainable. The way that mark appeared, raw and red, right where only you will see it tomorrow, triggered a curious protective urge, as if you wanted to carve your initials into Jeno’s skin, make him unmistakably yours. Perhaps it was caveman logic, or the months of restraint, but you wanted, all at once, to break and cradle him, to see him undone and then stitch him back together.

You cursed yourself for not buying actual restraints. That trendy boutique you passed with window displays promising sturdy vegan leather harnesses, silk ropes dyed in neon, handcuffs shaped like Hello Kitty--why had you hesitated? You’d dismissed it as a fantasy, as something people like you only joked about over brunch, not something real-world couples like you and Jeno attempted for more than a fleeting, tipsy weekend. But you refused to let a lack of props stop you now.

You leaned in and whispered, in your best threatening purr, "Move again, and I'll edge you so long you’ll cry."

Your mouth watered at the sight of him when you finally pulled his boxers down: thick and flushed, rigid and throbbing.

Even now, every molecule in Jeno’s body radiated tension, a desperate need to do something, anything, to get you to touch him. You didn't. You sidestepped his need and worked your way methodically down, kissing the jut of his hip, the springy line of dark hair trailing from his navel to his groin, the smooth roundness of his knees, the curve of his calves. His thighs jumped when you so much as breathed warm air over them.

He made a noise like laughter, disbelief sparkling in it, until your mouth closed around his tip and his head thudded back so hard against the bed frame you worried he'd bruise.

You were not, in fact, a blowjob expert-- your exes had been content with clenched eyes and an awkward "that feels good, baby" while you did the obligatory motions, but not one of them had ever surrendered their body with such single-minded attention as Jeno was doing now.

He looked down the line of his body at you, glasses askew, cheeks flaming, breathing ragged, and eyes so tender. You let your mouth hollow around him, your tongue mapping the throbbing ridge of vein, then backed off.

"D-don’t stop," he breathed as you dragged your tongue through the sticky spill at the tip and smirked.

"Patience is a virtue, baby," you crooned and kissed his tip again.

You dragged your mouth up his length slowly, and felt a shiver that started at his toes and climaxed in a delicious, helpless buck of his hips. The tie binding his wrists strained, but held fast, and his hands flexed and unfurled in an unconscious search for something to grab onto.

"Oh, fuck, Y/N," he gasped, voice ragged and breathless, the syllables bouncing off the ceiling and landing between your ribs where they took root and blossomed into hot, sticky pride. You slowed, dragging your tongue along the side of his cock, swirling around his head, once, then again, flicking just the way you secretly knew he liked it.

You pulled off, lips glossy, letting the air hit him cold and sharp. He whimpered, a pathetic, beautiful sound. "Why," he said, voice a thin whine, "do you keep stopping?"

You grinned up at him. "Because you're so fucking cute when you pout."

You crawled up, letting your hair trail his chest, and hovered just above his mouth. "Want to kiss me?" you provoked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded helplessly and strained for your lips. You let him sweat a moment longer, watching the need bloom in his eyes, before planting a ferocious kiss that left you both gasping. You knew he could taste himself on your tongue and wondered if it would weird him out or if he’d find it as electrifying as you did.

You kissed him until he writhed, until the friction between his cock and your belly painted his stomach with a slick smear. He tried to deepen the kiss, tried to tilt up, but you pulled back, dragging your teeth over his bottom lip and biting down just hard enough to make him gasp. His hips jerked again, straining unconsciously, his cock fully engorged and weeping.

You grabbed at the nightstand, a fierce need to see just how far you could take this. The top drawer gaped open, revealing its pile of treasures: tattered paperbacks, loose hair ties, a flattened tube of lip balm, and—hallelujah—a vibrating ring you’d once gotten as a gag gift at a bachelorette party and promptly forgotten about. You held it up between two fingers, watching Jeno’s eyes track it warily.

“What’s that…?” He cut off, a flush creeping from his neck to the tips of his ears.

You smirked. “Color-coding and spreadsheeting every aspect of your life, but you never thought to research sex toys?” You plucked the cellophane wrapper open with your teeth, tossed it aside, and switched the ring on. You let it shake against your palm before slipping it gingerly over the base of his cock. His whole body jolted as if you’d wired him directly into a light socket.

You let the ring do the work for a moment, watching Jeno struggle not to buck into the sensation. Every trembling muscle in his body begged for more, but you made him wait. You made him watch as you undid the buttons of your shirt, slow enough to make him keen in protest, his dark eyes never leaving the skin you revealed inch by inch.

You toyed with the clasp of your bra, letting the anticipation stretch enough to make him whine a little, his bound hands flexing in the air above his head. When you finally flicked the clasp open and let the scraps of lace fall away, Jeno exhaled a curse word so filthy it made you grin. You basked in the raw hunger on his face, the way the sight of your bare breasts made him bite his lip so hard it went white.

You shimmied out of your skirt with a little flourish, the hem catching on your thighs and making Jeno whimper softly when he realized you’d gone without panties. He drank in every movement, every exposed surface of you, like it was oxygen. You stood over him for a second, drinking in the view, too: your gorgeous, brilliant man undone by a ten-dollar battery-powered ring and a men's tie, his face open and desperate and so, so in love with you.

You straddled him again, and let your heat hover just above the flush, taut head of his cock. It took every ounce of self-control not to simply drop and ride him until you both blacked out. Instead, you hovered, pressed slightly, let the electric brush of the ring buzz against your clit, then drew away.

Jeno whined your name in disbelief, arching up like he could make you take him inside. You refused, just for the pleasure of watching him suffer. Maybe he deserved it, after all the nights you’d lain awake, quietly vibrating with need while he snoozed with monastic stoicism, all that serious energy funneled into containing what you now realized was a feral hunger.

You pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, so close he was probably tasting your slick heat with every nerve in his body, and then, with a grin, you let him watch as you languidly circled your clit with two fingers. The sight made Jeno sob out a half-choked plea, but you stilled him with a palm flat to his chest. “Not yet, baby,” you whispered, raking your nails lightly down his sternum.

He whimpered, and if you’d ever suspected in your life that the sound could be made by a guy like Jeno, you’d have called yourself a liar. You marveled at yourself for being able to draw forth such primal noise from someone so reserved; you couldn't help but feel slightly monstrous for it.

Each time you teased yourself with your own fingers, his breathing grew harsher, his cheeks more flushed. Even restrained, his body was a livewire, shoulders pressed deep into the mattress, thighs trembling with the effort not to buck, breathless with the burden of not asking, not pleading, even though you could see just how close he was to breaking.

You kept him on the edge so long that he started babbling. “Please, please, I can’t—” and you only giggled, pulling away every time you judged him too close, just to watch his face twist from relief to exquisite frustration.

“Fuck, st--stop teasing me” he gasped, but you could tell from the frantic way he strained against his bonds that he would do anything for you right now, say any ridiculous, humiliating thing just for a minute of your time and the pressure of your walls around his cock.

When you finally, finally slid down onto him, it was so overwhelming you both gasped. He was huge, perfect, and the vibrator at your clit sent shocks through your core.

For a second, you just sat there, pressed full and tight. You wondered if you looked as fucked out and vulnerable as he did, hair wild, mouth open, every muscle trembling from restraint. You rolled your hips, grinding down slow and steady.

“Y/N,” he breathed, “please, god, I want—”

You clamped a hand over his mouth. “Good boys take what they’re given.”

He moaned into your hand, eyes rolling back, and the tension that traveled through his body was so immense it was like riding the aftershock of an earthquake. The tie at his wrists went taut. His legs strained against the bedposts, all of him desperate to consume and be consumed.

You wrapped your hand around his throat gently and rode him in long, greedy plunges that had him gasping for air. His hips bucked up, desperate for friction, but you kept your pace slow. The wild look in his eyes confirmed it: he loved every second of this, the helplessness, the hunger, the way you reduced him to pure need.

The mattress creaked, your knees ached, sweat beaded between your breasts and along your hairline. You swore you could feel every inch of him on a cellular level, every twitch and pulse and trembling, needy plea.

At the apex of each bounce, you ground down with ruthless precision, sending shocks through your own body that almost knocked you loose from your seat. You’d had sex that was wild before, and loving; you’d had sex that was disappointing and transactional; but you’d never known pleasure that could be this mean, this strange, this deeply, vibrantly alive.

“F-fuck, I, I, I can’t—Y/N, I’m—” The words broke loose from his mouth in a choked growl.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear, your voice low and breathless: “You can. You will. But only when I say.”

You eased off, sinking your nails into his thighs as you lifted until only the tip of him remained pressed at your entrance. The vibrator thrummed against you both. You could feel the way he trembled, the way his cock pulsed in time with his racing heart.

“Say it,” you commanded, teeth grazing the curve of his jaw. “Tell me you’re my good boy. Tell me you’ll wait for me.”

He whimpered, face twisted in frustration. “I’m your good boy,” he choked out. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you, baby, please—”

You smiled against his cheek. “Good.”

His mouth fell open, but nothing came except a low whine, his bound arms flexing so hard you could see the cords standing out on his forearms. You lifted off him enough so that the ring buzzed unencumbered between your bodies, and Jeno’s head twisted on the pillow like he was in pain.

“Please,” he managed. His face was red, sweat beading at his hairline, and you could see the actual glimmer of tears poised in the corners of his eyes.

You froze, suddenly worried you’d gone too far, but the frantic shake of his head and the way his hips bucked up told you he was exactly where he wanted to be. You shushed him, stroked his cheek, and rode him a tiny bit slower, let the pressure and the build accumulate until it was an agony you shared, both of you perched together at the edge of some wild precipice.

You kept him there, squirming under you, for as long as your own resolve would allow, which, embarrassingly, wasn't very long considering how fucking good it felt to have him stretching you. You'd always suspected Jeno would be incredible if you ever managed to get him to just let go. Still, you'd never imagined he'd be the sort of lover who could, with nothing but muscle and sheer willpower, fucking snap an expensive tie.

He’d waited for you to get greedy, to close your eyes and tip your head back, and then he pulled.

The tie snapped apart, and suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your hips with a bruising force, pinning you so you couldn’t wriggle away. You gasped, the shock of it slicing straight through your haze. His arms wrapped around your waist and yanked you down, impaling you down onto his cock like a spike. The sound you made, the way your back arched involuntarily, must’ve gone straight to Jeno’s lizard brain, because his next thrust was pure animal: no hesitation, zero self-restraint, just the greedy sound of your slick cunt and his ragged moans.

“My turn,” he growled.

The grip on your hips was bruising, but you welcomed it, craved it, felt yourself go liquid in his arms—finally, finally those massive hands pinning you to his pleasure. You barely had time to yelp before Jeno was sitting up, bearing you with a single arm around your waist, the other sliding into your hair and fisting it so roughly you lost your breath. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry, bruising, and the taste of you and him and the faint aftershock of salt and sweat became the whole universe.

His hands found the curve of your ass to hold you in place and fucked into you hard enough to make you see white. The vibrator slammed your clit with every punishing thrust, adding a delirious edge to every bounce. You realized you were the one whimpering now, begging, though the words were incoherent nonsense.

He lifted you off and spun you to your hands and knees in one fluid movement. You tried to protest, to issue some token resistance, but your own body betrayed you, shaking with anticipation as he manhandled your hips into place. You’d always suspected he was strong enough to snap you in half. His hair was a ruined mess, his glasses knocked askew and threatening to fall, the tie a shredded half-garter dangling from his wrist. The sight of him like this nearly undid you.

He fucked you hard, in a way you’d never have dared request. You braced yourself on trembling arms, moaning with each slap of his hips against your bare ass, your whole body ricocheting toward the headboard with every thrust. His hands were everywhere: spanning your waist, squeezing your ass, one palm smeared up your back, and grabbing a fistful of your tangled hair so he could yank you upright, your spine arched like a bow. The change in angle made you see stars, the vibrator wedged between clit and cock pulsing so tight and mean you nearly howled.

“Look at you,” he said, voice thick, “so desperate. My good girl, now.” Mirth and pride bled into the claim, and you leaned into his hand as it tangled deeper in your hair.

You were drooling now, face hot and wet, mascara streaked and running down your neck in wild, black rivers. You weren't sure what noises you were making, but they echoed obscenely—full of plaintive whimpers, shattered syllables, “please” and “god” and “don’t stop.” Jeno responded to each with a wordless, hungry grunt, his palms kneading at your hips, pounding into you so hard the headboard started to knock the wall in a syncopated rhythm.

His eyes burned, black and wild; his jaw set with a kind of furious adoration, as if he’d realized all at once that he’d been starving himself for no reason and now he was going to eat and eat and eat until he was sick on you.

“Didn’t you want it hard?” Jeno growled. “Then fucking take it.”

You couldn’t even find your voice, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except take him whole and clutch at the handful of sheets he left you to grab onto. You wanted to say something to show you were still in charge, but his mouth found your neck and his teeth grazed the curve of your jaw and you bit down on your tongue to keep from screaming. Your vision blurred, the edges of your world tunneling down into the center of your body where Jeno was battering you open, his cock hard and insistent and so fucking perfect you wanted to cry.

You felt his entire body go rigid, pinning you so hard you couldn’t move except to open wider, give him everything. “You’re so—fuck, you’re—

He flipped you onto your back and grabbed your ankles, pressing them toward your shoulders until your knees nearly touched your chest. Each thrust came with such force that the bed frame groaned in protest beneath you. Behind your closed eyelids, pinpricks of light bloomed like distant stars.

There was nothing in this world except the slippery glide of your bodies, the hurricane of need, and the wild, wet convergence of your souls at every point of contact. You clawed at his back, at his shoulders, at the sharp planes of his chest, leaving crescent moons in your wake. When he locked his lips to your collarbone and bit down, you gasped, the sensation igniting along your spine and straight to your core.

Somehow, even in this frenzy, it was Jeno who noticed you were about to come apart, who braced himself on trembling arms and slowed, just barely, so he could see the look on your face as you shattered. He fucked you through it, his eyes never leaving yours, his own release spooling tighter and tighter but held back by brute force. You wondered how he managed it, how he could even think with this much pressure building between you.

“Jeno—”

Jeno let go completely, unleashing months of bottled-up hunger and self-denial. He fucked you like it was his last earthly act, piston-strong and brutal and god, you’d never come so hard, your orgasm slamming through you like a dropped elevator. You shrieked, and he bit your shoulder, and you clung to each other as if you could fall through the bed and into some other universe entirely, a universe where nothing existed but friction and heat and want.

You were still shaking when you felt him shudder, felt the slow-motion ripple of his release telegraph through his core, a split-second tension and then pleasure so strong it blurred the boundary between your body and his. He muttered your name softly, then tipped his forehead against yours.

He didn’t let go, not even after the tremors in both your bodies had subsided. Aftershocks radiated up your thighs, your chest, where his grip had left fingerprints already blooming. You could only stare at him, at the incredulous, almost boyish smile stretching across his lips, lashes trembling as he blinked down at you.

He reached down, gripped the slick rubber ring, and in one smooth motion eased it off, tossing it onto the crumpled sheets beside you. "Jesus Christ," he said, voice shredded with wonder. "Why do people even bother with CrossFit when that exists?"

You snorted, a full-body laugh that left you splayed and shaking. Jeno collapsed beside you, bracing a muscular arm under your neck and tucking you close.

"Never pegged you for a quitter," you managed, struggling to catch your breath.

He groaned, rolling you into the crook of his arm. "It's a temporary strategic withdrawal. I'll destroy you in round two."

You pressed your nose to the hollow just below his earlobe and inhaled the mix of his skin, his cologne, and the dizzying, bitter tang of sex.

“So,” you rasped, “how long have you been hiding Mr. Hyde under that Clark Kent routine?”

“I honestly didn’t know I had it in me,” he admitted, as if confessing to a minor crime.

For a long time, you simply lay there, letting your blood pressure slowly work its way back toward human parameters. The room was a disaster—your blouse stretched inside out over the lamp, the ruined tie hanging limp from the footboard, the nightstand’s entire contents spilled onto the floor like a piñata.

Neither of you spoke until Jeno grunted, propping himself up on one elbow and poking at the remnants of the tie with a rueful finger.

"You know how expensive that tie was?"

You snorted. "I know exactly how expensive that was," you said, propping yourself up to inspect the ruined silk. He rolled his eyes, like he wanted to appear annoyed, but the effect failed when his mouth kept twitching at the corners.

After a while, he grew serious, his gaze softening as he studied your face. "Why didn't you tell me you liked it like that?"

You shrugged, tracing lazy patterns across his bare chest with your fingertip. "I don't know. I guess I thought you might freak out, or think I was weird or something. You have this... reputation, you know? The Human Spreadsheet. I figured it was missionary or bust."

Jeno pretended to take offense. "I'll have you know, I am well-versed in many positions." His voice took on a pompous, academic tone. "It's right there on my resume, under 'extracurriculars.'"

The joke was so unexpected, so quintessentially Jeno, you almost fell off the bed. "You're such a dork," you said, and he beamed, all bashfulness gone. "You love it," he challenged, and you couldn't argue. Especially with the evidence dizzying your every cell, with the sweet ache between your legs or the sated, floating calm that was even now settling into your bloodstream.

You prodded at the bruises forming in earnest on your hips, the faint crescent of his teeth in your shoulder. "Guess we're truly incompatible now. According to my mom, the odds of making it past the one-year mark with a bruiser are statistically null."

Jeno mused, "I suppose we could always break up and bed different people, maybe do a spouse swap, and come crawling back to each other in time for your mom to lose her bet." He winked.

"Or," you countered, drawing out the word like taffy as you sprawled across his chest, "we could just keep this up for the next sixty years and die hot and mysterious in our sleep, so people have to invent all sorts of theories about us."

"I like your plan more," Jeno said. He tilted his head back on the pillow, brow furrowing in the adorable way it always did when debating which of the three hundred brands of protein bar to buy, or now, presumably, which post-coital metaphor was most apt.

You waited for him to say something else, but he just laced his fingers with yours and held them to his chest, where you could feel the hammering sound of his heart. After a minute, you realized the only thing louder was your own pulse, tripping over itself trying to outpace the clock.

Through the open window, traffic noises rose and fell, and in some vaguely zen way you understood that somewhere in the city people were tallying invoices or slicing sashimi or folding hospital corners into bedsheets, their hearts trundling along in their own prosaic fashion. In here, the room still spun with the afterimages of hands and heat and all the odd, gooey data points that, to your mind, elevated sex from a commodity to an existential event. You thought of magnets—how sometimes the only way to split up a pair fused together by attraction was to shatter them outright. Or better yet: melt them, so they pooled and alloyed into something altogether new and improbable.

Jeno then shifted until he was more or less lying fully on top of you, something he’d normally never allow for fear of “crushing you, or oxygen deprivation.” Just like that, you went liquid, one arm around his, one leg tossed over his thighs so thoroughly you could practically feel his DNA rearranging yours on a molecular level. He mumbled something into your hair, insensate and boneless, and instead of feeling smothered, you felt safer than you’d ever known.

---

thank you for reading!! lmk your thoughts about the fic!! <3

Someone mentions his room being occupied offhandedly, like it’s a joke. Jeno barely reacts at first. People drift in and out of rooms at parties all the time. It shouldn’t matter. 

Still, his feet carry him upstairs. 

The hallway is quieter, the noise dulling with every step, and when he stops in front of his bedroom door, something feels… off. There’s no grim moans bleeding through the walls. No laughter. Just a silence that doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the house. 

He hesitates, fingers curling around the handle before he pushes the door open, and his eyes land on you: lying back on the bed with your legs dangling over the edge, one arm resting across your stomach, hair falling loosely around your face. Even from the doorway, you look… different. 

“Y/N?” His voice comes out tentative, cautious. 

His suspicions of you being asleep disappear when your head quickly raises. Your wide eyes show surprise.  

“Jen? Hi.” You sit up quickly, as though you’ve been caught red handed. “Is this your room?”  

“Yeah.” He nods, taking in the perplexed expression on your face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” His words come out rushed as he shuts the door behind him, giving you both privacy and all of a sudden, he feels like he’s intruding, even though you’re in his room.  

“Yeah, sorry, just needed some privacy.” You shake your head. “I can go.” You rush to get up and he instantly feels guilt wash over him. 

“No, no. You’re fine.” He cuts you off, his hand waving defensively and you settle back on his bed with a sigh. “Did something happen?” He asks carefully, somewhat worried now. He’s never seen you like this before. Not that he sees you much outside your tutoring sessions, but the times he does, you’re all chirpy and playful, always cracking jokes. He doesn’t know you well but it’s evident that you’re not your usual self.  

“Um, not really.” You scoff, an exasperated laugh leaving you. “It’s silly, don’t worry about it.” Your eyes stay on your hands as you play with your rings and he realises he’s never noticed them before. Pretty, he thinks. 

He moves to sit on the carpeted floor, leaning his head on the foot of the bed, next to where your legs are dangling off the edge. He’s now decided that this situation is a lot more interesting than the chaotic party Jaemin decided to throw downstairs. Half his friends are drunk off their faces, the other half busy getting there, while Haechan and his girlfriend have already disappeared to god knows where. And you? You seem somewhat sober and definitely in need of some company.  

“What’s up, Y/N? You’re clearly upset.” He presses, not happy with your vague answer. Jeno is a nosy guy and he knows that about himself, but in this case, he’s also worried and for some reason, he can’t seem to be able to let this go.  

“I’m not upset.” You defend, making clear that he’s touched a nerve. “I’m pissed off.” Oh? He can’t help but crane his neck sideways to look up at you. Your eyes meet for a split second and it’s clear as daylight now, you really are pissed off. But there’s something else behind your eyes, he can’t quite decipher. Embarrassment maybe? 

“Shit.” He turns to look in front of him again, legs crossing to make himself comfortable. “Who’s the culprit?”  

“Classic shitty ex with his shitty new girlfriend, you know the drill.” You explain, sounding like you hate yourself for even talking about this. Jeno gets it.  

“Ah. I assume they’re here showing off their happiness?”  

“You assume correct.” You confirm and Jeno can’t see you, but he imagines you nodding your head.  

“Want me to beat the shit out of him?”  

Your snort tells him that he’s succeeding at making you feel a tiny bit better and he can’t hold his smile back.  

“You wouldn’t hurt a fly Lee Jeno.” He feels the mattress dipping behind him and when he looks back up he can’t see your face anymore. You’re lying down again.  

“Hey, I work out.” He elbows your calf playfully, earning another tiny laugh from you.  

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Your sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed.  

“I see you checking me out when I talk stats.” He jokes, expecting a snarky response.  

“I’m just a heterosexual female, Jeno. I see muscles, I stare.” So, you do check him out?  

“I mean, I was joking, but stare away if it makes you happy.” It’s your turn to make him laugh, kicking him in the ribs lightly. A comfortable silence falls upon you both and Jeno ignores the buzzing coming from his back pocket, probably Jaemin or Jisung looking for him. He’d rather be here right now though. Not because he enjoys your company, he just feels a sense of calmness he doesn’t want to ruin. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. 

“Feeling any better?” He breaks the silence a few moments later and for some reason, Jeno feels comfortable enough to lean his head against your leg, eyes closing to stop the room from spinning. He realises he must be slightly more intoxicated than he thought he was now that he’s sitting down and he smiles when you don’t retract, his temple resting on your soft calf.   

“A little.” You nudge his head with your leg. “Thanks.” You say softly. “And sorry for spoiling your night.”  

“You didn’t.” He reassures you quickly. If anything, you made it interesting, but he doesn’t admit that out loud.  

“How come you’re up here?” You ask, as though you’ve had an epiphany and Jeno lets out a short laugh through his nose, eyes remaining closed.  

“In my room?” He teases and he’s aware that he’s deflecting, but he hopes you don’t catch him.  

“Ha-ha funny. You know what I mean.” It was worth a try, but there’s no deceiving you it seems.  

“Just not in the right mood for a party.” He confesses, sounding almost defeated. And he feels it.  

“Tired?” Jeno can tell you’re sat up now, you voice coming from directly above.  

“Yeah, it appears trying to force knowledge in that pretty little head of yours takes it out of me.” His joke lands well, getting a laugh out of you but then you startle him with a flick of your fingers on the back of his head. “Oi!” He leans forward, hand cupping the spot you just attacked.  

“Insult me again. I dare you.” Your provocative tone intrigues him in a way, even though the pain on his scalp.  

“Damn woman.” He complains, the heel of his hand rubbing his head now. “Do that to your shitty ex and you’ve got yourself a gorgeous homerun.” He jokes and almost flinches when you lightly ruffle his hair in a comforting manner. Soft and tender. A complete opposite to your usual demeanour. 

“Care to answer my question now?” You return to your previous subject, not letting it slide and he’s almost annoyed that you’re so observant.  

He leans back again, resting his head on the mattress and he’s met with your face. From this upside-down angle, he notices the necklace that dangles off your neck as you lean forward to get a better look at him. It’s dainty, like your rings, and it sits prettily between your collarbones.  

“Just felt a bit lonely, I guess.” He admits and he feels exposed. It’s been sitting with him all night. He hadn’t meant to say it, but now that he has, it feels strangely relieving. He can’t quite put his finger on the reason, but he thinks it has something to do with the way you look at him. No judgment in your eyes, just understanding. Could also be the fact that you’re upside down.  

“As in, there’s no one to talk to or no girl to stick your dick in?” Your question takes him aback and if he weren’t looking at you, he might have thought you’re mocking him. Your perfectly serious expression tells him otherwise.  

Jeno shrugs. “Both?” God, he sounds sad.  

“There’s plenty of pretty girls downstairs, no?” You shuffle to the edge of the bed now, sliding down to join him on the floor, mirroring his way of sitting. Though your eyes are on the ceiling, his are stuck on your side profile, your neck and that stupid necklace. Have you always been this captivating or is he just drunk and horny? He’s always thought of you as a girl who happens to be a friend. Not his usual type. Or maybe that’s his way of coping with the fact that you’re actually too good for him.  

“None I’d wanna stick my dick in.” The words leave his mouth before he can contemplate them and your eyes close as you breathe out a chuckle. “Plus, my room was already occupied anyway.” He teases, smiling at the way your kiss your teeth, feigning annoyance.  

“My apologies, Mr. top shagger. I was experiencing a misery crisis.” You retort, lazily turning your head to stare at him. His laugh dies out a second after, but his smile lingers as his eyes drop to your lips for a mere second before trailing back up to yours. There’s mischief written all over your face and for the first time in what feels like forever, Jeno feels flustered. It’s like you’ve got him all figured out and he knows that if you were to read his thoughts right now, you would most likely condemn him to eternal hell.  

“What?” He asks, deflection getting the best of him again.  

“Nothing.” You shake your head, diverting your gaze to your hands again. “You’re the one staring.” There’s a subtle tint of pink on your cheeks and now it’s Jeno’s turn to smirk. You’re shy. Because of him.  

“That’s new.” His observation comes out in a hushed tone. Not intentional.  

“What is?” Your eyebrows furrow in question and your eyes find his again.  

“You’re blushing.” He points his chin at your face and to his surprise you don’t shy away. Instead, you maintain eye contact, one eyebrow raising daringly as you try not to smile, tongue poking into your cheek.  

“And you’re flirting.” The slight tilt of your head gets his heart going a little faster. “That’s also new.” Your smirk returns and your eyes narrow, studying him. 

“Is it though?” Whatever has taken over him, Jeno can’t explain it, but you’re reciprocating and he has no intention of stopping until you do. What are the odds of this going to shit anyway? 

“When have you ever flirted with me?” A genuine question, nonetheless, not a valid one. Jeno’s flirted with you in the past. Subtly. But he has. Aways harmless. No ulterior motives. Until now. 

“You know I have. You’ve just never flirted back.” He explains casually. It's the truth and your cheeky grin accompanied by your silence validates his argument. You might be terrible at stats, but you’re not oblivious. “Do you not want me to flirt with you?” He tests.  

“I never said that.” You shrug, your nonchalance doing something to him he can’t quite describe. He feels it in his spine though, and it’s unnerving and hot at the same time.  

“So, you want me to?” He doubles down, enjoying whatever turn the conversation has taken. Your hesitation intrigues him, gaze drifting down to his lips for a split second before returning to his eyes. Jeno knows the signs. 

“Never said that either.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” His hand has no business grabbing the back of your neck and your lips have no business being this soft against his, yet both of those things are happening before Jeno can process his actions and he can’t stop the low grunt that rumbles in his chest. You kiss him back like you expected it, like you were prepared for it and that eggs him on even more.  

You shuffle closer, your hands finding home on the sides of his neck, holding him close, making his head spin as he struggles to stay sane. The low moan you let out against his lips allows him to lick into your mouth, tangling his tongue with yours, gliding, flicking, tasting you eagerly. He really shouldn’t be doing this - fuck stats, fuck tutoring - but the thought doesn’t even register.  Not when you look so good on his floor and taste even better on his tongue. He only knows that you’re here, close, and he wants more. 

He tugs on your hair, blunt nails scratching lightly at your scalp and you obediently allow your head to loll back, giving him space to attack your neck with wet kisses, your perfume invading his senses, clouding his mind as he sucks on your pulse. He smirks when you whine, the sweet sound reaching his already half hard dick. He lets his other hand travel down your body and when he reaches the inside of your thigh, he squeezes the flesh, waiting for you to protest, to stop him or indicate in any kind of way that you don’t want him to keep going. Instead, you spread your bent legs expectantly. 

No words are exchanged apart from a low ‘fuck’ he lets out when you hurriedly dip your hands under your short skirt, tugging at your panties and the second they’re on the floor, Jeno wastes no time. His fingers find your folds instantly, rubbing from your entrance to your clit and he grunts at the wet glide, so fucking wet, he thinks as he circles your bundle of nerves slowly at first, then more determined, wanting desperately to get you off. It’s like he’s possessed. He can’t think straight, the only thought dancing around his mind is seeing you fall apart on his floor. 

You bring his lips to yours again, hands pulling at his hair as your tongue invades his mouth and your hips grind against his hand. He’s in a slightly uncomfortable position, butt still on the floor, body twisted at the waist as you’re splayed on his carpet, head resting on the edge of his mattress. Not that it matters anyway. 

“Make me cum.” You moan in his mouth; demanding and breathy and he swallows it with a filthy kiss, moaning when he dips a finger in your needy hole. You’re so wet, making his mind go blank and he feels like he could give you anything you asked for at this point. He pulls out, trying two fingers this time, knowing you can take the stretch with how drenched you are.  

“Pull your skirt up.” He instructs softly, lips dragging against yours.  

You do exactly as he asks, revealing the unholy sight of his fingers slowly fucking into you. Your clit is engorged due to the arousal and he can’t shake the thought of his lips wrapping around it, sucking as hard as he pleases, flicking until you’re shaking. He settles for splitting you open with his fingers for now.  

He curls the digits slightly, pressing them upwards as he starts drilling into you at a rough and quick pace. The quelching noises sound almost melodic to him. That’s what good pussy sounds like, he thinks and he relishes in the loud mewl you let out, knowing he’s hitting the right spot.  

“There?” He breathes out against your temple, desperately needing to unbutton his jeans, the constricting feeling torturing him, but your nod keeps him going.  

“Yeah.” You pant, your eyes on his hand, taking in the erotic image as your nails dig into his thigh through his godforsaken jeans, and he wishes he could feel your touch properly, without any barriers.  

He makes sure the heel of his palm stimulates your clit each time he fucks into you and he praises the universe when your walls flutter around his fingers.  

“Oh my- fuck!” You cry out as you head tips, eyes rolling back, jaw dropping in a silent moan and Jeno feels lightheaded at the newfound, sinful image of you climaxing. Your cunt clamps down on his hand, making it impossible for him to keep thrusting, so he buries his fingers all the way in your pulsating heat and starts harshly rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your thighs start quiverig, eventually closing and trapping his hand between them, preventing him from continuing.  

Your expression resembles an angelic one as you take deep breaths, trying to resurface back to sanity. “Jesus.” You whisper, almost like a prayer and he lets out a short breathless laugh, nails scratching the back of your scalp to help you calm down as your body still trembles.  

“You good?” He bends down a little, stealing a kiss off your shoulder. The reason unknown to him, but he doesn’t question it either.  

“Mhm.” You nod lazily, turning your head to look at him and your fucked out eyes remind him of the big problem in his jeans. “I think we should fuck.” You blurt out unexpectedly and he feels his eyebrows raise in surprise. He thinks exactly the same, he just didn’t expect you to spell it out like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But then again, you’ve always been the blunt type. A woman who knows what she wants. He’ll bite.  

“Do you, now?” He purposely feigns surprise as he drags his fingers out of your now relaxed walls and doesn’t even warn you before hooking his arms underneath you; one around your middle, the other one under your bent knees. Your small yelp makes him smile and your arms coming to wrap around his neck in urgency tug at his heartstrings in a way that makes him feel dizzy. 

 He carries you for a few seconds as he walks around his bed, dropping you so your head lands on his pillows. You bounce a couple of times before sitting up, resting your weight on your palms.  

“Don’t you think that’s inappropriate?” He asks, trying to maintain a serious tone but removing his t-shirt anyway.  

“Just a tad.” You say absentmindedly, eyes shamelessly trailing down his naked torso, landing on his hands as they work his belt undone. Jeno is aware of his above average size, but your eyes slightly widening when he shoves both his jeans and boxers down, definitely do wonders to his ego.  

He kneels on the bed, shuffling until he’s situated between your already parted legs. He taps on your chin with his index to get your attention. “You’re drooling. Arms up.” He bites his lip trying to conceal a smile as you sit up properly, extending your arms above your head. “Cute.” He mumbles before dipping down to take hold of the hem of your top, dragging it up and off you, revealing your pretty tits. The lack of bra causes his brain to short circuit for a second before discarding the top somewhere behind him and he doesn’t waste time, moving to unzip your skirt. He smirks at the way you adorably raise your bum to help him remove the last piece of clothing.  

“How do you want it?” He asks, trying to sound unaffected, all the while aching to touch you all over, heart threatening to jump out of his chest. You bite your bottom lip in thought, contemplating your options.  

“Can I be on top first?” You ask tentatively, neck craning so you can look up at him. You’re so pretty like this. Splayed on his sheets with nothing on but that necklace he can’t seem to get enough of. Jeno nods in understanding, gathering that you’re most likely worried he won’t fit in any other position and he’s more than happy to let you take him however you please.  

He plops down next to you on the mattress, still sat up and you quickly follow, dragging your knees on his sheets so you can straddle him. His hands move instinctively, taking hold of your hips, pulling you closer as you slightly hesitate and the second your knees trap his hips between them and your arms wrap loosely around his neck, he allows his own to slither around your middle. Your tits brush against his chest and he has to hold back a groan at the soft sensation.  

His eyes find that necklace again and this time he can’t refrain from voicing his thoughts. “That looks good on you.” His chin points at the piece of jewellery and you look down momentarily before realising what he’s referring to.  

“Thanks. I like yours.” You pull at his plain silver chain with your fingers, bringing his face closer to yours. Your blush is back, making him feel giddy. What’s wrong with him? He can’t even blame it on the alcohol; he feels mostly sober now. 

He trails a hand up your side, palming your breast momentarily before his fingers tuck your hair behind your ear, palm coming to rest on the side of your neck, thumb tracing your jawline delicately.  

“Can I kiss you?” You ask hesitantly, your lips almost touching.  

“You can do anything you want.” He utters quietly and he sighs when you close the tiny gap, your lips moulding against his. You kiss him deep and slow - slower than he’s used to - lightly nipping at his bottom lip, a satisfied hum escaping his chest when your hands tip his head back a little, yours angling to the side so you can deepen the kiss. Your tongue obscenely glides against his, your taste invading his senses and the wet smacks of your lips turn him on even more. His cock twitches between your bodies and he moans when you push him by the shoulders, letting himself land on the pillows, dragging you with him.  

“Fuck, how are you so hot?” You whine as you trail kisses down the side of his neck and he huffs out a laugh, the compliment reaching his ears as he feels them getting warmer.  

“Have you seen yourself?” He breathes out weakly as you suck on a spot that has him reeling, his hand tangling in your hair to hold you there, giving you permission to mark him.  

“Shut up.” You murmur against the sensitive spot, your tongue soothing the scratch of your teeth.  

“Fuck you.” He retorts childishly, hands grabbing your ass, squeezing greedily, pushing you downwards as he grinds his hips up, length slipping between your puffy folds, your arousal coating him perfectly. “You’re so wet.” He moans against your shoulder as you keep sucking greedily, and Jeno is positive the spot on his neck will feel sore tomorrow.  

You sit up abruptly, eyes finding his, looking enticing as ever, pupils blown out, lips wet and swollen. You shock him when you lewdly dribble in your palm before reaching down to engulf his painfully hard cock in the very same hand. 

“Jesus.” He pants as you lather him in your spit and slick, the glide of your hand sensational. You shuffle slightly upwards, aligning him with your entrance and he helps you maintain your balance with his hands on your waist.  

“Ah, fuck.” You whine when his tip breaches your snug hole and he feels like he’s losing his mind. There’s no way a pussy can be this wet and feel this good. Your contorted expression tells him you might not be enjoying this as much as he is though, which brings him back to reality.  

“You okay?” He drops his hands to your ass cheeks, spreading them as far apart as they can go, hoping the action offers your pussy some relief.  

“It stings a bit.” The cute scrunch of your nose makes his heart race, and he has to refrain from fully thrusting into your pulsating heat. “Keep your hands there.” You plead and he does, holding you open as you try to sink down a little further with a whimper of discomfort.  

“Come here, kiss me for bit.” His words must affect you, the tightening of your walls suffocating him, but you follow through, arms wrapping securely around his neck as your lips find his again. He kisses you slow, matching your rhythm from before, tongues gliding languidly, still wet and messy, but mostly intimate. Too intimate. And he knows it’s working when your walls start relaxing around him, your cunt producing another gush of slick that drips down to his base.  

He takes matters into his own hands, hips raising to thrust into you little by little in quick, short pumps and when your mouth drops open against his, he moans, finding pleasure in pleasuring you.  

“Better?” He whispers, searching for any signs of discomfort as your eyebrows crease adorably.  

“Uh-huh.” You nod quickly, nose bumping against his as you kiss him again, all tongue and teeth, and Jeno doesn’t stop fucking you. Even when he’s fully sheathed in, he keeps going, quickly but gently pumping into your slippery warmth, length barely pulling out before sliding back in. “Fuck, you’re s-so deep.” You whine dreamily and he loves that you’re not moving, hips still, trusting him, taking what he’s giving you from underneath as his hands stay on your ass, holding your cheeks apart just like you asked him to.  

When you sit up a little, palms resting on his chest as you start meeting his thrusts, you let out a loud moan and Jeno assumes his cock is hitting exactly where it should be hitting. Your tits are bouncing beautifully, nipples hard from arousal and he wishes he had his mouth all over them, but doesn’t risk changing the angle of his hips, fucking you how you need him to. He doesn’t need your words, just your closed eyes, slack jaw and trembling breaths are enough for him to know you’re lost in pleasure.  

“Jen- f-fuck me harder.” Music to his ears.  

“Yeah? You sure?”  

“Mhm yeah, right there, just harder.” You nod quickly, eyes pleading and how could he ever deny you anything.  

“Fuck, baby.” He barely registers the pet name leaving his lips, but he knows it does something to you, pussy gripping him a little tighter than before and when his hips start smacking against yours, ass jiggling in his hands, you both moan loudly.  

“Oh, fuck, y-yes, like that.” You cry out, back arching, head tipping backwards in ecstasy and Jeno can’t find it in him to stop staring at you. There’s sweat dripping between your bouncing breasts, and all he can think is how much he wants to lap it up, how much he wants to lather your nipples in his spit and feel the weight of your pretty tits in his palms.  

“Rub your clit for me.” He requests in a frenzy, desperate to see you fall apart again. Your ring-clad fingers quickly find the swollen nub, drawing frantic circles around it and Jeno feels his balls tightening at the sight, cock throbbing as he nears his end. Your eyes find his for a split second before they roll back as you visibly start shaking, your hand quickly leaving your clit with a shriek as though the stimulation feels painful. “That’s it.” 

 He doubles down even through the kneading of your walls around him, thrusts becoming more brutal, balls slapping against your ass. He becomes desperate with the way your nails dig into his chest, his grip on your ass tightening, causing the flesh to ripple. He selfishly hopes his fingers leave bruises, reminding you tonight for days. 

He swears the obscene slapping sounds that echo, along with your loud cries of desperation, surpass the best quality porn he’s ever watched. If he could only have a recording of the incoherent blabbering leaving your mouth now, he’d happily ditch all the porn sites and just listen to that whenever he’d want to bust a nut. 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck.” You cry out in panic, desperately trying to raise your hips, unable to handle what he’s giving you, but that just urges him to drive into you even harder, refusing to hold back now that he’s got your body spasming hard on his cock. “J-Jen- I c-can't, f-fu-”  

He wraps a secure arm around your middle, quickly manoeuvring you on your back and before you can protest, he’s slipping right back inside your warmth, his lips silencing your cries. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he supports his weight on one arm, hooking your leg over his elbow, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh. His hips resume their abuse, cock driving into your spent hole repeatedly as he seeks his own release. Your pussy is still quivering around him, forcing a guttural groan out of his chest.  

“So fucking good.” He mumbles in utter bliss, your walls squeezing him just right and he accepts defeat, knowing that he can’t last much longer. “Can I cum inside?” He asks for permission, half conscious of the fact that he’s not wearing a condom. He feels helpless.  

“Yeah.” Your hands squeeze his biceps in reassurance. “Fill me up, Jen.” You whisper and he swears it’s the most erotic thing a girl has ever said to him during sex. And he’s fucked many girls. None have uttered his name like you do though.  

“Shit.” He’s panting uncontrollably, his sweat dripping on your skin, mixing with yours as your hands come to cradle his face in comfort, and he gets this strange feeling in his chest. You’re too tender. Too soft. And then you’re leaning up slightly, kissing him but it’s almost as if he’s forgotten how to use his lips, mouth hanging open against yours, releasing a deep grunt as his orgasm takes over him. His arm starts trembling, struggling to hold him up, blunt nails sinking into the flesh of your thigh as his hips stutter, pumping messily into your wet heat, hot spurts of his release painting your gummy walls, claiming you in the best way possible. He wonders if he’s entered heaven or some unknown dimension, convinced that the way your cunt is milking him is out of this world.  

When his thrusts come to a halt, length burying inside you as he releases your leg, he hears the whimper you let out, feels it against his lips and that reminds him to kiss you again. And again. And again. Until you both can’t breathe. Until his lips feel sore. Until you’re desperately pulling at his hair. Until he’s had enough of you. If that’s even possible. 

He slips out with a sharp inhale, making you mewl and you’re both looking down, taking in the sight of his now softening cock, all covered in both of your releases. He sits up a little, shamelessly staring at your pulsating hole while forcing your legs wide open. Some of his cum escapes, slowly dripping down to your ass and Jeno feels lightheaded at the sight of your pretty cunt; all puffy and swollen because of him.  

“Stop staring you creep.” You complain, playfully kicking him in the ribs as his hold on your inner thighs loosens.  

He observes you for a moment; taking in how beautifully ruined you look. Your chest flushed, sweat all over your skin, nipples still slightly erect, tits jiggling a tiny bit from your intense breathing. The blush creeps up to your neck and reaches your cheeks, lips so red and shiny one could think you have a dark shade of lip gloss on. He feels a wave of satisfaction wash over him, knowing that it’s all him; that it’s his spit covering your lips, that your skin is covered in the afterglow of the orgasms he just fucked out of you.  

“Going shy on me again?” He teases with a raise of his eyebrows, hand playfully squeezing the flesh of your thigh, before he shuffles upwards, lying next to you on his front, arm lazily draping over your middle as he tries to regulate his breathing.  

“What if I closely stared at your dick like I was examining it?” You joke, absentmindedly scratching up and down his arm. He allows his eyes to shut, the relaxing motions of your fingers causing drowsiness to take over him as he shuffles closer to you, seeking more of your warmth. 

“Go ahead, I got a pretty good dick.” He mumbles sleepily against your upper arm. You whack him lightly but that still startles him in his woozy state.  

“Can you bring me something to clean up with?” You cringe as you rub your thighs together in discomfort and he shoots up from the bed quickly, feeling bad for neglecting you. He so easily sunk into the comfort of your warmth and that scares him a little. This is just sex, right? Nothing too deep. Just sex between two people who were having a shitty night and decided to make it better. Just incredible, mind-blowing sex with the girl he tutors twice a week for extra credit. Right?  

The act of aftercare is normally something he indulges in to subtly get rid of the other person. Never intimate, just transactional. In this case, kicking you out hasn’t even crossed his mind. He realises that he wouldn’t mind if you spent the entire night or at least just stayed a little longer. But surely that’s owed to the fact that he knows you in a way. You’re not just a random girl he met and decided to fuck and chuck. You’re friends. Right? 

“Shit, yeah, one sec.” He slips out of bed and rushes to his ensuite bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks wrecked; sweat glistening on his skin, lips swollen, the hickey on his neck visible already, dick still shiny with slick and cum. He splashes some cold water on his face and neck, allowing the cooling feeling to wake him up before cleaning himself up.  

When he re-enters the room, you’re on your side in foetal position, very clearly asleep and he can’t help the quiet chuckle that leaves him. He carefully rolls you onto your back again and you hum contentedly as he slowly drags the warm damp towel between your legs, cleaning your folds and inner thighs as gently as possible. He feels guilty when he shakes you lightly, waking you up, but he knows you’ll thank him tomorrow. 

“You gotta pee first, then we can sleep.” He whispers, careful not to pull you out of your slumber completely.  

“I um- I can go home,” You mumble, still half-asleep, clearly dreading the effort. Silly. 

“How about just the bathroom, hm?” He scoops you up bridal style again, exactly like he did before, only now you’re completely naked and your head buries in his neck, nuzzling sleepily. “I’ll drive you home tomorrow.” He reassures you and smiles when he feels your arms tighten around his neck.  

“You’re actually a sweet guy, aren’t you, Jen?” You mumble dazedly against his skin and he carefully sets you down on the toilet seat.  

“Always the tone of surprise.” He teases as he combs your hair out of your face and behind your ears. “Do your thing. I’ll be back in a sec.”  

He heads back into his room, picking up your clothes off the floor, folding them neatly on his chair before rifling through his drawers for a comfy t-shirt for you to wear. He hears the faint trickle from the bathroom and can’t help but laugh quietly. A small routine, small domesticity — nothing like him, yet it feels… right. He grabs his phone, sending Renjun three quick texts, hoping his friend is not too drunk to respond.  

Jeno: can you bring me a glass of water pls 

Jeno: in my room  

Jeno: knock.  

RJ: on it 

RJ: you ok? 

Jeno: yeh all good 

“I’m done.” Your voice floats from the bathroom, followed by a flush as he puts a clean pair of boxers on before rushing to come get you.  

“Hey, lazy bum.” He enters to find you perched exactly where he left you, elbows on your knees. “Did you wipe, or do you want me to do that for you too?” He teases and you whine sleepily, face buried in your hands.  

“I did. I promise.”  

“Good. Now arms up.” You comply without a question, and he carefully slips the t-shirt on you, warmth spreading in his chest when you sigh at the comfort of cotton, hugging your arms to yourself. You blink up at him, looking soft as ever as you make grabby hands, and his insides almost melt at the cuteness.  

Why does he feel this sudden urge to coddle you? Sure, Jeno likes looking after his friends, making sure they’re happy and healthy, but this is different. In all his sexual encounters, he’s always maintained boundaries — never lent clothes, never ensured a girl didn’t get a UTI, never carried them around. 

With you, he finds that he’s already broken most of those boundaries in one single night. And he doesn’t know why. 

He carries you back to the bed, only this time you cling onto him like a koala bear, arms and legs wrapped around him in a tight hug. He puts you down gently, tucks you in with the duvet, smoothing it over you, making sure you’re comfortable. A knock on the door makes you blink in question. 

“It’s just my housemate.” He reassures before getting up to crack the door open.  

“Here you go, sir.” Renjun presents him with a pint of water and Jeno gratefully accepts it with a smile.  

“Thanks.” He goes to shut the door again, but Renjun quickly stops him.  

“Dude, what’s going on?” A worrisome expression on his face. 

“Nothing. I’m just- I'm not alone.” Jeno points his thumb behind him, without really allowing Renjun to look inside his room. 

“Oh.” Renjun almost looks surprised, an inquisitive look taking over his face which makes Jeno feel scrutinised. His friends know him well enough to know that he doesn’t just hide girls in his room.  

“I’ll explain tomorrow.” He assures his friend, silently implying that he can’t elaborate right now. Thankfully Renjun catches on quick and turns to leave after giving him a thumbs up. Jeno doesn’t fail to give him a fond smile for respecting his privacy. It’s one of the things he loves the most about that boy; he doesn’t hover, unless he’s needed.  

Jeno takes a couple of gulps before placing the glass of water on the nightstand next to you. Your eyes are closed again and when he quietly joins you under the covers, he feels you shift next to him. He checks if your eyes are still closed and when he confirms they are, he turns off the bedside lamp, allowing the darkness to engulf both of you.  

He’s lying on his back; arm folded under his head as he contemplates the choices he’s made tonight. Your stable breathing calms him in a way, and he finds himself trying to match your rhythm. When your hand brushes against his arm, fingers curling around just above his elbow, he freezes slightly, savouring the small contact. 

“Jen?” You whisper, as if checking he’s still there with you.  

“Hm?”  

“I don’t want things to be weird.” Fuck.  

“They won’t be.” He turns toward you, voice soft, though the darkness obscures your features. 

“How do you know that?” You’re still whispering and he doesn’t know why, since you’re the only two people in the room. He matches your tone anyway.  

“I mean...” His words falter briefly as your grip tightens. “Things don’t have to be weird, right?” Your fingers loosen, but they remain there and Jeno has trouble breathing. It’s not that deep, he thinks to himself.  

“Right.” You’re not convinced; he can tell. And neither is he.  

“You’re overthinking.” No shit, Sherlock.  

Your sigh lands on his shoulder, warm and heavy. He senses you closer than he expected. “And you’re not?” 

It’s his turn to let out a sigh this time.  

“Right.” Your tone cools, as though distancing yourself slightly. Your hand remains, a tether. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Y/N.” He sounds defeated and he wishes he could give you the reassurance you’re looking for. He can’t though. Not without lying.  

“Do you want me to leave?” Your question takes him aback. 

“What? No, that’s not what I’m saying, Y/N.” He rubs a hand over his face in exasperation.  

“Stop saying my name like that.” Your voice not a whisper anymore and that does something to his head.  

“Like what?” He provokes, tone harsher than intended.  

“Like I’m a problem you can’t be bothered to deal with.” Your words pull him under, and he pauses to recollect his thoughts. He doesn’t want to argue, but it seems you do and Jeno is confused. Did he just imagine the last hour? 

He rolls on his side to face you, and you let your hand fall from his arm. He feels the absence. “Can we please talk about this tomorrow? With clear heads?” 

You shuffle closer and his heart thuds a little faster, your knee bumping into his accidentally. “Okay.” You whisper after you’ve settled into a more comfortable position, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, Jeno senses a hesitancy in your movements. 

“You can move closer.” He smiles fondly and relief floods him when your arm wraps around his waist. He draws you in, fingers stroking the nape of your neck, tucking your head under his chin. “If you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve just said.”  

“Shh.” You scold, earning a tiny laugh from him.  

“You’re funny.” He whispers into your hair, nails softly scratching your scalp, making you shudder.  

“You’re not.” You retort, half-mumbled, and he snorts. His distress has somewhat dissolved, however the tension and confusion linger and Jeno prays that a goodnight’s sleep will fix whatever it is that broke between you and him tonight.   

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno gets woken up by an involuntary twitch of his own body and when he slowly cracks his eyes open, he’s reminded that he once again forgot to roll his blinds down, allowing the morning sunlight to invade his room.  

He attempts to get into a more comfortable position, the fruity scent you carry drifts over him, and he relaxes — you’re still here, safe and real, reminding him that last night wasn’t just a fraction of his imagination. 

You’re clinging onto him; cheek squished against his chest and he’s pretty sure you’re drooling on him. He feels a laugh bubbling in his chest, but he holds it in, not wanting to wake you yet.  

The position you’re both in is slightly different to the one Jeno remembers falling asleep in. You’re using him as your pillow, your leg comfortably draped over his crotch, arm hugging his middle as though he’s your favourite teddy bear and he’s convinced that you must own one with the way you cling onto him like it’s a habit. 

He raises his sprawled arm to wrap it around you and the second his hand finds your lower back, he assumes the shirt he put on you last night must have ridden up. His fingers splay just above your ass and he’s instantly reminded of your naked bottom half. He vividly remembers picking up your underwear off the floor last night, along with the rest of your clothes.  

The thought of your nakedness brings him back to last night. Back to what you two did and how good you looked on top on him. And under him. And on his floor. His mind drifts from your smooth skin to the way you kissed him, to the way you took everything he gave you like you were made for it, like you craved it. He knows he shouldn’t. Especially when you’re soundly asleep in his arms, but Jeno has to suppress a groan at the thought of your warm and wet p- 

Your sleepy hum pulls him back to reality and he mentally presses pause on the daydreaming session, but your bent knee nudging against his half hard dick doesn’t make things easy for him. Stupid morning wood, he thinks, as if his dirty mind didn’t just cause this.  

He keeps his eyes shut, trying to think of dead puppies or his gran and it seems to be working, until your body moves, your face nuzzling in his neck, knee dragging over his crotch. The long sigh you let out against his skin, causes goosebumps to raise and he mentally curses.  

Redirecting his focus to your comfort, he allows his knuckles to trace gentle circles along your spine, and he smiles when you shudder slightly, the little tremble of your body sparking a sense of delight within him.  

“You awake?” You mumble in his neck, the tiny movement of your lips barely even there, but still enough to tickle him.   

“Just about.” His voice comes out raspy, vocal cords still half asleep, causing him to clear his throat. He subtly wiggles his hips a little further down the mattress to escape the pressure of your knee and when you move with him, clinging onto him with a whine, he can’t help but use his free hand to steady you, forcing your leg further up his torso to ease the pressure.  

“Sorry.” You whisper into his skin. “Are you uncomfortable?”  

“No.” He reassuringly squeezes your thigh, thumb gingerly caressing the surface. “You?” 

“No. Surprisingly.” If his eyes were open, Jeno would have rolled them in annoyance.  

“Yeah, cause you’re always so uncomfortable around me.” His tone full of sarcasm, but he can’t help it. If you’re going to give him attitude, you’re going to get it back. Especially this early in the day when he’s slightly hungover and has not had his morning coffee.  

“Grow up. You know what I mean.” Your humourless words contrast the way your fingers softly trace the line of his collarbone, a quiet familiarity in the gesture. 

“You thought it would be awkward?”  

“Didn’t you?” Your head moves, nose rubbing against his jaw, and he knows you’re looking at him. He adamantly keeps his eyes closed.  

“What, just cause we fucked?” The light slap he receives on his chest makes him chuckle. He’s always enjoyed getting under your skin, but for some reason, now that you’re half naked in his bed, it’s even more rewarding. “It would have been awkward only if the sex was bad.”  

You keep quiet and Jeno gives into the urge to turn his head and look at you, blinking his eyes a few times, adjusting to the sunlight. He raises his eyebrows expectantly as he dips his hand under your loose shirt, fingertips light as air, traveling up and down your spine slowly.  

“Is this you indirectly asking if I liked it or not?” Your eyebrows raise in response, mirroring his expression.  

“No, I already know you liked it. Just wanna know if it altered your brain chemistry.” He smirks at the way you roll your eyes, and if he didn’t know you to a certain extent, Jeno would really think you’re annoyed, but he recognises your usual façade.  

“Mind-blowing sex isn’t the answer to everything Lee Jeno.” Your hand engulfs his jaw, fingers squishing his cheeks and shaking his face from side to side gently. “I’m one of the very few female friends you have and you’ve already stuck your penis in me. Raw.”  

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you very blatantly ask me to fuck you?” His pointed look gets a surrendering smile out of you, hand now settling on the side of his neck. He’s not even fazed by your proximity; noses almost touching, bodies flush against each other like you’ve done this a million times. 

“You stuck you tongue down my throat and then fingered me like nobody’s business. I’m only human.” Your bluntness makes him grin. 

“So, what’s the problem? We both wanted it, no?” He rolls to face you fully, leg fitting naturally between yours, touch grounding yet intimate. He tries his hardest to keep his attention on you, but the whimper you let out shows him you’re just as affected, and his hand has somehow fallen on your ass.  

“Why did you want it?” The question catches him off guard; your inquisitive eyes making his heart stutter.  

“I was horny. And lonely. And you looked good. I mean...You always look good, I just-” He takes a breath to compose himself. Since when does he have trouble expressing himself in front of a woman?  

“Relax, it’s not a test, I’m just genuinely curious.” Your chuckle and your fingers lightly pushing his fringe out of the way help him compose his chaotic brain just a little.  

“I dunno. I just wanted you.” He settles for honesty and if that comes to bite him in the ass later, then so be it. “That too shallow for you?” 

“No.” Your eyes travel around his face as you’re in deep thought and Jeno feels impatience creeping up on him.  

“But?” He challenges, knowing it can’t be that simple.  

“But, I don’t know if I can be normal around you now.” You purse your lips as you brush his bottom one with your thumb and he stops breathing for a second, his heart rate increasing significantly. “I don’t really do casual sex.” 

He likes your honesty. 

“When have you ever been normal around me, Y/N?” His light-hearted comment earns him a bashful smile from you, your thumb now tracing his cheekbone as he playfully gropes the part where your thigh connects to your ass. “Look, I’m not expecting anything. If you’re uncomfortable, we can go back to normal. You get your tutoring. I get my extra credit.” 

“And you’d be happy with that?” Good question.  

“I’m a big boy. If that’s what you want, then that’s what you want.” He offers a way out, but part of him hopes you don’t take it. 

“What if I don’t know what I want?” Your eyes close, a long sigh escaping through your nose. He wants nothing more than to make it easier for you. 

He smiles, conflicted. 

“Then… I dunno. I guess we figure it out.” He says it casual, like it’s nothing — but his stomach twists anyway. 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

The drive back to yours is quiet. Not uncomfortable, but definitely unusual. Neither you nor Jeno are usually this quiet around each other but now your thoughts are too loud and so are your doubts.  

You barely register the car coming to a stop, having completely spaced out. It’s Jeno’s voice that brings you back to reality.  

“Is here fine?”  

“Hm? Yeah. Here’s great. Thanks for the lift.” His eyes are already on you when you look over at him, expectant and unsure. The corner of his mouth lifts subtly, a small smile forming as a response to your gratitude. 

“I’ll see you Tuesday?” The tapping of his fingers against the wheel sounds louder that it should.  

“Yeah. Tuesday.” 

“Cool.” 

“Cool.” You repeat dumbly, not sure how to approach your next words.  

“Are y-” 

“This shouldn’t happen again.” You blurt out and the tapping stops, his eyebrows raising slightly, but other than that, he remains calm.  

“Alright.” He nods understandingly. “It won’t.” The warmth and playfulness his voice held until this morning, long gone.  

“I’m sorry.”  

“What for? You didn’t do anything wrong.” He shrugs, his fake nonchalance sitting heavy in your stomach.  

“I dunno. I feel like-” 

“Y/N.” His hand finds your shoulder, hold grounding. “We’re good. Honest.” He turns in his seat, facing you better. “People have sex all the time. It’s not that deep.” He squeezes your shoulder once, barely there but you still feel it as his neutral smile does very little to convince you. Simply because it doesn’t reach his eyes. You hate this unfamiliar side of him.  

“It’s fine if you don’t wanna tutor me anymore.” 

“I do.” There’s no hesitation in his voice, touch reassuring. 

“You sure?” 

“I am. As long as you are.” Another subtle squeeze, now on your upper arm, his hand having slid down. “Plus...I really need the extra credit.” His playfulness is back, and you can’t hold back the sheepish smile that takes over your face.  

“Okay then.” You exhale, somewhat relieved.  

“Okay then.” He repeats, light-heartedly, the warm smile now reaching his eyes as his warm hand slides further down your arm before he completely retracts. The gesture should soothe you, but it somehow unsettles you.  

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Next time you see him is indeed Tuesday. Your regular first session of the week. And it’s all fine. It’s all normal. It’s all good.  

Until it isn’t.  

Until you see a text pop up on his screen. Yuna.  

We still on for tonight? It reads and you quickly avert your eyes back on the histogram displayed on your laptop screen. Something about a survey, a sample and frequencies. It’s all a mess now. Who the fuck is Yuna? And why is she texting him? What about tonight?  

You shouldn’t care. You really shouldn’t. But then he’s quickly typing a response you can’t see and he places his phone face down. Like it never happened.  

“What’d you get?” He interrupts your ridiculous thoughts as he leans over your shoulder to take a look at the scribbles on your notepad. “Correct formula. Wrong result.” 

“What? Why?” You’re more annoyed than you should be. His raised eyebrows betray his shock at your abrupt tone.  

“You’re asking me why you can’t count?” His smirk is worth slapping off. “Check your total number of observations again.” He taps his pen on the letter n and when you count again, you realise it’s 6 instead of 5. Great. You really can’t count.  

“That’s just a silly mistake.” 

“Which will cost you a whole lot of marks.” He does this thing where he twirls the pen between his index and middle finger, and it shouldn’t be that attractive. “You see, it’s not a matter of logic with you. You just need to concentrate.” He’s enjoying this too much. His smile audible.  

“I am concentrated.” You state stubbornly.  

“Concentrate better.”  

“Fuck off.”  

His lack of response causes you to look at him. His neutral eyes and pursed lips tell you he’s not going to entertain whatever argument you’re trying to start and that agitates you even more. So does his stupid cologne. And the fact that he’s so close still. His forearm is now resting on your notepad and all you can think of is how prettily it flexed when it was between your thighs.  

“Sorry.” You sigh, slumping back into your chair, looking around the quiet café. You need air and all you keep getting is his scent. It’s not fair.  

“Am I allowed to ask?” His tone is tentative, but present.  

“Ask what?”  

“What’s bothering you.” He starts going over what you’ve written on your notepad with his pen, overlining letters and numbers, following every curve. You glance at his profile for a moment and you’re thankful he’s now focused on the page in front of you.  

“Nothing is bothering me.” You cross your arms over your chest defensively.  

“Lie better.” The corner of his lips twitches as he keeps outlining, still not looking at you. Smug bastard.  

“Is it me?” He side-eyes you for a split second, gaze meeting yours before dropping back down to the mistaken 5 you wrote down earlier. It’s like an insult. 

“That’s awfully egotistical of you.” You challenge, making him struggle to hold back his smile. “What makes you think that?” 

He shrugs. “Just a hunch.”  

You lean over, elbow on the table, chin resting on your palm, closer now. “Not everything is about you, Jeno.” You say as calmly as possible.  

His pen comes to a halt. Eyes catching yours without backing down now.  

“As if you don’t think about me 24/7.” It’s a joke, but it’s not.  

“Is that what you tell yourself?” You shouldn’t give into it. Into his flirting. But he makes it almost impossible to behave.  

“Is it bad if I do?”  

“Not bad. You’re just wrong.”  

“Like your calculations.”  

“What?”  

“Solve it again. No calculator. Not like it helped you the first time anyway.” He leans back in his chair with an unbothered expression, pen dropping dismissively on your notepad as he resembles your stance, arms crossing over his buff chest. “Go on, I don’t have all day.” He points his chin to the page smugly. Did he just...play you? 

“Prick.”  

“Mhm.” 

Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? If so, then you’re astronomically fucked.  

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Two weeks go by. Four tutoring sessions with Jeno — all pure torture. But somehow, focusing on the calculations and formulas actually pays off. You don’t ask as many questions anymore, you get the correct results most of the time, and you even score 76% on the mock test Jeno printed out for you. 

A glimmer of surprise flashes across his face when he finishes grading, but it quickly softens into something pleased. Proud, almost.  

“Nice one,” he says, head bobbing in approval. “Let’s get to 80 next time.” 

You like that look on him. Like that he’s proud of you. You wish you could see it more often. 

But the wish evaporates the second you lay eyes on him tonight. Regret floods you for giving in to Mark’s pleas to come to this stupid party. As if the man needs a wingman — he always does fine on his own. And so does Jeno, by the looks of it. But you already knew that. So why does your chest tighten when you see a girl standing between his spread legs, his casual perch on the kitchen counter, plastic cup in one hand, the other tucked in his hoodie pocket? 

He’s not touching her, but her hands are on his thighs, and even from behind her head, you see his face clearly. Smirking, dark eyes checking her out as he sips his drink. There’s no trace of innocence in the way he’s looking at her. It’s the same way he looked at you that night in his room. 

You know you’re out of bounds. Yet jealousy gnaws at you, and you hate yourself for it. It shouldn’t affect you. You rejected him — or whatever that was. He should be the one pining, not you. But he’s fine, and here you are, still haunted by how warm and safe his body felt that morning. 

It’s unfair. 

Unfair in every way: the way he doesn’t spare you a glance, the way his eyes are fixed on her, the way he chuckles at whatever she says, the way he looks so good even while flirting with someone else. 

Hood up, fringe falling messily over his eyes. He looks soft but dangerous at the same time. Effortless. Sleeves pushed up, baggy cargos that only he can pull off. He’s hotter than ever — and she’s touching him. Not you. He’s looking at her. Not you. Laughing with her. Not you. Not you. Not you. 

“Dude, you’re staring.” Mark steps in, blocking your view of the kitchen and yanking you out of your trance. You groan, hiding your face in your hands. Maybe you’re being dramatic — but Mark won’t judge. He knows. “That bad, huh?” 

“Shut the fuck up.” You mumble into your palms, relaxing slightly as Mark wraps his arms around your shoulders, burying your face in his chest and lightly swaying you from side to side. 

“Awh c’mon… you’re good.” Mark shakes you playfully, helping your shoulders loosen. “It’s okay to be jealous.” He lowers his voice so only you can hear him. 

“This is not helping you with the babes, I’m sorry.” You wrap your arms around his waist, enjoying the comfort of your friend’s embrace — and you really shouldn’t — but you sneak a glance over his shoulder. Jeno is still there, the girl still perched between his legs, still talking. But his eyes are very clearly on you. Expression neutral, as always, never giving anything away. Yet if you were to guess, he looks conflicted — maybe a little annoyed. 

Fuck this. You refuse to stare, burying your face deeper into Mark’s neck instead. 

“Are you two planning on fucking tonight?” A boyish voice interrupts the moment. Pulling back, you see a boy standing next to you. You recognise him — always with Jeno or some girl you’d assume is his girlfriend. And he’s in your stupid stats class, too. 

“Dude, have some decorum.” Mark protests, keeping one arm around your shoulders, shaking you playfully. “Y/N, this is Haechan. Haechan, this is Y/N.” 

“Hi, Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Weird, you decide. 

“Umm I don’t think I—” 

“No time for that. Beer pong. Me and my girl versus you two. In or out?” Haechan cuts you off, no hesitation. As much as his energy overwhelms you, a game that involves alcohol sounds like a perfect distraction. 

Mark looks over at you questioningly. 

“In.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Easy. That’s what beating Haechan and his girlfriend was. Too easy. And you’re currently obliterating Chenle and this boy, Renjun, who you’re pretty sure is Jeno’s housemate. 

You make the last shot. In. Some boys around the table cheer, some point fingers at the losing team, laughing at them. 

“Let’s fucking go!” Mark grabs your shoulders from behind, shaking you and you can’t help but laugh at his dramatics. 

“You just got lucky.” Haechan complains loudly. 

“You can’t get lucky twice.” You point out as you rearrange the cups back to a perfect pyramid shape. 

“You’re just a sore loser, dude.” Mark throws the ping pong ball at the weird boy, sticking his tongue out and Haechan looks like he’s had an epiphany. 

“Maybe you should play against our champions.” He says with a glint of mischief written all over his face. 

“Nah, I’m-” 

“Someone get Jeno and Jaemin.” Haechan interrupts you for the second time tonight and now he’s seriously starting to annoy you. 

“Someone else can take my spot.” You say nonchalantly as you place the last cup at the top of the pyramid. 

“Oh, grow up.” Haechan challenges again. 

“Get off my back. Respectfully.” 

“Didn’t think you’d be boring. Respectfully.” He’s hinting at something you can’t quite decipher, but somehow you know Jeno has something to do with it. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” You raise your voice a few decibels as you step closer to the annoying boy. 

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs, like his words didn’t hold some cryptic meaning. 

“Care to elaborate?” You stand in front of him, arms crossing over your chest expectantly, eyebrow raising and he smirks. As though getting on your nerves is his newfound hobby. Seriously, what is this dude’s problem? 

“Oh, you know, just that you’re a-” 

“Yooo okay, let’s break it off.” Jeno’s voice cuts in before his friend can finish his sentence and suddenly, you’re being dragged away from the scene and the people that have gathered around without you noticing. You try to stand your ground, pulling away from the hand around your elbow and before you can approach smug Haechan again, Jeno stands in front of you. 

“Walk away. Right now. Please.” His expression is unreadable, but he’s definitely not pleased. You can figure that much out. 

“What’s it to you?” You challenge, suspicious of his involvement. 

His eyes close for a second, jaw clenching, as though he’s collecting himself and Haechan’s voice cuts through again. “Yeah, Jen-Jen, what’s it to you?” 

Jeno just steps closer to you, shielding you from his friend’s antics and before you have time to react, he’s dragging you away again. Hand tight around your wrist and you let him. Not before you look back, only to find Haechan wiggling his fingers at you in a playful wave and you can’t help but flip him off. His laugh is loud and if it weren’t for Jeno, the alcohol in your system would have prompted you to start a fight. How can someone be so irritating? 

Once you’re out in the back garden, you force your arm out of Jeno’s hold.  

“Chill.” His instruction makes your blood boil. 

“What the fuck!” You shout loud enough to get some heads turning, interrupting their smoking sessions. Jeno just chuckles, index and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. “What’s so funny?” You’re quieter now but you make sure to keep the cold tone on. 

“Are you a child?” He asks with an amused smile as he leans his weight against the wall and if you weren’t so pissed off, you’d swoon at how good he looks right now. 

“He started it.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s a child.” Jeno points out like it’s a fact you should be aware of. His hands are in the pockets of his hoodie and you realise how chilly it actually is. 

“I’m assuming he knows me as the slut who slept with his friend just to get over her ex.” You move to lean against the wall next to him and he snorts at your comment. 

“You know I don’t slut shame.” He says casually, his breath visible in the cold air. “Besides, is that what that was?” He’s looking down at his shoes as he kicks some pebbles into the grass. “Rebound sex?” 

“You know it wasn’t.” 

“So, why do you care about what Haechan thinks?” 

“Cause he’s your friend.” 

“He’s also a wind up.” Jeno turns his head to look down at you. “And you let him get to you.” 

“He’s fucking annoying is what he is.” You scan the garden as you rest your hands behind your back, preventing the concrete from digging into your ass. 

“Yeah, he’s for the thick skinned.” He says it with fondness, and it baffles you. “His girlfriend tolerates him just fine, so he must be doing something right.” 

“An unsolvable mystery.” You mumble and Jeno chuckles, though you weren’t really joking. 

There’s a pause. A comfortable silence between you, which in that moment you really appreciate. 

“Didn’t know you were that good at beer pong.” Jeno elbows your side playfully and you almost smile, but then you remember that the only reason you decided to play was to distract yourself from him and the girl who was feeling him up. 

“Surprised you even saw that.” It’s meant to be teasing, light-hearted. It’s anything but that. 

“Why’s that?” His tone is devoid of any playfulness now. 

“You just looked...busy.” You refuse to look at him but you feel his stare on your side profile. You feel hot all of a sudden. Why can’t you just keep your mouth shut? 

“So?” 

“So, nothing. Just an observation.” You try your best to stay calm, but your pulse has increased significantly and you feel like throwing up. Jeno’s scoff is difficult to ignore. 

“I don’t get you, Y/N.” You’re still adamantly looking anywhere else but at him, but you can imagine his expression. He’s definitely doing that thing he does with his eyebrows when he’s confused. The one that makes him look like a puppy. And you hate yourself. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t.” You defend quickly. 

“Right.” 

“What do you want from me, Jeno?” You close your eyes in exasperation. 

“No. What do you want?” He moves to stand in front of you now, giving you no option but to look at him. “You fucking rejected me. You don’t get to be jealous. So why am in the wrong here?” 

God, you’re such an idiot. 

“What exactly did I reject?” 

“What?” Genuine confusion painted all over his face. 

“What did you expect? That we’d keep fucking and live happily ever after? I’m sorry, I don’t do that shit. I can’t.” Words leave before thought; regret floods instantly. You expect him to argue back, to shout, to react, but his next words hurt you even more. 

“Yeah, no, I’m not doing this.” He shakes his head in disbelief, a bitter laugh escaping. 

“Not doing what?” 

“I’m not gonna argue with you, when you’ve already come to your conclusions.” 

“So, I’m wrong then? Did you want a relationship with me? Did you wanna take me to bruch? Buy me flowers? Introduce me to your parents?” Silence. “You said it yourself. You were horny and I happened to be there. A girl doesn’t give you what you want and you act like your heart is broken. Boo-hoo, wah-wah, grow the fuck up.” 

For the first time in the four months you’ve known the boy in front of you, his face is not stoic. He looks enraged, disgusted even. “You’re a fucking joke, Y/N.” 

You don’t even know what can beat that. He’s right. 

He steps closer and you wish you weren’t backed up against the wall. He’s too close. “I don’t know who fucking hurt you, and I don’t give shit quite frankly. What I do know is I’m not a punching bag and I don’t like games.” 

“I’m not playing a game.” 

“No?” His head tilts. 

“No.” Your voice comes out weak. He’s suffocating you and you can feel the tears welling up in your eyes. Your stomach heavy. 

“You say you don’t want me. Then you flirt with me every chance you get. You get moody whenever a girl’s name pops up on my phone. You hate when my attention isn’t on you. You get jealous. You make petty comments. You can’t even look at me right now. Should I go on?” 

Are you really that obvious? If you had balls, he’d have you by them. 

“I might fuck around, but at least I’m honest about what I want.” His index and middle finger poke you on the chest, right in the middle and he might as well carve your heart out at this point. “You’re the game player here. Not me.” He says quietly, but the words echo loudly in your head. 

You blink and there’s wetness dripping down your cheek and the only thing you can do is nod, eyes avoiding his again, the stamp on his hoodie a lot more interesting, but blurry as another tear escapes. It’s not sadness. It’s anger. You’re angry with yourself mostly, but also him. Because he confuses you. Because he makes you feel vulnerable. Because he makes your heart do things it shouldn’t. And he scares you. So much. The way he grounds you scares you. The way he always talks sense scares you. The way he understands you scares you. The way he sees you...it scares you. 

“Why are you crying?” There’s no malice laced with his words, just worry. A genuine question. Whispered. 

“I wanna go home.” If misery could be pictured, it would be you. You sound like a spoilt child that didn’t get their favourite toy on Christmas day. 

“Okay.” He doesn’t move and neither do you. You can feel his eyes on your face and you can’t help but look into them when his thumb wipes the tears off your cheek. His palm feels warm on your cold skin, soothing your heart and you wish you could bury your whole being in it. You just hide your face in it for now. 

“I don’t like you when you’re mean.” You sniffle a little, half aware that he’s stepped closer now. His familiar clean scent engulfs you and you sigh in contentment. Your hands instinctively grab onto each side of his hoodie pocket and when you look up at him, you can tell he’s trying to fight off a smile. His features are on the softer side again, puppy-like. The fairy lights reflect on his eyes, illuminating tiny little star-like specks. 

“Don’t make me act mean then.” His fingers brush a strand of hair behind your ear. Your pride wants you to push him away, but for some reason you let him touch you. You also let your forehead rest on his sternum, and you let his arms wrap around your shoulders, hugging you into him, into his warmth. The embrace is very similar to the one Mark gave you earlier, but so different in so many ways. It calms you like no other hug ever could. Like no one could ever compare. And maybe no one can. 

“Are you still mad?” Your question is muffled by the fabric of his jumper, cheek squished against his chest, eyes closed as you bask in the proximity. 

“Mhm.” He answers a little too quickly for your liking, but his arms tighten a little more around you and you can’t fight off the tiny smile that threatens to take over your face. 

“Do you still like me?” You feel him tense just then and your arms wrap around his middle in fear of him pulling away. 

“I mean...” You feel his chest move as he exhales loudly, his chin rests on your head. “I don’t hate you.” 

“Good.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

It’s two days later that you decide to face the problem that is Lee Jeno. A normal late Sunday afternoon. You’ve done your shopping for the week, gone over some lecture notes, caught up on all your uni emails, procrastinated, even gone on a run to convince yourself that you didn’t just sit around all day. You send the text before you can talk yourself out of it, and when 15 minutes go by without a response, you start to regret it. 

Are you busy tonight? 

The screen laughs in your face each time you check your phone and see no new notification. Why did you decide to act brave tonight? Why are you so stupid? Of course he’s busy. He’s probably in bed with that Yuna girl, altering her brain chemistry like he did yours. You wonder if he cuddles all the girls he sleeps with like he cuddled you. All careful and possessive. 

You’re about to change into your pyjamas when you hear it. 

Ding. 

Jeno: just got back from the gym  Jeno: need a shower and then i can be free  Jeno: how come? 

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Do you reply now, or should you give it some time? Make him wait like he made you wait? NO. No games. He said it himself. 

You: come to mine?  You: gigi and mark are out  You: we can talk  You: you want  You: *if 

Your fingers are shaking so much you forgo typing a whole word and you can only hope he’s not laughing at you when you send the correction. Five long minutes go by before he replies again. 

Jeno: i want  Jeno: gimme 30 mins 

You snort at the text mocking your typo. Of course he won’t pass an opportunity to tease you. He definitely knows you’re shitting bricks. 

You react with a thumbs up before you start pacing around your apartment, looking for things to do until he arrives. 

First you wash up the few forgotten mugs in the kitchen sink. Then you reorganise the cereal boxes that Giselle and Mark always mess up. 

He texts you a simple omw when you’re contemplating whether you should put on jeans or keep your joggers on. You decide on the latter. No need to try hard. 

He knocks when you’ve just finished brushing your teeth for the second consecutive time, which you’re starting to regret because your gums sting now. 

You take a deep breath before opening the door and when you do, he’s standing right there, hands in his pockets, looking effortlessly cool as ever. His signature look. Attire matches yours: big hoodie and baggy joggers, emitting comfort and softness. 

His eyes scan you like yours scan him. Head to toe. “Cute socks.” He nods in approval and when you look down at your feet, you realise you’re wearing fuzzy Christmas socks with little mistletoes on them. Great. “Swear Christmas was like a month ago.” 

“They’re warm.” You step aside to let him in, and he quickly takes his shoes and jacket off by the door before trailing toward the living room area. You observe him as he carefully places his thick jacket on the back of the sofa. He inspects the room like he’s never been in your apartment before. It feels oddly domestic when he’s not here for a tutoring session. 

You set your phone on silent and quickly notice the time. Apart from the fact that he’s five minutes early, it dawns on you that it’s dinner time. 

“You hungry?” The words slip before you can stop them, and he swiftly turns around to look at you. You’re still leaning against the door as he plops down on the sofa armrest. 

“I could eat.” He shrugs with a lopsided smile. He looks so boyfriend-coded like this. So warm and soft. Just lounging around your living room. “Unless you’re cooking.” His eyes are full of mischief, smile cheeky. 

“I mean, I was thinking of ordering, but you can starve if you’re gonna insult me in my own home.” 

He ends up placing the order. Something about a deal on his Deliveroo, but you know he just didn’t want you paying. Just like when he never lets you pay for your coffee but complains when you occasionally pay for his. 

He’s munching on a dumpling when you’ve run out of things to talk about. You’ve covered the hangover you were both nursing the day before, his gym session and how he got hit on by a guy, your running session and how you got drenched by the rain, the stats chapter you’ll be entering next week, the fact that you both have a seminar tomorrow morning, the fact that you might skip. You talk about anything and everything but what you both really want to talk about. 

“Did you stay long on Friday after I left?” You ask casually as you blow on your spring roll to help cool it down. 

He shakes his head. “Nah. You left at the right time. It was dead after.” He drops his chopsticks on his plate and grabs a napkin for his hands. 

“What about the girl you were with?” It slips. But at least it doesn’t sound malicious. Your eyes meet for half a second and you almost laugh at the side-eye he gives you. 

“Still not over that?” He leans back on the sofa, getting more comfortable, legs spreading a little as he sips on his water. 

“It’s just a question. Don’t deep it.” You take a sip of your own water before turning your body completely toward him, legs criss-crossing, arm resting on the back of the sofa. 

He pulls his hood up as he slides a little further down the cushions, almost as though you’ve put him on the spot and he’s trying to hide. You find it amusing. “Nothing happened if that’s what you’re asking.” No glance toward you still; he’s too busy trying to stabilize the half-empty water bottle on his stomach and only when he fails for the third time does he look at you. 

“Why?” 

He shrugs. “Wasn’t really my type.” 

You nod. “Didn’t realize you had one of those.” You twirl one of your rings with your thumb. You feel nervous suddenly but choose to push your sarcasm forward. 

He blinks, unamused. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?” 

“I judged you.” You say quickly, refusing to back down now. His eyebrows tense a little, emitting confusion for just a second. “And I’m sorry.” You chew on the inside of your cheek as you wait for a response. 

He nods just once before averting his attention to the bottle again. “You’re not the first or the last person to do that.” 

“I have trouble seeing the good in people.” You avert your eyes to the loose thread on your sleeve. It’s difficult staying afloat when he looks at you the way he always does. Like you’re easy to read. 

“Yeah, I gathered that.” You detect a smile in his tone and you hate that you don’t have to see it to know it’s there. You expect him to ask why. He doesn’t; you sense his contemplative eyes on you still. A beat of silence passes and you find yourself trapped in it, struggling to utter more words. He helps with the worst possible question. “Why did you sleep with me, Y/N?” 

“Don’t say it like that.” You let out a humourless laugh. 

“Like what?” There’s expectancy in his voice. His restraint is slowly breaking. 

“Like I lured you in or something.” You pull the loose thread harder. He lets out a short laugh. It sounds accidental. 

“Just answer the question.” He taps on the plastic bottle as if to get your attention. “And look at me.” His eyebrows lift momentarily when you do, like a greeting. The situation seems awfully comical—or maybe it’s the fact that you struggle to stay serious in serious situations. He mirrors your barely-there smile regardless. 

“There’s not just a single reason.” You can’t be more honest than that. 

“Okay, so name three.” He holds his thumb, index, and middle finger up, wiggling them as he waits for you to start listing. “Go on.” He nods when he senses your hesitation. 

You sigh dramatically as you look around the room, like the answers are hidden in the furniture. “I guess you’re attractive.” 

“That doesn’t count. I want profound stuff.” 

You scoff. “Since when?” You raise an eyebrow and his pointed look makes you back down, his three fingers waving slightly, demanding. 

“You made me feel comfortable.” 

Middle finger down. 

“I was intrigued.” 

Pointer down. He nods again when you pause for too long. It takes everything not to look down, but you don’t. 

“Felt right.” 

“And now it doesn’t?” He’s quick. No hesitation. No whys and hows. He sits up and turns to look at you properly, mirroring your position. One arm drapes over the back of the sofa while the other holds onto the water bottle still, one leg folded under him, the other hanging off the sofa. You like that he’s comfortable in your vicinity; it calms the turmoil inside you. 

“It does. It’s just confusing.” You admit. His eyes look more alive now. 

“What’s so confusing? People fancy each other. They fuck. They either make it a thing or they don’t.” For someone who normally reads you in no time, he seems to be struggling now. 

“Jen, this isn’t stats. It’s not that simple.” You smile fondly at his confusion. “Besides, what exactly is this thing we could make it into?” You can almost see the gears spinning in his head. This, he doesn’t seem to have an answer for. 

“This might sound wild, but I happen to know what dating is.” His widened eyes evoke a laugh out of you. Maybe he did have an answer after all. 

“You wanna date me.” You deliver the question in deadpan tone. 

He tilts his head a little. “Would that be so terrible?” 

You purse your lips in thought. Would it? “Do you understand what that entails?” God, you sound so condescending. Like a middle-aged person. 

“God forbid we go somewhere other than a café and talk about something other than stats.” The sarcasm in his voice makes you roll your eyes. Mostly because it makes him sound hot. You almost flinch when he shuffles closer, his knee touching yours. He drops the bottle he’s been fiddling with somewhere behind him and his fingers find yours in a heartbeat. Like he didn’t even think about it. Like it’s reflex. 

“That’s not what I mean.” You know he knows, but you say it anyway. Your eyes find your hand in his, thumb stroking your knuckles gently before gliding over a ring, finding a new toy to fiddle with. 

“I’ll be good to you.” You bring your gaze to his face. He looks almost shy, eyes on your hands and if the lighting were stronger, you might have been able to spot the blush on his cheeks better. You imagine it for now. “I don’t expect you to trust me from the get-go.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second. “But maybe— you know—maybe eventually...” He looks up, scanning your face for a reaction, which you try tremendously hard not to give because you just happen to love a pathetic man. He’s unsure, but he’s trying. You’ll give him that. 

“Ask me properly.” You squeeze his fingers once and he has the cutest look of hope on his face. 

“You’re going on a date with me.” 

“I said ask—” 

“I’m telling you.” He tugs on your arm playfully and you can’t help but gleam at his unusually playful antics. 

“Alright.” 

“Cool.” 

“Now get out of my house.” 

“Sorry?” Genuine surprise takes over his features; eyebrows furrowed to the maximum, eyes wide. 

“You’re not staying the night.” You pat his thigh as you get up and start picking up the takeout boxes lying scattered on your coffee table. 

“Why not?” He sounds almost offended. You laugh quietly as you walk into the kitchen. 

“You’re just not.” He hasn’t moved from his spot on the sofa when you look back at him. 

“I won’t try anything.” 

Your pointed look forces the corners of his mouth to curl into a mischievous smile. “I’ll just cuddle you.” 

“Next joke.” 

“You really think I’m not capable of keeping it in my pants?” You don’t even bother responding to his silly question. 

When you approach him again, you stand in front of him and with the way he looks up at you, it takes a lot to not just get on your knees for him. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” You admit, hinting at something he catches on quickly, his pleased smile difficult to miss. 

He moves closer, warm hands engulfing the backs of your knees, his hood dropping as he cranes his neck to gaze up at you with pretty eyes. He looks almost innocent like this. So handsome. “At least give me a kiss.” 

Your hands come to rest on his shoulders, looking for support as he pulls you closer, between his spread legs. This screams anything but innocent, and the way he nuzzles his face against your tummy has your breath hitching. You bury a hand in his hair, nails lightly scratching as he breathes you in. 

“Just one, yeah?” Your quiet offer makes him look up again, eyes finding yours in an instant, chin resting on your lower abdomen. Who knew Lee Jeno could look so submissive and sexy at the same time. 

“Just one. And I’ll fuck off before you know it.” You should tease him. Make him beg. But he looks too good for that. Too insatiable. And you can always make him beg another day. 

You do exactly what you said you wouldn’t do. You get on your knees, between his spread ones, and now it’s you that has to look up at him. Your hands find his strong thighs and the thought that enters your mind isn’t a pleasant one. Envy flickers for a moment, remembering the girl from two nights ago, standing between his legs in a very similar position. But then you see how he looks at you and envy becomes want. He didn’t look at her like that, nowhere near. 

His hands fall on top of yours before trailing up your arms and you drag your knees across the carpet to get closer. Your noses touch when his palms engulf each side of your neck, thumbs tracing your jawline, fingers reaching your nape, his touch making your knees feel weak as your heart beats faster, and you’re worried he can feel it through your pulse points. 

“You know,” His top lip grazes your bottom one lightly and you can’t help but bite onto the spot he touched. “You’re doing a bit too much for just one kiss.” 

“You either want it, or you don’t.” You match his low tone; afraid you’ll break the trance you both seem to be in, your fingers lightly squeezing his thigh muscles in encouragement. 

You see his smirk and then you don’t. Your eyes drop shut the second his mouth is on yours, claiming. His palms feel warm on your cheeks, his lips soft on yours but demanding, thighs tensing under your wandering hands, and you feel dizzy as you let him tilt your head as he pleases, let his tongue in your mouth, let him taste you. It’s wet and it’s loud and it’s hot, the neurons in your brain already useless. 

You really should pull away, not give in to him so easily, but one hand is in your hair now, tugging, the other around your throat, gentle but assertive, and the whimper you let out is embarrassing. Your hands clench around the fabric of his joggers; your pussy around nothing, and that’s when you abruptly push him away, hands on his firm chest. You think your ears deceive you, but you swear Lee Jeno just whined. A needy, pathetic whine. So beautiful. It makes something coil in your chest, a pulse of heat you didn’t expect, a reminder of just how much power he has over you in a single sound. 

His back is against the sofa cushions now, and he looks defeated, chest visibly moving. “You’re a fucking menace.” 

You laugh a little too loudly at how out of breath he sounds, as though he didn’t just have full control of that kiss. His lips are shiny, a darker shade of their usual pink, and you lick at yours, realizing they must be just as wet. You can still taste him, and your walls flutter around emptiness again. You’re tempted to look down and check whether he’s also affected, but you withhold. That would make things so much worse. 

“I promised one kiss. I gave it to you.” You pat his thighs gently, and his hands catch yours again, fingers interlocking this time. It’s your heart that flutters this time. 

“Alright, Dua Lipa.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno has always known you’re trouble. He’s always pitied the guy you’ll end up with—or anyone who falls for you. Not because you’re not a catch, but because he views you as someone hard to say no to. And now… he’s exactly the kind of guy he pities. He’s never thought of himself as a weak man. But here he is, walking you home after your regular Tuesday session, pretending he’s listening to your rant about some professor who hates you and struggling not to make his fascination obvious. Because he really is fascinated—by the way you move your hands, the way you furrow your eyebrows in frustration, the way you swear a little too much when you’re stressed, and the way you say “what the fuck,” because what the fuck is wrong with him? 

He can’t stop thinking about how adorable you looked earlier when you drew a Venn diagram correctly, how your eyes lit up when you got his validation, how you gasped when the only thing he said was “good job.” Not because he has some weird claim on you, but because he likes how determined you are to do well. And he likes that he’s helping you. But most of all, he likes that you’re succeeding. Jeno is positive you don’t even need his help to pass the module anymore, but he can’t bring himself to tell you that just yet—simply because he likes that you want his help. 

It’s been two days since that obliterating kiss, and Jeno keeps pondering. You. How you got on your knees. How you touched him. How you sounded. How easily you ruined him with just one kiss. He knows he’s already slept with you, but for some reason, that kiss beats any other moment he’s had with you. It was too good. Too much. And oh, what he would give to experience that again. 

“You free this Friday?” The question slips mid-thought, and the silence that follows makes him turn his head to look at you. He struggles not to laugh at your dumbfounded expression, pursing his lips to control the smile that threatens to take over his face. 

“You weren’t listening just now, were you?” You scold, though the tone of amusement is still evident. 

“Nah. Not really.” He blatantly admits, getting a kick out of annoying you. 

“Dickhead.” You huff in the cutest way possible. 

“Friday.” He repeats stubbornly as you’re nearing your building. “Free or not?” 

“What exactly am I walking into here?” You ask carefully, eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

“An orgy.” 

“Yeah, alright, get me involved.” Your bored tone shouldn’t make him smile. 

He sighs in annoyance, because there’s no way you don’t know what he’s hinting at. “I wanna take you out, you pleb.” 

“Pleb?” 

He groans dramatically. “Oh my god—” 

“I’m actually not.” 

“What?” 

“I’m not free on Friday. I promised Gigi I’d do movie night.” No way. Fuck that. There’s no way he’s asking you out and you’re rejecting him. 

“You serious? You’re blowing me off for some movie night?” He knows he should tone it down. He’s sounding hurt, and it’s not that deep. It shouldn’t be. 

“I’m not blowing you off—” 

“You so are. Royally.” He can’t help but feel a little defeated. He’s never winning with you. 

“I can do Saturday.” You say with a hopeful tone, and Jeno feels some relief at the fact that you’re not entirely rejecting him. 

“I said I’d go to this stupid party on Saturday.” He grumbles. He doesn’t even want to go, but you’re not willing to cancel your plans for him. So why should he? 

“Right, well… we’ll have to do next week then.” The disappointment in your voice makes his heart jump and his stomach clench. Why do you keep doing that? Until now, it was his head. Now, you’re messing with his heart and stomach too? It’s unfair. 

“Why don’t you come with me?” He offers, hoping it doesn’t make him seem weak. Although he knows that’s exactly what he is—a weak, needy, pathetic man. For you. 

“To your stupid party?” You almost sound offended, and now he regrets even asking. 

“Yeah.” He sighs as you both come to a halt outside your building. It’s dark already, and the streetlights reflect prettily on your face, accentuating your features. Your nose is a little red from the cold, and you’re in thought, teeth catching your bottom lip as you consider his invitation. 

“That’s not really taking me out though, is it?” You try shyly. You never tiptoe around things. And Jeno hates that he loves that. 

“I just want to spend time with you, Y/N.” He attempts to lower his guard a little but realizes how awfully intimate his words sound. Oh well. “We can show face for a bit, and then we can just fuck off if it’s boring, go somewhere else.” 

“Where?” 

“Disneyland.” He deadpans again, trying to put on the fakest smile he can, but unintentionally, it transforms into a genuine one. He blames the cute way you roll your eyes at him. So unamused. 

“Wow, you’re on a roll today. How will I ever recover from this laughter?” You sound bored, but he sees how hard you’re trying to hold back your smile. 

“God, you’re annoying.” And he’s not lying. You are so fucking annoying. And so fucking pretty. He blames the streetlights. And his stupid heart. 

You outright laugh at his exasperation, and Jeno finds himself in a predicament. He could ignore you, move on with the conversation, or he could shut you up. It’s an easy decision. 

The cute sound of surprise you let out when his lips crash onto yours is imprinted on his brain, and so is your soft touch on his chest, and so is the way you kiss him back, matching his eagerness, and so is your taste, and so is the way your body molds into his. It all just fits perfectly. You fit perfectly. 

Your nose feels cold against his cheek, but the back of your neck feels hot against his frosty fingers, and he wonders when it became such a normal thing for him to notice details like that. A kiss is a kiss. There shouldn’t be any science behind it. That’s what he always thought. Until that night you sat with him on the carpet at the foot of his bed. 

A wet smooching sound echoes in the cold of the evening when he pulls away, and he can’t fight his smile seeing how you lean closer, chasing after his lips. 

“Come.” He whispers, both your breaths visible. 

“Huh?” You sound lost, blinking quickly as though adjusting back to reality. Did he just kiss you, stupid? 

“On Saturday. Come with me.” He sounds like he’s begging now, and he hates it. That’s what it’s come to. 

He trails his hands down your arms, over your thick jacket, and the bashful expression on your face makes his pulse fasten as he threads his fingers through yours. 

“Okay. I’ll come.” Success. 

“Good.” He leans down, leaving another chaste kiss on your lips before he can chicken out, and then, as you’re about to speak, he’s walking away. 

“Dude, what th—” 

“You better have that mock test ready for Thursday!” He shouts over his shoulder, and he wishes his resolve was stronger, but he can’t fight the need to look back. And the confusion on your cute face is so worth it. 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

There you are. A few feet away from him, in this crowded space, conversing with some girls he’s never met before. So confident, carrying yourself so gracefully, your laugh audible and sweet. So sweet, so intoxicating, so heart-wrenching. 

He brought you here. And for some reason, he expected you to not leave his side; to crowd him, to be needy and demand his attention. As always, he was mistaken. He should know by now, you’re not like most girls he’s associated himself with. But he’s a fool. A fool who keeps misjudging you and putting you in the same basket as everyone else. 

And there you always are. Proving him wrong every single time. 

“What’s with the long face?” Haechan’s voice cuts through Jeno’s trail of thought. 

“No long face.” Jeno quickly dismisses the accusation. “Just thinking.” 

“Thinking at a party? You must be in serious trouble.” As much of a smart-ass as his friend can be, he’s got the tendency of being right most of the time. And just like now, he’s always smug about it, the irritating smirk on his face proof. 

“Fuck off.” Jeno mutters, always harmless. “Don’t you have a girlfriend to bless with your annoying-ass face?” 

“And bless her I shall.” Haechan sings, making Jeno snort at his silliness. “Quit yearning and just go talk to her, you dumb-ass bitch. You look like you’ve seen a litter of dead puppies.” Haechan whispers aggressively as he walks away swiftly, before Jeno can have the pleasure of shoving him. 

“Wet wipe.” Jeno curses under his breath as he watches his friend lovingly wrap his arms around his girlfriend, his face nuzzling into her neck as she smiles bright. It’s sweet and it’s disgusting, and the undeniable feeling of envy fills Jeno. He’s envious of them both. Because as disgusting as they can be, they’re happy. And they don’t fail to remind him every fucking second. 

When Jeno redirects his vision to you, he’s met with your eyes, and you shatter him with the sweetest smile you’ve ever given him. And there goes his poor heart again. His lips move on their own, returning the gesture without permission, and when you extend your hand in his direction, wordlessly asking him to join you, there goes his stomach. His legs seem to work on their own, because in a few seconds, he’s pushing himself off the wall, crossing the room, and in a few more, Jeno’s got your hand in his. 

“Hey.” You greet quietly, with a small squeeze around his fingers. 

“Hey, yourself.” He instinctively pulls you closer into his side and you smile wider, looking down bashfully, the group you were chatting with long forgotten behind you. 

“Having fun?” You seem genuinely interested, and for some reason, Jeno feels weak. Words don’t come easily in that moment, so he just shrugs, nose scrunching a little. “You?” 

“Eh, I’m too sober.” The way you wrap both arms around his has him in a chokehold, and Jeno looks around at the chaos of the party, then back down at you. 

“Wanna get out of here?” He asks, relieved that your eyes light up with hope. 

“Disneyland?” You tease, a tiny smirk adorning your face. Jeno chews on his bottom lip to prevent his own smile. 

“Disneyland.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno’s place is relatively tidy compared to last time you were there. Some books are scattered here and there, a plant struggling to stay alive in the corner, a used-up mug on the coffee table. Though very evident that it’s a boys’ house, you can smell the laundry detergent. It’s messy but clean, and for some reason, that makes you feel a sense of warmth. 

“Not as bad as I thought it would be.” You twirl your finger in the air, gesturing at the space as you walk further inside the living room. 

He snorts as he takes off his shoes, placing them next to yours. “Did you expect a crack den?” 

“Sure looked like one last time.” You stand in front of the bookshelves, scanning all the titles they’ve collected. “I’m assuming these aren’t all yours.” 

“And why would you assume that?” He’s standing a lot closer than you thought; you can almost feel his body heat seeping through your thick jumper. 

“Dunno.” You stay put, refusing to turn around and look at him. “You don’t strike me as much of a reader.” 

He lets out a short laugh, his breath hitting the back of your neck. Oh, he’s close—close. 

“And what do I strike you as?” His fingers make contact with the back of your hand, lightly tracing until his index hooks around your pinky. The gesture feels a lot more intimate than it should, and even though it’s the least sexual thing anyone could do, you feel yourself getting hot. 

“As someone who reads because they should, not because they want to.” 

“Wow.” His whisper hits your ear as his thumb fumbles gently with the ring you’ve got on your pinky. “You’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you?” 

“Not really, no.” Your breath hitches slightly as he wraps his other arm around your middle, pulling you flush against him. His chest feels hard against your back, and his breathing is definitely a lot more stable than yours, but his heartbeat doesn’t match his calmness. It’s oddly comforting. 

He doesn’t stall when you turn around. His lips instantly find yours. No teasing, no hesitation. 

He’s everywhere. 

You feel him everywhere, and your heart hurts from the intensity. From how gentle he is. From how slow he kisses you compared to all the other times. 

You’re worried he can feel the heat radiating off your skin when his hand cradles your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone so delicately you feel hysterical. The whimper you let out seems to encourage him as he tilts his head a little, deepening the kiss, and you can’t help but part your lips more, desperate to taste him. 

Your hands slither up to his hair, threading through the short strands, and a moan escapes from your throat when he pushes you into the bookshelf, his tongue obscenely licking into your mouth, tangling with yours in a wet mess. 

“You hungry?” He mutters into the kiss, clearly with no intention of pulling away, but your arms circle his neck, holding him closer—just in case he made the unacceptable choice of stopping. 

“Mm-mm.” Your refusal vibrates between your mouths as you kiss him harder, his uncoordinated breathing egging you on as you walk him backward, blindly leading your tangled bodies to the sofa. 

“Thirsty?” He’s smiling as he lets you guide him, his hands grabbing onto your hips, refusing to put space between your bodies. 

“No.” You clumsily stumble over your feet, and his arms around you help you regain your balance, his light chuckle hitting you on the lips, breath hot against you, as he harshly lands on the sofa cushions, eagerly helping you straddle him as though being apart from you is unfathomable. 

“Guessing you’re not tired either.” He barely gets to finish the sentence before a grunt leaves him; your fingers pulling harshly at his hair as you shamelessly shove your tongue in his mouth, easily shutting him up. He slumps against the sofa with a sigh against your lips, hands limply resting on your ass as he lets you take control. 

“What about you? You tired?” You break the kiss with a loud, wet smack, your hand around his neck preventing him from trailing after you. You tighten your hold when he attempts to move again, and you revel in the sight of his confused expression. It's almost like a newfound pleasure, like it’s something he didn’t know he wanted until now. You can tell by the tensing of his eyebrows, the quick blinking of his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, the clawing at your ass cheeks. 

He’s never been put in his place before, and it shows. 

“Answer me.” You instruct seductively, lips brushing his as you grind down on the very evident erection suffocating in his jeans. 

“Fuck—no. I’m not fucking tired.” He grits, nostrils flaring in annoyance, and his harsh expression earns a smirk from you as you make sure to press harder on the sides of his neck. A mean laugh tumbles out of you as his resolve breaks, eyes rolling back the second you grind down again, the fabric of your jeans rubbing against your throbbing clit deliciously, but you ignore the pleasure, focusing on how responsive Jeno’s body has suddenly become. 

He could easily overpower you, take matters into his own hands, ruin you if he wanted to, and that knowledge turns you on a lot more than it should. Because he’s actively choosing to be submissive. He’s silently asking to be choked, succumbing to the power you didn’t know you held over him. Until now. 

“You’re kinda pathetic, Jen.” You whisper in his ear, his moan vibrating between your chests as you leave a little kiss on his cheek. “It’s cute.” 

“Fuck off.” 

You’re not sure if it was meant to come out harsh, but it’s far from it. It’s whiny and breathless. 

“That’s mean.” You coo at him, another soft kiss left on his cheek before a theatrical pout takes place on your lips. “You promised you’d be good to me.” 

“You’re the one who’s being mean.” His head turns so he can look at you, arms wrapping tightly around you, and you can’t help but loosen your hold around his throat. 

He’s blinking slowly, breathing shallowly, and you swear his hazy eyes are going to be the death of you. He looks weak and sweet and so fucked out, and if it weren’t for the next words that leave his mouth, you would have held your ground. 

“I like you.” He whispers. So casual but so lethal at the same time. “A lot.” 

You sit up a little, and he follows after you, arms tightening around you as he buries his face in your chest, sighing heavily, making your heart go crazy. He can definitely feel it. 

“Say something.” His words are muffled against the fabric of your jumper, and you can’t tell when exactly you started stroking his hair, both hands softly threading. 

“I like you too.” You murmur in his hair, inhaling the boyish but sweet smell of his shampoo, and you smile when his shoulders visibly relax. 

“Stay tonight.” 

You know what he’s asking, and when he looks up at you, you also know it’s game over. 

You give him a little nod before leaving a chaste kiss on his lips, his surprised expression making you feel giddy. “I’ll stay.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Lee Jeno is a lot of things.  

He’s stubborn and annoying and cocky at times and he’s annoyingly smart and good with numbers which makes him a good tutor. He’s nice at times too, and funny and oddly endearing. He’s also incredibly hot, and cute, even though he hates being called that.  

But you’ve always known those things.  

What you didn’t know is how incredibly and unfairly good he is at giving head. Out of this world good. And as much as you hate it you also can’t help but love it. What you love the most, however, is how much he seems to love it. 

“Holy shit, Jen, slow down.” You pant, thighs shaking in overstimulation, your body trying to comprehend the intense orgasm it just went through, but Jeno doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck.  

“Shut up and keep your legs open.” He mutters into your drenched pussy, arousal and spit coating the lower half of his face, the scene before you incriminating as you struggle to do as he says with a pathetic whine.  

“I’m too sensitive, you psycho.” Your futile attempt to harshly pull at his hair, backfires as he shoves two fingers in your dripping hole, a string of spit landing on your clit, thumb replacing his tongue in harsh circles. His fingers reach deeper than yours ever have, stimulating the sensitive spot inside your walls with ease.  

“Don’t want my tongue? Fine. You’re taking my fingers.” His hand is thrusting roughly, digits barely pulling out as he creates a vibration-like motion, abusing your g-spot like nobody’s business.  

“Oh my god!” Your screech is embarrassing, and so is the way your trembling fingers grip his bedsheets. What really is mortifying, though, is how loud your cunt is. The lewd sounds are almost offensive to your dignity, which seems to be out the window by now. You feel too hot, sweat dripping down your temples and you wish you had the energy to take off your top, the intense pleasure clouding all your senses. 

“Just accept that you’re gonna cum again.” The sweet kiss he leaves on your inner thigh highly contrasts the way he’s violently fucking into your sopping cunt and you can’t help but give into it. Because he’s right. You’re going to cum again. “There we go, baby, just take it.”  

“Fuck, it’s too much, y-you're too deep.” You cry, asking for a little bit of mercy that doesn’t seem likely to come your way.  

“You’re dripping though.” His hot breath fans on your centre, free hand pressing into your belly, holding you hostage. “Literally ruining my sheets.”  

His humiliating words do something to you, and unfortunately, he seems to notice the way you clench around his fingers, the way your back arches a little more. “Thought you didn’t like me being mean, baby.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” Your voice comes out whiny, no threat laced in it whatsoever, and his laugh is sinister, openly mocking your desperate state, pushing you over the edge unexpectedly. “Fuck, I’m cumming.”  

Your body tenses, chest heaving, walls clamping down on his fingers, forbidding any further movement, but his thumb is relentless, rubbing your poor clit through your high. 

“Shit, baby.” He whispers, the sound barely reaching your buzzing ears. Your eyes are squeezed shut and you reach for anything that can pull back to the surface. Your nails dig into his arm, the one draped over your stomach and he quickly laces his fingers with yours, understanding what you need. “You’re good. I’ve got you.” He trails gentle kisses up and down your thigh, the action soothing, helping you back to a more coherent state. 

“I fucking hate you.” You pant. No irritation in your tone, just defeat and deliriousness. 

He chuckles against your skin, fingers slowly pulling out of your heat. “No, you don’t.”  

Your hands instinctively caress his hair as he starts dragging your top up your torso, a kiss left on every newly uncovered inch of skin. You help him by sitting up a little, arms raising and then hands finding his face as soon as the garment is off, pulling him in for a slow kiss he so easily gives into. You can feel his grin, and it makes you chuckle softly against his lips but neither of you pulls away.  

Within seconds, your back arches, making room for his hands as they unclasp your bra and once it’s gone, you eagerly wrap your arms around his neck, craving to feel his skin on yours, sighing at the way your sensitive nipples drag against his warm chest.  

It’s quiet and loud at the same time. No words are exchanged as you intimately make out with him. It’s all heavy breathing, a whimper here and there, the rustling of his sheets, the wet sound of kissing, one of your phones’ buzzing as neither of you seems to care. It’s a soft moan of yours that breaks the silence, and then one of his as he slowly grinds his jean-clad cock into your tingling pussy, the material harsh on your hypersensitive clit.  

His arms cage your head, supporting his weight as he makes room between your bodies for your hands, trembling fingers clumsily unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, your hands blindly shoving the material down, both of you to stubborn to pull away from the sloppy kiss you’ve trapped yourselves in.  

“Mmh- just- fuck sake.” You mumble in his mouth and he lets out a small laugh as he reluctantly pushes off you to remove the rest of his clothes hastily. You smile at his erratic movements, relishing in the fact that he’s as needy as you are.  

His mouth is back on yours within seconds, body finding home between your parted legs, fitting just perfectly and you breathe harshly when his cock prods at your entrance.  

“Do we need a condom?” He murmurs breathlessly, eyes meeting as his face hovers just inches above yours. You find it cute how he remembers about protection now, when he’s already finished inside you before.   

“You’re clean?”  

“Yeah.”  

“Then no.” 

He nods with a shaky exhale, and you pull his face closer, not being able to stand any space between you. One arm sneaks around his neck, the other circles his shoulder blade, holding onto him as you prepare for the intrusion, craving the stinging sensation you felt last time he entered you.  

His tip bumps your clit a few times as he rubs the length of his cock between your folds, coating himself in your arousal.  

“So wet, baby.” It sounds pained and you’re slowly starting to lose any restraint that’s left in you.  

“Please, fuck me.” You whine into the dip of his shoulder, hips twitching, raising to find friction.  

The head of his cock kisses your entrance, and the second you start to feel the delicious pressure, he slips, finding your clit once again, making you inhale sharply. You’re so wet, it’s embarrassing. 

“Shit, sorry.” He utters the rushed words as he looks down, between your bodies, one arm propping him above you.  

“It’s okay, just try again.” You caress the back of his neck softly as you patiently wait for a stretch that doesn’t come. He’s still, breathing heavily as he looks down, forehead dropping to your shoulder and now you’re starting to get concerned.  

“You okay?” You ask in confusion, as your hands reach for his face, but he hides in your neck.  

“I’m- this is fucking embarrassing.” His body is trembling and you have no choice but to wrap your arms around him, still not understanding what he’s going on about.  

“Jen, what’s wrong?”  

Did he change his mind or something? Did he just realise he’s not that into you? Or did he just remember he’s got chlamydia?  

“I’m actually freaking out. What is hap- 

“I’ve gone soft.”  

Oh.  

“My dick is soft.” He rephrases, voice muffled in your neck and you try your best not to laugh at his pained tone, by hiding your face in his shoulder. Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh.  

It's pointless. Inevitable. A snort escapes. He tenses.  

“Are you fucking laughing?”  

“No.” Your arms tighten around his shoulders, trapping him, or preventing him from seeing your pursed lips.  

“I actually fucking hate you.” He exasperates, lips grazing your skin, but he lets his weight slump on you regardless. And you feel it. He really is soft.  

“Are you nervous?” You’re not mocking, just asking genuinely as your thumb strokes his temple, nails gently scratching his scalp, trying to offer some comfort through his embarrassment.  

“Why would I be nervous?” He defends quickly, stubbornness coating his voice.  

“Chill. It’s just a question.”  

“I’m not nervous.” He persists. He really is incapable of lying.  

“You’re overthinking then.” You start tracing patterns on his shoulder with your free hand as his breathing becomes more stable.  

“What’s there to overthink? It's sex.” He sighs as your toes tickle the back of his knee, foot slowly caressing his leg.  

“Erectile dysfunction?” You joke and he huffs out a breath in annoyance, tickling your neck, goosebumps raising. You hum in thought, pretending to be in search of other reasons for his little mishap. He shivers as you lazily start scratching up and down his back, your other hand still in his hair, slightly tugging.  

“Maybe you’re just not that into me then.” A smirk tugs on your lips as he playfully bites down on your shoulder.  

“Yeah.” He nuzzles your jaw. “That must be it.” He starts kissing along the bone, his hand cradling the other side of your face, urging you to face him and he’s miserably failing to hold his smile back, just like you are. He cutely brushes his nose against yours and your brain malfunctions for a second. Never did you think Lee Jeno would be eskimo kissing you in bed right after he got a limp dick because he got too nervous.  

But here you are.  

“You know,” Your hand caresses his wrist as his hand buries in your hair. “You can be really cute sometimes.” Your lips find the tip of his nose, and he slightly flinches as the tender gesture, coaxing a giggle out of you that gets interrupted by his hand roughly pulling at your hair and you know your tactic to get him riled up is working.  

Your whine is muffled by his lips, tongue forcing its way into your mouth like it’s his mission to shut you up and you revel in the dominance he asserts. A big hand wraps around your neck, fingers squeezing a little tighter than you expect, making you feel dizzy as his tongue claims your mouth in the filthiest way possible. Drool smears on your chin and the little twitch you feel on your belly forces a satisfied moan out of you.  

“This cute enough for you?” He breathes into your mouth, his hips grinding with force, hardening cock sliding between your wet folds, cunt throbbing with need. 

“Whatever cutie, just try not to go soft on me again.” 

A sarcastic laugh tumbles out of him. “You trying to piss me off?”  

“Yes.” 

“I will literally fuck you into oblivion.” He mumbles in your ear, his teeth trapping the lobe between them before he starts trailing wet kisses down the side of your neck, hand moving to fondle one of your breasts, fingers harshly squeezing, claiming, making you mewl.  

“Please, do.” You beg cutely, legs wrapping around his waist, heels pushing him into you more as your hips lift momentarily as you feel a new gush of arousal dripping out of you, smearing between your bodies. You just know it’s a mess down there.  

Two of his fingers find your entrance, swirling through the wetness before he abruptly shoves them in to stretch you out again and before you have time to adjust, two become three, stretching your tight hole to the max. Your moans are unrecognisable, downright pornographic and you can’t imagine how good his cock is going to feel. You’re so horny, you feel like you’re going to pass out. 

“Jen- oh fuck- please just put it in.” Your hands grab his face, forcing his eyes onto yours, showing him how blinded with desperation you are. You really want him. And he seems to share the same sentiment. His dilated pupils show you that much.  

He kisses you stupid again, tongue tasting you hungrily as he fucks his fingers into you deep and slow a few more times and then emptiness. He kisses you harder when you whine in protest, but it’s the fat head of his cock prodding at your hole that really shuts you up and this time he doesn’t slip out. This time you feel the sting you so impatiently were craving.  

Your walls flutter around him, but they welcome his thick length greedily, sucking him as he sinks in slowly.  

“Oh my god.” He utters breathlessly as his pubic bone finds yours, hips grinding to help you both get used to the stimulation, mouth dropping open against yours as you bite down on his lip, not caring if your draw blood because it all just feels divine.  

“Move.” You plead, letting your legs spread wide for him, your hands burying in his hair as you bring his lips to your again, needing him closer.  

“Stop clenching so hard. Feels like you’re pushing me out.” He whispers softly, following up with a slow kiss, his hand caressing your thigh as he holds himself up on one forearm by your head, thumb stroking your temple gingerly and you instantly feel yourself relax a little.  

“Sorry.” You murmur into the kiss, feeling him smile against you, your stomach doing that thing it always does when he does the most insignificant things. 

He finally starts moving, slow and deep, cock stimulating every nerve ending in your walls and you’re so sensitive you feel every ridge, every vein, the slight curve of his length and the way he thrusts a little upwards doing wonders to that sweet spot deep inside you.  

He leaves a sweet kiss on your cheek before letting his head drop, face burying in your neck, hot breaths hitting your skin deliciously as you both lose yourselves to the consuming pleasure. Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders, quiet moans filling the space of his room as his pace quickens slightly, the hand on your thigh slipping between you and the mattress, softly squeezing your ass cheek, keeping you in place, grounding you like you need him to. 

“Fuck, baby.” The sweet petname, whispered in your ear, makes your pussy clench around him and he lets out a muffled grunt. His fingers squeeze the flesh of your ass a little harder and his hips start snapping against yours, wet slaps echoing as he fucks you with short and hard thrusts. “You like that?”  

“Yes.” You sigh into his neck, nails clawing at his shoulder blades as you take what he’s giving you, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his cock starts abusing your g-spot, barely pulling out before fucking back into your needy cunt. You feel incredibly close and you’re almost shocked he’s managed to bring you this close to an orgasm so quickly, just with his cock. “Fuck- I’m s-sorry- I think I’m gonna cum.”  

“I can feel you.” He moans and raises his head to look at you. “It’s okay, don’t say sorry. I want you to.” His hips maintain their perfect rhythm, stimulating the gummy spot inside you as well as your swollen clit. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”  

You squeeze your eyes shut, not being able to handle his intense stare and another moan from him is what send you over the edge. It’s intense, mind-consuming, your legs shake as he fucks you through it like he’s made for it, messily kissing you, groaning into your mouth as you violently squeeze his cock, walls almost pushing him out, but his thrusts unfaltering.  

“Jesus.” He pants as you cry out, the pleasure now bordering overstimulation, but he doesn’t slow down. His back is drenched in sweat, your fingers slipping as they try to hold onto something and he immediately pins your hands above your head as he starts fucking you harder; bruising, animalistic thrusts melting your brain into mush.  

“J-Jen, I’m- oh f- I can’t-  

“Shhh. You can. It’ll feel good again.” His tongue finds yours in a kiss full of teeth and spit and you can barely focus on anything, too fucked out to function properly. You’re thankful you’re at least breathing. “You’re mine. Right, baby?” 

Holy fuck. What is happening?  

“I am?” You mumble against his lips, your heart going ballistic.  

“You’re my girl, no?” He holds your arms pinned with one hand as the other cradles your jaw, eyes finding yours. 

“Yes.” You breathe out pathetically.  

“Say it.” He demands with a sharp thrust, balls slapping against your ass, your arousal coating your inner thighs as he grinds into you.  

“I’m your girl.” The tip of his cock brushes your abused spot again, mind-numbing pleasure building again, like it never went away. 

“Fuck yeah, you are.” He traps your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking before releasing. “Mine.”  

Your breathing is laboured as his hips resume their ministrations. Fucking you hard and fast towards another high that seems to come even quicker than the previous one. It’s like he’s forcing them out of you. And you know you’re going to be ruined for any other man after this. You really are his. He owns you. But you can’t say that. You refuse to admit it. Even as he’s balls deep in you, fucking you into oblivion, exactly like he promised. 

“Are you mine?” It slips out before you can register the thought. You blame his dick.  

He moans. It’s strangled and deep, his eyebrows tensing as he blinks quickly, as though trying to comprehend your words. It’s cute and hot at the same time. “Fuck- you know I am.” 

“Tell me.” You whisper, short-breathed, nuzzling your nose with his, your foreheads almost touching and his eyes roll back when your walls flutter around him again. What a sight.  

“I’m yours, baby.” He grunts as you purposely tighten around him and you didn’t think it was possible, but he fucks you harder, the sounds obscene, your back arching as he sits up, kneeling between you spread legs, pushing them up to your chest, fucking you so deep you have to brace your hands against the headboard, a loud cry leaving your throat. “All yours. All for my girl.”  

“Oh my god.” You exhale harshly, nails digging into wood as his words send you into a frenzy. “Fuuuuck I’m gonna cum.” Your tone pleading and he can’t do anything other than oblige.  

“Uh-huh, cum for me, baby.” He whispers, head hanging low as he lets a good amount of saliva dribble from his mouth onto where you’re both connected, and your broken moan echoes around the walls of his room when the digit quickly finds your swollen clit, all wet and slippery from arousal and spit. He flicks the nub in quick up and down motions as he tries to keep the same angle of his hips.  

A particularly soft flick of his thumb is what makes your body seize, drowning you in obliterating pleasure as your pussy squeezes tight around him again, this orgasm even more intense than the previous one, if not the most intense one you’re ever had in your whole existence. 

He pulls out with a grunt, hovering over you again, a deep kiss left on your lips before he continues down to your neck, sucking and licking, marking your sweaty skin, and you whimper weakly when his tongue finds a nipple, his big hands squishing your sensitive tits and you don’t have it in you anymore to deny him anything. He can do as he pleases. 

“So pretty.” He mumbles, completely lost in his own little world that seems to be occupied only by your nipples and tits as he lathers them in his spit, licking and sucking like man starved.  

Before you have time to regain your breathing, you’re on your front, face buried in his pillows as his hands grab onto your hips.  

“Ass up for me, baby.” He helps you get on your knees, back arched, tits squished against his mattress. “Spread your legs.” He gently taps your outer thigh and you oblige with a whimper as he starts leaving wet kisses on one of your ass cheeks, hands kneading the flesh.  

“What are you doing?” You mumble, slightly panicked as he gets closer and closer to your asshole.  

You attempt to look back when no answer comes, but your head drops back down in defeat as his tongue licks a fat stripe from your clit to your dripping entrance. The moan that erupts from your throat is broken, surprise evident as you tangle your fingers in his sheets.  

“What the fuck.” You whisper, rushed words muffled by Jeno’s pillows. Your jaw slackens as his tongue languidly circles your sopping hole, dipping lightly, tasting you shamelessly and within seconds it travels back down to your clit, flicking it from side to side with the tip of his tongue, making your legs tremble, struggling to hold you up.  

You’re a mess down there, you know it. The filthy sounds filling the room, prove that much. He’s sloppy with it; making out with your pussy like he’s thirsty, tongue everywhere, even slipping up to your other tight hole a few times, coating you in his spit wherever he can reach.  

“Shit.” He rasps. “I could eat this pussy for days, baby.”  

“Jen-” 

“So perfect.” He mumbles in awe, his lips brushing your sensitive clit before wrapping around it, sucking harshly, tongue flicking in quick motions, driving you crazy, turning you into a blabbering mess, a hand reaching behind you to tangle in his hair, pulling desperately.  

“Please fuck me. Want your cum in me.” You don’t even know where that filth came from, but you can’t bring yourself to care in the slightest. You think you might lose the plot if he doesn’t stick his cock in your aching pussy right this second.  

Thankfully, your begging deems rewarding. You feel the mattress dip behind you as he repositions and the sound you make when he stuffs you to the brim in one motion, resembles a scream.  

“Yeah? My girl wants my cum?” His voice barely reaches your ears over your loud moans as he starts thrusting into you in no time. Hard and fast. And you feel him in your fucking throat; the position allowing him to go deeper than anyone has before. His hands grab onto your waist, fucking you silly onto his cock, his balls slapping your poor clit deliciously and you’re positive you’re drooling onto his pillow.  

“Oh, my fucking god. Right there.” You plead urgently as his tip nudges your g-spot for the umpteenth time tonight, your eyes rolling in the back of your skull, arms crossing over the small of your back, silently asking him to take complete control over your spent body.  

“Shit, Y/N.” He pants, one hand taking hold of your wrists, the other grabs onto your shoulder, forcing you onto his cock, the wet slaps of his hips onto your ass turning you on beyond belief. You arch your back more, craving to feel him as deep as possible and his moan tells you he’s equally as affected. “You look so good like this.” 

You twist your neck, looking over your shoulder, desperately searching for his eyes. You know you look destroyed, barely able to keep your eyes open, but you want him to see, want him to know what he’s done to you, that it’s all him.  

The second his gaze meets yours, you know it’s game over for both of you. He looks unreal, sweat dripping from his temples down to his neck, chest glistening and heaving, abs flexing beautifully each time he thrusts forward. You know he can feel your walls tightening. His eyes closing momentarily, jaw clenching, his hold around your wrists becoming so deliciously painful, you hope it leaves a mark. 

The hand on your shoulder slips in your hair, pulling, forcing you off the mattress as he leans forward, slotting your lips with his in a sloppy kiss. It’s full of tongue, saliva and need. You love it. You love everything he’s doing to you.  

“You gonna cum one more time for me, yeah?” He whispers wetly against your lips, spit smearing on both your chins and you can’t help but nod dumbly. “Good girl.” 

Your face is shoved in his pillow again and next thing you know, he’s fucking the living shit out of you, hand now at the base of your nape as his hold around your wrists doesn’t loosen.  

“You’re so fucking perfect for me.”  

It’s the primal, raw need in his voice along with the brush against your sweet spot that has you teetering over the edge again. It’s overwhelming. Your fists clench at the small of your back, legs shaking and weren't he holding you in place, you would have collapsed on the mattress limbless.  

A tear escapes from the corner of your eye from the intensity, trickling down to the pillowcase and you thank the universe when you hear a deep grunt leaving his throat, signalling the beginning of his own orgasm.  

“Shit, baby, I’m cumming.” His voice trembles and his hips stutter, sloppily thrusting until your feel warmth spreading inside your throbbing cunt, his hot release painting your walls white. He grinds into your ass, dragging both your highs until he lets out a whimper of overstimulation and you intentionally clench a couple of times, wanting to torture him for a little longer considering what he put your body through tonight. Not that you’re complaining, but the pathetic whine that escapes his throat, along with his hands grabbing your hips in urgency, is the best reward you could ask for now.  

You accidentally let out a breathy chuckle that becomes louder when he lightly slaps your ass in warning. “Don’t be a brat.”  

You mewl when he slowly pulls out and manhandles you onto your back. He leans down, seeking for your lips and he sighs when you meet him halfway, slotting your mouth with his on instinct as his body moulds with yours, his hand slipping his softening length back into your dripping hole with no warning, earning a yelp from you.  

“Mmh, Jen-” 

“Relax.” He mumbles into the kiss. “Just feels warm.” He whispers, and you can detect a tone of shyness. You can’t help but smile fondly at the side of him you’ve rarely seen.  

“You’re weird.” You tease, still kissing him slowly.  

“You’re annoying.” He retorts, leaving quick little kisses on your lips, moving onto your cheeks, then your nose, then returning to your lips with a chaste smooch that deems you helpless. Giggles and butterflies erupting.  

“But you like me.” You sing playfully, dragging the sentence, hands squishing his cheeks to annoy him even more. He stares down at you for a moment, biting his bottom lip to contain a smile you can see anyway.  

“But I like you.” He admits, blinking slowly and you can’t help but return the smile before leaning up to give him another sweet kiss.  

Lee Jeno likes you and you like him too.  

Who would have thought? Definitely not you. 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

When you return from the bathroom, covered in the t-shirt he had on earlier, he is already under the covers, lying on his front. You’d be surprised if he wasn’t exhausted after all that. His bare back looks kissable and the back of his hair a mess and you can’t stop smiling giddily.  

A ding averts your attention. It’s your phone, coming from your jeans lying on the floor messily. You pick up the piece of clothing as well as the rest of your scattered clothes, placing them somewhat neatly on his desk chair before retreating your phone from your back pocket and setting it on silent mode.  

“Could you get mine too?” His groggy voice breaks through the silence as you scroll through any missed notifications.  

“Sure.” You reach inside the pocket of his jeans and as you’re about to toss him the phone, he speaks again. 

“Just turn my alarm off.” He mumbles in the pillow he’s got his face squished in. So cute.  

You snort. “Why do you have an alarm set for Sunday?”  

“I was gonna go gym, but wanna snooze with you. Is that alright?” He fires back, sarcastic even when he’s sleepy.  

“I guess that’s alright.” You feign an exasperated sigh. “What’s your passcode?” 

“Six-nine-six-nine.” He mutters indifferently and you snort again at the silly combination of numbers he’s chosen. Of course it’s sex related.  

“Meaningful.” 

“Just do it and come back to bed.” He huffs impatiently, which makes you giggle.  

The delighted sound is cut short the second his phone unlocks. Two incriminating messages from that Yuna girl, and a few more from Haechan. You feel like you’re invading, but they’re right there for your eyes to read. And you instantly regret the whole night.  

Yuna: where were u tonight  Yuna: thought we were meeting 🙁 

Haechan: yuna is looking for you  Haechan: on the verge of telling her you’re busy clapping cheeks with stats girl  Haechan: she’s pissing me off   Haechan: just cut if off if you’re into y/n  Haechan: don’t be an idiot 

You instantly like Haechan a little more and Jeno a little less. Did he really bring you to a party he was planning on meeting a side piece at?  

What the actual fuck.  

“Get back here.” Jeno grumbles sleepily from the bed, and you’re stuck between throwing the phone at his head and smashing it on the floor.  

You do neither. You choose to stay calm for now. You’re too tired to cause a scene or have an argument.  

“Coming.” You utter quietly, turning off his alarm before walking back to the bed.  

You get under the covers without another word. Your mind racing a thousand miles per hour, not knowing what to really think. You turn the bedside lamp off, mainly because you want to hide your watering eyes and he instantly shuffles closer, his arm wrapping around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, his body curling into yours comfortably.  

The kiss he leaves on your shoulder makes you close your eyes, refusing to shed tears right now. Grow up Y/N.  

He lets out a sigh, his warm breath hitting the back of your neck.  

“Night, baby.” He whispers softly, sounding already halfway to dreamland.  

You knew this was too good to be true. But what are you supposed to do now? 

“Night, Jen.” 

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Jeno’s fist hurts from the loud banging on the door of your apartment. 

Last night he went to sleep happy and content. Ecstatic at the thought of waking up next to you, spending the morning in bed with you. But when he woke up all alone and confused, all those positive feelings went down the drain. He feels enraged. Humiliated. But most of all, he feels something he hasn’t felt in a really long time. Something that until now, he hasn’t allowed himself to feel. 

Hurt. 

His chest physically hurt when he realised you weren’t in the bathroom or anywhere else in his place. He felt sick when he saw your clothes were not on his chair anymore and your shoes gone from his doorstep. 

But then, when he checked his phone for any missed calls or texts from you, he realised what was going on. And he felt angry. Mostly with himself but also with you, because you chose to not trust him. Again. Because you chose to leave in silence. Because you chose to drop him instead of talking to him. 

So, he’s here, banging on your door like a lunatic, running after you like he always is. Because he wants to fix this. Because he can’t let you go. He refuses to. 

Because Jeno doesn’t just like you. He’s crazy about you. He wants you like he’s never wanted anybody else in his entire existence. 

Because he’s a fool. A fool who’s undeniably in love with the girl he was just supposed to tutor and help pass a stupid stats class. 

When the door opens, Mark appears. 

“Where is she?” Jeno asks abruptly and Mark’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

“Um, hi?” 

“Yeah. Hi. Where is she?” He repeats, not in the mood for small talk. 

“I’m under strict instructions to not let you in.” Mark admits in a low tone. He looks scared. 

Jeno walks close to the boy, putting on a fake smile and Mark’s eyes go wide as he takes a step back in fear. 

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair?” Jeno speaks slowly in a sweet tone, hand raising to squeeze Mark’s shoulder in warning. 

“No sir.” 

“Good. Tell me where she is.” 

“But I-” 

“Mark.” Tone devoid of any emotion now. Cold as ice. Mark gulps loudly. “I will genuinely beat the living shit out of you.” 

“She’s in the shower.” Mark steps aside obediently, giving Jeno space to enter the apartment. “You can wait in her room.” 

Jeno smiles and gently pats Mark on the cheek. “Good boy.” 

As he walks down the hall towards your room, Jeno hears Giselle scolding poor Mark, who just whines quietly. Something along the lines of ‘you try then’ and a defeated sigh. 

Jeno feels bad for speaking to Mark like that, but he had to do what he had to do. He’ll apologise later. All he really cares about now is you. 

He takes a seat at the foot of your made bed and his mind drifts to that night he found you lying in his bed. All sad and alone. He remembers how upset you were about your ex and hates to think that he’s now just another guy who’s hurt you. Because that’s the last thing Jeno wants to do. All he wants is to be with you. 

He knows he’s not easy to trust and he knows you have trust issues. You’ve never talked about it, but you don’t have to; he can tell. And he doesn’t care. He’ll do whatever it takes to gain your trust, but he needs you to want him to try. He needs you to listen to what he has to say. 

“Was me leaving without a word not enough of a statement?” Your irritated voice interrupts his messy thoughts and Jeno shoots up to his feet. 

Here you are, shutting your door closed and leaning against it. Your hair is wet from the shower you’ve clearly just had and you’re dressed in a baggy t-shirt and cute pyjama bottoms with sushi rolls on them. Under normal circumstances his first thought would have been damn, she’s cute but right now all he can see are your red glossy eyes. You’ve been crying. Because of him. 

“Why can’t you ever just talk to me when something’s wrong?” His question comes out more accusatory than he intends and he already hates himself for not being able to keep calm. 

“What’s the point?” You say weakly, chin quivering, lips pursing as you look at anywhere but him, blinking your tears away and Jeno can’t stand seeing you like this. He just wants to hug you. Keep you safe in his chest. 

“Y/N.” He says sternly, walking closer to you and before you can escape, he’s got your face in his hands, thumb wiping away the single tear that’s escaped. “Baby, look at me.” 

“Jen, just-” 

“Hey, no. Look at me.” He cups your cheeks, even as you attempt to turn away from him. You give in with a defeated sigh. “Those texts you saw. They mean nothing. I swear-” 

“I can fucking read.” You interrupt him, voice not so weak now. “She thought you were meeting her.” 

“I agreed to that ages ago. I didn’t even remember, I fucking swear! It was before we-” He sighs, closing his eyes momentarily to compose himself. “Look. I meant what I said last night. Yes, it was during sex but I really did fucking mean it.” 

You blink once. 

“You’re my girl.” He steps closer, the sweet smell of your shampoo taking over his senses for a second, but he focuses again. “You’re the only one. I want you. Just you. I’m so- I promise you- I haven’t been with anyone else since that first time. I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.” 

“Why?” You whisper, eyes wide. 

“Because. You’re you. And you’re perfect for me. And I can barely think when you’re around. And I’m literally about to have a heart attack right now.” He grabs your hand and places it on his chest, and he knows you can feel his insane heartbeat when your breath hitches. “You’re so fucking annoying. And I’m crazy about you.” 

There. He said it. 

You sniffle and before he can say anything else, your arms wrap around his waist, face burying in his heaving chest. 

“You have to believe me.” He’s close to begging now, breathing unstable, but he holds you close anyway, arms circling around your shoulders, nose nuzzling in your wet hair. 

“I believe you.” You whisper in his chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t-” 

“Don’t apologise.” He cuts you off. “I’m the one who fucked up. I should’ve-” 

“It’s fine.” You butt in, and he smiles at how you’re both just communicating in unfinished sentences without failing to understand one another. 

“So, what now?” He tries tentatively, unsure of how to approach anything at this point. He just wants things between you to be okay. 

“I’m tired.” You mumble weakly, and he feels guilt wash over him. You probably didn’t get much sleep last night, while he cluelessly dozed off so quickly. 

“Wanna take a nap?” He suggests as his fingers thread through your hair, trying to help you relax. 

“Will you stay?” You look up at him with soft eyes, still wet from crying and there goes his aching heart again. 

“Of course, baby.” His palms tenderly cradle your face again and he melts when you stand on your tippy toes. He quickly gives into you, head dipping down slightly to give you the kiss you’re silently asking for. 

It’s soft and sweet. You taste like you and toothpaste, and he has to pull away before the innocent kiss escalates into something else. “Come on, let’s get you in bed.” 

Once you’re both under your cosy blanket, he lets you rest your head on his chest, arm around your shoulders, one hand stroking your hair, the other tangled with yours, holding them close to his chest, over his now steady heartbeat. Your breathing gradually slows down and he’s sure you’re asleep, he takes his phone out of his pocket, quickly unlocking it and opening his chat with Yuna. He sends the text without even thinking it over and sighs as he sets his phone down on your bedside table. 

He smiles as he inhales your familiar scent, his eyes closing in contentment as he keeps repeating the words he just typed out, in his head. Particularly the second sentence. 

Can’t see you anymore. I have a girlfriend. 

And yeah, he's yet to ask you properly, but at the end of the day, you’re his girl. And it can’t get any deeper than that. 

©neogotmycookie

ᓚᘏᗢ one month ago. april 2. wednesday.

mark bursts into the study room like he was being chased, slightly out of breath and as usual, thirty minutes late to your tutoring sessions. you didn’t even bother looking up from your notes.

“you’re late. again.” you said flatly, highlighting a passage in the textbook as if his presence didn’t affect your mood at all. it did. the wasted time makes your irritation grow sharper. it was only three days of the week and he still couldn't show up on time.

“sorry, was busy,” he said, running a hand through his mess of dark hair, lipstick stain on his neck, smelling like cheap perfume and sex.

you arched your eyebrow, “that’s the third time, mark.”

he offers an apologetic smile, dropping into the chair across from you, pulling out his notebook, “i know, i know, she just…took longer to finish.”

you slammed your highlighter down, “just because i’m your friend doesn’t mean you can completely act unprofessional,” you roll your eyes, “this is my time you’re wasting too.”

he looked at you, your signature eyeliner and maroon lips making you look sharper, meaner, ready to pounce at any minute.

a mixture of guilt and fear flickers briefly across his features before he sighed and slumped forward, “y/n, i’m sorry. really. it just helps with the stress you know? clears my head so i can focus.”

“mark,” you leaned in “is your sex life really more important than your three failing classes?,” you remind him of the reason why you were here in the first place. he doesn’t respond and the silence was answer enough. you look at him, brain already calculating ways to solve this problem, until you got to one conclusion — it’s a ridiculous idea but it would be the most effective.

“fine,” you said, tapping your pen against the table, “we can have sex,” you propose.

mark whipped his head towards you like you’ve just grown two heads, “what?!”

you shrugged like it was the most normal suggestion in the world, “i can’t have you missing another session, you need to pass these classes,” you reason. “i have a 100% success rate mark, i’m not letting you ruin that because you need to get your dick wet…so show up earlier, we add a stress relief session then start tutoring right away,” you explain like you’ve been thinking about this the whole week.

mark chuckles, an eyebrow raised. sounds like a pretty great plan to him — too great…actually.

“what’s the catch?,” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously, elbow on the table as he leaned towards you.

“no catch, i just have one rule” you smirk, pointing a finger up. he nods, urging you to go on.

“you can’t sleep with anyone else,” you say simply.

this makes him laugh.

“i don’t go exclusive, y/n.”

“please,” you scoff, “i don’t want to date you mark,” you say clearly, “i just don’t want to catch a disease.”

you were very aware of mark’s title — everyone’s favorite fuckboy, leader of the dream fraternity, co-captain of the university’s basketball team and can play guitar. everyone wants a piece of him. and almost everyone has gotten a piece of him.

“i’m clean!,” he argued, looking offended.

“yeah? for how long?,” you shot back, a teasing smirk on your face.

he exhaled, raking a hand through his hair, “fine…then i get to add a rule too.”

“that’s fair, what’s your rule?,” you ask.

“you can’t fall in love with me.” a smirk on his lips.

this makes you laugh.

“well, isn’t your lucky day, mark lee,” you say with a sly smile, “i don’t believe in love.”

he studied you for a moment, confusion flickering behind his eyes, a subtle memory from freshman year playing in his mind until the smile on his face faded into something quieter, “i’m serious, y/n,” he says with conviction.

you raise a brow, “and i’m serious too mark…the day i fall in love is the day money starts raining from the sky.”

he watches you then lets out a short laugh, “okay, just wanted to be clear,” he nods, a grin creeping in, “so…friends with benefits then?”

“exactly,” you hold your hand, “deal?”

mark laughs before accepting it, sealing the deal with a firm handshake, “deal.”

without warning, you yank him towards you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that steals his breath — it’s quick, sharp, deliberate. before he can respond, before he can even think about deepening it, you’ve already pulled away, a smirk on your lips as you start packing your things in your bag.

“this room’s only reserved for an hour and you just wasted it,” you say over your shoulder.

“my apartment. friday. 6PM. if you’re late we’re going straight to studying.” you warn him before leaving him there feeling like he just won the lottery.

it was the perfect situation for him — he’ll pass his classes and get to have sex without having to do all the extra work of chatting up a girl and trying to impress them just to get in their pants. it hasn’t even started yet and he already felt like a winner.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 4. friday.

mark knocks on your door at exactly 6:00 pm on friday evening. his backpack hung on his shoulder.

“huh…so you can arrive on time,” you tease, leaning on your apartment’s door.

“what can i say? i’m stressed and i need to be relieved,” he shrugs, a childish grin on his lips.

“alright, come on,” you grab his arm, dragging him past your living room and straight to your room.

“so…how do we do this?,” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps inside, standing in your room awkwardly, backpack still on his shoulder. he looks around, noticing your bare walls and how everything seemed to be neat and organized.

“what? sex? aren’t you supposed to be the expert?,” you quip, raising an eyebrow in amusement, snapping his attention back to you.

he rolls his eyes, “well usually, i flirt with the girl first before i get in their pants,” he reasons.

“nu-uh, we don’t have time for that,” you cut in, pulling your shirt over your head, leaving you in your red lacy bra and the tiny black pajama shorts that hung low on your waist.

mark’s eyes widen slightly, glint with amusement, unabashedly checking you out, “dang dude, you’re fucking sexy.”

“is that how you talk to every girl you’re about to have sex with?,” you chuckle.

“that’s how i talk to my friends,” he smirks, earning a snort from you.

“are you gonna take off your clothes or are you just gonna keep gawking?,” you tease, lips curled into a smirk. mark rolls his eyes, finally setting his backpack down by the edge of your bed and removing both his t-shirt and sweats with ease, leaving him in his black boxers, still standing across from you — it was your turn to check him out. he’s lean, more toned than you expected, abs on display, the outline of his cock prominent through his boxers.

“nice,” you mutter, making him raise a brow in amusement. in one smooth motion, you slide down your shorts and unhook your bra, tossing it to the side somewhere as you stood proud and tall, in your red matching panties, not shying away from his gaze.

your confidence (tits) draws him in, stepping forward, closing the distance. both his hands come up immediately, cupping your breasts, thumbs grazing smoothly over your nipples with open fascination. you hitch your breath, the sensation of his fingertips making your pussy clench around nothing.

mark almost can’t believe what’s happening right now, “this is silly,” he breathes out, a light chuckle slipping past his lips, his hands still massaging your boobs.

“my boobs?,” you ask flatly, a little offended.

“no, your boobs are great, dude,” he says quickly, “i meant this situation is silly, i’ve never had sex with a friend before,” he says, still rolling your nipples in between his fingertips.

“you can always back out, we can skip this and go straight to tutoring,” you say, giving him a chance to change his mind.

he lets out a dry chuckle, eyes flicking down between you, “y/n, you’re kidding right? my dick is hard as shit and i’m playing with your boobs…we’re not going straight to fucking tutoring.”

you grin, biting back a laugh, “i’m very aware that you’re playing with my boobs and if you don’t plan on fucking the shit out of me in the next minute, i’m putting my clothes back on,” you warn him.

he doesn’t wait for a second warning. his boxers hit the floor and you follow suit, slipping your underwear to the ground. grabbing a condom out of his wallet, he rolls it on smoothly. then, with no hesitation, he makes his way back to you, lifting you off the ground. mark was a lot stronger than you thought he was, picking you up like you were as light as a feather. your back hits your mattress with a bounce as he hovers over you, eyes dark with intent, that devilish, childish grin sitting on his lips.

then his mouth crashes onto yours in an instant, messy and hungry. the kind of kiss that’s all teeth and heat and no hesitation. you tug on his hair, eliciting a groan from him, urging him closer as your tongue meets, battling for dominance. his hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs, hips, waist like he couldn’t get enough of the feeling of your skin.

“hurry up mark, you’re on the clock,” you pant, fire curling low in your belly.

“you said fuck the shit out of you right?,” he growls against your throat, voice low, barely restrained.

“if you can,” you tease, challenging him to pick up the pace.

he was tired of the mocking. mark aligns himself against your entrance and with no warning, no gentleness, he slams into you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs — the stretch was delicious, filled with pain from the lack of foreplay, groans bouncing off of each other’s mouths, “fuuck y/n, you feel insane” he grunts as he thrusts with a rhythm that makes the bed squeak.

you wrapped your legs around him, forcing him in even deeper, harder, pussy sucking him perfectly as you calculatingly start clenching impossibly tight for him, “h-holy shit,” he groans, sweat dripping from his temple, “-quit doing that,” mark warns but doesn’t relent his unforgiving pace, chasing the edge like he’s starving for it.

all the while, you just wanted him to get there – the faster he finishes, the faster you can start tutoring. your hands wander throughout his body, leaving goosebumps all throughout his skin until they land on his nipples, you rub him until he was whining and groaning against your mouth, “fuck-mm close,” he manages to say in between his heavy pants, “me too,” you lie.

the pleasure in your stomach was building but you weren’t at all close to the finish line.

“yeah?,” he hisses, thrusts getting messier and messier as he fights back the urge to cum, waiting for you. his lips latch on to your neck, licking and kissing.

you decide to end his torment, “i’m cumming,” you announce, exaggeratedly, forcing yourself to clench around him as much as you can, watching him topple over. he grunts beside your ear, his release finally taking over as he spills into the condom.

“oooh, yeahh,” you moan, faking your orgasm as you push him off of you and into the bed beside you.

mark barely has a moment to catch his breath, chest still heaving from his orgasm, when he turns sharply toward you, narrowing his eyes, “wait…did you just fake it?,” he asks, feeling betrayed.

“uhh, no,” you mutter out, focusing on the ceiling, pretending to catch your breath.

mark shuffles beside you, clearly unconvinced, “that’s not how girls cum, y/n”

“that’s how i cum!,” you argue and mark shakes his head. he wasn’t stupid. he’s been with enough ladies to know that that was a fake orgasm.

he shakes his head, frowning, “no way, i feel like i just used you,” he says, the words leave a sour taste in his mouth — mark never leaves a lady unsatisfied, which is the reason why he kept on showing up late to the past three tutoring sessions. it doesn’t matter how long it takes, he’s not leaving the bed until they are done…until you are done. it’s a point of pride. call it ego or decency but either way, he doesn’t half-ass pleasure. how else do you think he got the title of the favorite?

“it’s fine mark, we need to start our session,” you say, sitting up. but before you could get further, mark tugs you back into the pillows.