johnny suh love bot

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You and Namjoon have always gotten along well. Your relationship was built on trust and mutual understanding, underlined by open communication and the uncanny ability to read each other—which, in a way, translated into love. Because he could sense when something was wrong with you and fix it before it took root, the same way you could read the subtle shifts in his voice or expression before he ever said a word.

It worked, because you worked. Not without effort, but with care.

Now, that’s not to say the two of you went without the occasional fight over the years. In fact, you were both incredibly stubborn human beings—it’s just that you were rarely on opposite sides of the problem.

Still, it happened.

Sometimes more serious—arguments about time, priorities, what counted as enough. When one of you carried too much of the weight and the other didn’t notice soon enough. When love didn’t always translate to action. When frustration built up. Not from a lack of affection, and sometimes not even because either of you was at fault. Just from life. Because that’s how life, and relationships, sometimes are.

But you both agreed on one thing: that arguments, when handled right, could bring you closer.

And other times, it was merely for shits and giggles—because how else would the bullheaded get off, if not by ‘winning’ an ‘argument’.

Which is exactly how you ended up in the back of a sex shop in Itaewon , tucked between the flavored lube and glow-in-the-dark condoms, deep in debate with your boyfriend.

“Come on babe,” Namjoon picks up the little box like it’s going to help him prove his point, brows raised. “So you’re telling me this—” he waves it a little, “—does nothing?”

You glance at it. Pink packaging, some cartoon flames, a lot of suspiciously enthusiastic font promising the adventure of a lifetime and a pink kitty cat in the corner.

“Placebo. At best.”

He snorts, reading the label. “It’s got, like... plants. Herbs. Nature’s Viagra. Medicine or whatever.”

You give him a look. “Namjoon. Horny goat weed is not real medicine. That sounds like something a medieval witch made up after a weird dream.”

He grins. “You’re so cynical.”

“I’m realistic,” you say, crossing your arms. “You know what gets me in the mood? Good sleep. Respect. Decent lighting. You.”

Namjoon laughs. “Not... powdered maca root and ashwagandha?”

You roll your eyes. “If plants actually worked like that, don’t you think more people would be out here orgasming after every smoothie?”

He considers that, smirk tugging at his lips “...Honestly, that would explain a lot about your blender phase.”

You smack his arm. “I’m serious. This stuff only works if you think it will. That’s the point. Sugar Pills”

He leans over you, about to drop the box in your little basket, “So you won’t mind if I get them?”

You eye the box hovering over your basket. Make eye contact with the cat, then you eye him. “Are you really gonna spent twenty thousand won just to prove a point?”

Namjoon shrugs, far too pleased with himself. “What’s the point of being in a sex shop if we’re not buying something ridiculous and unnecessary?”

“I thought that’s what you were for,” you mutter, reaching up to snatch the box from him. He laughs, that soft, warm sound that always hits you right in the ribs. But he doesn’t let go.

You tug once. He holds firm.

“Are you going to take them just to prove me wrong?” He challenges, and you immediately arch a brow.

“Let me get this straight,” you say. “You don’t even know what’s in it. You just want to feed me questionable powdered plants on the off chance I’ll get handsy?”

“That’s not the only reason,” he says, smiling as he tugs it back toward himself. “Also, I think it’ll be really funny when you pretend it’s not working and then end up climbing me ten minutes later.”

You scoff. “Please. I’ve climbed you for less.”

He grins. “Exactly. So you won’t be able to prove anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re just mad I’m right.”

“And you’re just scared you’re not.”

Your fingers are still wrapped around the box when a store employee strolls by, glancing between the two of you and very obviously pretending not to hear any of it. Namjoon clears his throat. You stifle a giggle.

He lets go first.

“Fine,” you say, tossing the box into the basket. “We’ll try your magic sex dust.”

“Yes!” He does a little victorious fist pump, but you roll your eyes.

“And we’ll be abstaining, just so you eat your words.”

“Hey! No, wait—”Namjoon lunges forward, eyes wide, but you’re already turning on your heel, basket in hand, laughing as you walk towards the cashier.

~~~

You definitely didn’t abstain that night… But you also didn’t take the pills.

Because honestly, you kind of forgot about them the moment you chucked the entire bag into your spare bathroom cupboard. They got lost somewhere beneath bottles of shower gel, shampoo, flavored condoms, and that one lube you’d meant to toss out, because apparently “long-lasting” actually meant “numbing.”

It wasn’t until weeks later that you found the pills again.

There you were, elbow-deep in the cabinet under the sink, fully immersed in your playlist and in full-on cleaning mode, wearing bright yellow latex gloves and halfway through your spring cleaning, when you stumble across the baggie—completely confused.

You pull it out.

Immediately the kitty cat grins at you, still just as smug.

You blink.

Then laugh and reach for your phone to snap a picture and send it to Namjoon. He’s gone for the week, attending some important meeting or other in Busan, and you’ve never been one to hold back from teasing him, even when away.

You: [attached image] Look who I found hiding in the cabinet.

Namjoon 🐨: Oh my god They’ve been there the whole time???

You: Yup. Untouched

Namjoon 🐨: 😭 Betrayed by the pink kitty

You: She died in obscurity. As she deserved.

You smile, still crouched by the cabinet, phone in one gloved hand, the absurd little box in the other. His reply doesn't come for a while, so you go back to your cleaning. Five minutes later, your phone buzzes against the floor.

Namjoon 🐨: Check the date. Maybe they’re still good. Could be fun.

You: You want me to take expired jungle juice pills?

Namjoon 🐨: I want to believe in miracles And horny goat weed 🐐🌿

You can’t help but giggle at that, still you glance at the tiny print on the back of the box, squinting at it as you scrub away at the counter.

You: Expires in two years. So technically, still good. Still useless, but ‘good’.

Namjoon 🐨: Well, that’s reassuring. They should start marketing them as “timeless pleasure” :)

You: More like “timeless disappointment.”

Namjoon 🐨: Nah. I’m imagining you wearing just those gloves, def working for me. 😏

You burst out laughing right there on the bathroom floor. Honestly, you should’ve known he’d be dramatic about it. You should’ve known texting him the picture would start something. Still, you’re grinning as you set the box down next to you, blowing hair from your face before pulling back on one glove with a satisfying snap.

Another message lights up your screen:

Namjoon 🐨: Anyways… What if you took it? For science. 🐐💦

You: I'm blocking you.

Namjoon 🐨: Babe.

you: What do you want?

Namjoon 🐨: You know, for someone so adamant about them being placebo you sure sound scared.

You: I’m not scared. I just have pride. And I’m not giving you the satisfaction.

Namjoon 🐨: So you admit it might work

You: I admit you’re annoying and probably bored out of your mind in Busan.

Namjoon 🐨: Correct. Now send me a pic of you holding the blister. Real submissive and skeptical-like.

You: Absolutely not.

Namjoon 🐨: I’ll send you one tonight. All sweaty and yearning how you like me.

You pause, teeth tugging at your bottom lip.

…Damn him.

You: One photo. You: And only because I look hot in my cleaning gloves.

Namjoon 🐨: 😩😩😩 Thank you, my Queen.

You glance down at the ridiculous box. Then sigh, pull your other glove halfway off with your teeth, and hold it up for a quick, unamused selfie—wearing cleaning clothes, hair unwashed, brow arched, expression flat, pink kitty clearly visible.

You: [image attached]

Namjoon 🐨: Jesus Christ! I’m going to die in this conference room. Do not take the pill while I’m not there to supervise. I can’t be responsible for what happens then.

You: Oh no. You caught me! I was just about to pop one and start humping the mop.

Namjoon 🐨: IT BEGINS!!!

You: Delete my number

Namjoon 🐨: Delete your mop

You cackle, heart light. The ache of missing him doesn’t go away exactly—but it softens. Gets dressed in jokes and affection and emojis typed too fast. Which, honestly, is how it’s always been with you two.

You lean back against the bathroom cabinet, still smiling at your phone.

The pink kitty grins up at you. You glare at it.

“Shut up.” you mutter, shoving it away with your foot.

~~~

You take two.

Because you're certain it won’t do anything.

Because you’ve decided a few hours ago that Namjoon needs to be taught a lesson, for leaving on that trip in the first place. And teasing you with selfies of him in that pretty tailored suit.

Because he’s getting home later tonight, and what better way to be absolutely infuriating, if not by strategic abstinence to prove a point you both forgot about for a couple of weeks?

Because variety is the spice of life?

You even dry swallowed them, like that might somehow prove your superiority over weeds and fungi, and went about making dinner like normal.

Now you’re lying in bed, reading some boring financial book. Freshly showered, shaved and moisturized, dressed in Namjoon’s old t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. The room still smelling faintly of citrus and laundry detergent from the new sheets you got out.

The box is sitting on your nightstand—staring back at you like it knows.

You don’t feel any different. Not suddenly wild with need. Not mindlessly frenzied. Not even a little tingly.

Just… normal.

You glance at yourself in the dresser mirror once, then again, just to check if your pupils are blown or if you’ve grown devil horns or something. You even do a little test: scroll through your phone and look at Namjoon’s latest selfie—the one he took in his hotel room mirror, shirt collar undone, sleeves rolled, hair still a little messy from the day—and...

Okay.

Okay, yeah, fine. He looks really good. But not mop-humping good. Not climb him like a tree and never come back down good.

...Well, maybe a little.

But that’s not the pills. That’s just him.

You glance at the time again. It's nearly 9 p.m.

His train gets in around 10. He said he’d be home by a quarter past, if traffic’s not a mess.

You took the pills at 7. So you can officially declare yourself victorious.

You: Just so you know I took them. Nothing happened. Just like I said✨

Namjoon 🐨: You WHAT?? Babe I am on a moving train Do not get horny without me >:(

You snort, grinning.

You: Not even a little horny. I feel exactly the same. I’m reading about taxes actually.

Namjoon 🐨: Disappointing but scientifically fascinating Thank you for your sacrifice

You: Thank you for being wrong 💖

Namjoon 🐨: Never. The goat just needs a little time 🐐✨

You roll your eyes.

You: Do you need dinner? Coz you’re not getting anything else from me tonight✨

Namjoon 🐨:Wow wow wow wow so I leave ONE time. Also yes, dinner pls! Something with rice. Or noodles. Or mercy.

You: Oh hush, it's for science. 🐐🔬 can't make you feel good and have you thinking it's the pink cat when we’re done. Udon's on the stove btw.

Namjoon 🐨: And my mercy???

You roll your eyes, toss your phone on the bed, and settle deeper into the pillows picking up your book again. You’re not sure what you were expecting, really. Maybe some strange buzz, or warmth, or at least a little placebo-fueled edge. But all you really feel is—

…Well. Warm.

Okay. Slightly warm.

You frown.

Could be the blanket.

You make a move to shove it off. Nothing changes.

You slap your book closed and sit up, crossing the room to open the window. You stand there for a moment like an idiot, waiting for a gust of wind to shake you back to normal. Nothing…

Still warm.

Your gaze slides to the little pink box.

No. It’s goat parsley and mushrooms. There is absolutely no way that cheap, natural, organic aphrodisiacs could have that kind of effect.

In fact! You’ll prove it.

By finishing the dessert you started making earlier!

Because you are completely fine.

You scrape the bowl of the ice cream maker. Humming to yourself as you drizzle a little condensed milk over top—because Namjoon’s sweet tooth is the stuff of legends. And if he’s going to be a dramatic baby about abstinence, he can at least do it with something cold in his mouth.

The cream’s been sitting in the ice cream maker for an hour already; this is just a little extra step before chucking it in the freezer to set.

Still, the kitchen feels...weirdly muggy.

You look at the AC working overtime in the corner of the room.

And yet, you’re flushed. The back of your neck is damp.

Maybe the apartment is just hot? Maybe you left the stove on?

You shove the ice cream into the freezer so it gets a chance to actually ‘ice‘ by the time he gets home. Then pivot towards the stove, already bracing for the heat of a forgotten burner.

It's off.

The room temperature? Absolutely normal.

You slide the condensed milk into the fridge and grip the counter to regroup. Your heart rate is normal. Your breathing is fine. There’s just a little buzz in your fingertips. A pulse low in your belly. An ache you hadn’t noticed until—

“Oh, come on,” you mutter.

This is so dumb. It’s all in your head. You’re just a little warm because you got up and moved around and your hair’s still damp from the shower and you’re needy because you’ve been staring at Namjoon’s stupid forearms all day. That’s it.

Except.

The moment you straighten up, your heart actually goes erratic in your chest. That makes you do a full stop.

Because this suddenly turned from playful teasing into a possible medical emergency. And that is not how you want to spend your Sunday night—explaining to an ER nurse how you took horny pills to prove a point to your boyfriend.

You press a hand to your sternum, trying to slow your pulse by sheer force of will. Breathe in. Breathe Out.

You stand completely still. Wait. Count your pulse.

One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three— Jesus.

Okay.

Maybe not dying yet?

You barely make it to the bedroom and you curl up on the edge of the bed, fingers wrapped around your phone, stomach fluttering as you tap out a search:

“Aphrodisiac pill heart attack?”

Your finger hovers over “Search” for a moment, because God, you feel like you’re going to stroke out any second. And then you press.

The results pop up, clinical and boring, but with bullet points at the end.

Headache

Nausea

Temporary erectile dysfunction

Nope. That's not it.

“Viagra can be dangerous for someone with low blood pressure”. But you didn’t take Viagra. And you don't have low blood pressure.

You drop your phone on the mattress beside you with a dull thump and flop back against the pillows. The ceiling fan spins lazily above, doing absolutely nothing to cool your now-feverish skin. You blink up at it, trying to decide whether the weight in your lower abdomen is physical or just deeply, irritatingly psychological.

And then your phone buzzes again.

Namjoon 🐨: You’ve gone quiet. Feeling anything? 😼

You huff an irritated laugh, biting your lip. Your fingers are warm. Your thighs are warmer. You curl them a little tighter together, and immediately you stifle from the pins and needles, heart doing the thumpy thing in your chest.

You: I think I'm dying

Namjoon 🐨: ??? what??? WHAT??? is this a sex thing or a real thing do i need to call someone?

You: I’m serious. I took 2 pills.

That confession feels like an admission of stupidness. Like all your pride and silly games have finally caught up to you and now you’re paying way more than you ever should for being such a petty, stubborn human being.

You bury your face in your hands. You can feel the heat blooming now, licking along your skin in a way that’s… definitely not just psychological anymore. It’s not mental. It’s not the shower. It’s not even Namjoon’s selfie.

It’s all you. It's your stupid plan backfiring in real time.

It’s a kind of horny you didn’t know existed—the clawing at the sheets kind. The Crying to be folded like a lawn chair and have someone rearrange your guts kind. The kind, in which, if Namjoon doesn’t get home soon you’re going to hump furniture and do something unspeakable with the shower head.

Namjoon 🐨: you took another one???

You sigh.

You: No. Both at the same time... I think it’s hitting me full force now.

Namjoon 🐨: WOMAN. NO. Two at the same time? The fuck is wrong with you? 😭😭😭 That is not how aphrodisiacs work. This isn't mario cart. You don’t stack horny mushrooms for boosts. Why are you like this? Is this a cry for help?

You wheeze out a laugh that immediately turns into a groan. Curling tighter into yourself like that might contain the ache pulsing low in your belly —now insistent, beyond needy, humming in your blood like a song with way too much bass.

You: I was trying to prove a point.

Namjoon 🐨: what are you feeling?

You: I'm not sure but google said I have an erectile dysfunction now.

Namjoon 🐨:Please be serious for half a second. Also—i don’t think that’s how that works.

You: Well tell that to my non-existent erection and my rapidly melting brain.

Namjoon 🐨: okay okay okay What are your actual symptoms? Like the real ones How's your heart?! Is your vision okay? Can you stand? Are your thoughts still in full sentences?

You glance toward the ceiling fan again, watching the blades blur into a lazy, hypnotic spin. Your whole body feels like it’s being slow-roasted over an open flame made entirely of Namjoon’s stupid face and rolled-up sleeves. The ache has deepened—thick, steady, wet at the edges—and you swear you can feel your pulse between your legs now.

You can hear it echo in your ears.

You: I'm warm Fuzzy. Tingling . Horny in an itchy way. God Namjoon I'm so fucking wet come hom please :( My pulse is all fluttery I'm still thinking in words. They're just… sluttier now. I think my uterus is vibrating.

You groan. Refusing to read back the utter filth you had to type out. But it's true. Your pajama bottoms are completely ruined. Whatever cute lacy thing you were wearing underneath to tease him turned into your own biggest downfall because now every fabric felt like torture against your skin.

You shift to pull off your shirt but you end up tied up in it somehow, wrestling it for what feels like an eternity as your phone continues to buzz on the bed.

Namjoon 🐨: Good God, woman! I'm in public. Just made direct eye contact with an Ahjumma after reading my uterus is vibrating. Why are you like this?

You finally rip the t-shirt off over your head one triumphant, if breathless, pull, tossing it to the floor. Your skin immediately prickles under the cool air, but it barely lasts a second before your core flares again, the sensation running up your chest and down your thighs at the same time.

You: Honestly??? Unclear.

“Fuck me.” You mutter into the pillow, and you brain is too far gone to even register just how weak your voice is, how ragged your breath is, how you’re desperate to get the now irritating lace off of your chest.

Your whole body has gone into full emergency meltdown and you’re dying in the process.

The phone buzzes again—Namjoon’s name flashing like a lifeline in your haze. But you don’t reach for it right away. Your limbs feel heavy and electric all at once. Every nerve ending alive, skin practically burning where it’s touched.

The cool sheets under you, the lace of your underwear, the bra—none of it brings you any relief. Instead its a raw, itchy fire that crawling across your skin and burrows deeper into your core.

You press your face into the pillow, biting back a pathetic moan you don’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed about. Your breath comes quick and shallow, and your fingers twitch, desperate for something, anything, to ground you.

Namjoon’s next message blinks again.

Namjoon 🐨: okay. I’m texting our driver now telling him to floor it I AM COMING *HOME but also maybe coming? eventually. If i don't pass away on the highway because my girlfriend is sexting me in the weirdest way ever. If my girlfriend doesn't pass away coz she randomly decided to over dose on a Tuesday. 😀

You let out a helpless noise. It’s halfway between a laugh and a whimper, your body too wrung out and wired to know what response is appropriate anymore.

Because the only thing sexier than the sheer panic crawling up your spine, is the fact that he’s still joking through it.

You: Tell him if he hurries he can watch. 🫣 (I'm joking. Plz don’t. I wont be able to look Mr. Cheng in the eye no more.)

Namjoon 🐨: I already can’t look him in the eye and I haven’t said anything!

You shift again—awkward and twitchy, like you can’t settle, because nothing helps. Your thighs are slick and trembling, and your hands are practically useless against the bra clasp. Every time you move, your body lights up like it’s been plugged directly into a wall socket. And still, you can't stop squirming.

Your fingers slip again on the clasp. You whimper in frustration, trying to twist your arm behind your back, but everything is too much—your skin, the stickiness, the stifling lace cutting tight across your chest, pressing uncomfortably against your nipples. You’re burning and dizzy and soaked through, and all your body wants is Namjoon, naked. Now.

And he’s still not home.

You fall forward into the bed with a breathless curse. Legs slick and twitching, the sheet beneath you practically ruined. You shift your hips once, pressing hard against the mattress—just to try to relieve some pressure—and it’s a mistake. You gasp, body jerking, your own movement enough to spark another wave through your cunt. This is pathetic.

You do it again.

Your breath hitches as you drag one palm across your stomach—just below your navel. The muscles there jump under your nail grazing, and you shiver so hard it rattles the bed frame.

The phone buzzes again, but you’re done in, fingers slipping under the fabric, palm flat, desperate to get any semblance of relief.

Your hand shake, your movement clumsy, not at all teasing like usual, not slow and sure like you’re used to. It feels like its the first time all over again, and you have absolutely no fucking idea what you’re trying to do.

But you can’t afford to take your time. Not when every second without his dick in you feels like punishment. Not when every atom in your body is screaming for relief. When all you have is your own useless hand, and the memory of his touch in your head.

You whine when your fingertips brush slick heat, slightly embarrassed and definitely amazed at how wet you actually are. Like, a body shouldn't be able to do that from a pill…okay, two pills. But still. Still. This is criminal. You're actually dripping.

They were supposed to be just plants…

You shift again, arching into your own fingers moving against your clit like it might help, like you might get some traction. But it just makes things worse. Better. Worse.

Your hips jerk once, twice, chasing friction, chasing anything. You don’t even realize you’re grinding down into your palm until you hear yourself—whimpering, bitten off and strangled against your clenched teeth.

The edge is terrifyingly close, too close. Everything is too hot and too moist, every breath scraping like fire down your throat. The lace is digging in where it shouldn’t, soaked through and curling at the seams. Your legs tremble again, useless, and your wrist aches from how tense you are, fingers sliding around.

But none of it matters, because it does absolutely jack shit for you.

The phone buzzes again and you can’t even open your eyes to look at it.

You keep going, sloppily now—dragging the heel of your palm up against your clit, hips stuttering into the motion like your body can’t decide if it wants to run or fall apart.

And when you feel the knot tighten, when the ache coils impossibly low in your belly, when your heart slams against your ribs—

Your thighs snap closed on instinct, your whole body locking up with the pressure—and nothing fucking happens. No release. Just a cruel surge of heat that breaks over you and then hangs there, hovering just out of reach.

“Fuuuck,” you whimper, biting down hard on your lip, trying not to cry. You grind harder, faster, desperate to chase it down, but the second you even start to get close again, it just slips away.

You're broken. You single handedly ruined your entire sex life because you were too stubborn. And now you had to pay by faking orgasms for the rest of your pitiful, miserable, unsatisfied sexless life.

You claw the bra off with a ragged noise, not even caring if you rip it. Tossing it somewhere, maybe at the wall, maybe at the lamp, whatever.

Your nipples stiffen in the air, painfully sensitive. You run your palm over one just to give your other hand a break. But it just adds to the overload.

Your chest stutters, mouth parted in a silent cry as your hand works harder, faster—desperation replacing any rhythm. The slick sounds echo, lewd in the otherwise quiet room, and it only feeds the heat in your veins.

You can’t stop. You don’t want to stop. You’re so close you could taste it—but every time it starts to crest, it dissolves through your fingers, just out of reach.

You bite down on the pillow, trying to muffle another helpless moan. Your fingers are cramped, your thighs trembling like they might give out entirely. But none of it’s enough. Not even close.

You blindly grab at your phone to try and tell him to hurry the fuck up. That you need him. That you’re dying. That this is the single most embarrassing way a person can pass away, and you’d rather not. But texting with only one hand proved to be impossible when deranged, so you ended up recording a half-breathless audio message. Where you’re whimpering more than actually saying human words.

“Joon. I can’t—” you moan. “It won’t work. I need you, i need you, i need—”

Your voice cracks at the end, dissolving into a broken gasp as your hips jerk helplessly into your palm. The phone slips from your hand and thuds to the floor, buzzing once before going still.

Then silence.

Except for your panting. The slick drag of your fingers. The crinkle of sheets beneath your thighs. The occasional weak whimper stolen from between your lips.

And then—

Thud.

The main entrance door.

Footsteps. His keys still jingling in time with his steps.

You barely register it, brain too fogged. But your body reacts anyway—spine arching, breath catching, heart thudding in time with every stomp down the hallway.

“Jesus Christ,” Namjoon breathes when he spots you, framed by the door. His eyes wide and chest heaving, like maybe he ran up the building stairs instead of taking the lift.

“Namjoon” you weep, voice thin and wobbly.

And he’s at the bed, leaning over you, one large hand pressing lightly to your forehead, then to your chest—right over your frantic pulse where a new kind of heat is smouldering. His brows pinch in concern. His palm is cold and grounding, holding you like he’s trying to piece you back together. You lean into him, shuddering, overstimulated and so under-fulfilled that even this feels like it’s too much.

“Please,” you moan.

“Baby,” he mutters, eyes flicking over your clammy skin, your damp thighs, your fingers still circling your clit—to the bruised swell of your lips, your blown, wild eyes. “You’re burning up.”

“I told you,” you rasp, clinging to his wrist like that might do anything for you. “I took two of em’”

“Do you need water?” he asks, pushing the hair clinging to your forehead back.

You’re not even sure what he asked, you just agree.

He nods, already moving—quick but gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll burn away if he’s too rough. You hear the fridge open, the clink of glass, the hum of the water filter, all from where you’re sprawled and wrecked on the bed, trying to finger yourself, chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

By the time he returns, you’re barely upright, slumped against the pillows like that ikea bear, but way less innocent, still looking just as sad.

He grabs your wrist, and you whimper, too weak to fight him, as he cradles the glass to your lips, tilting it carefully.

“Slow,” he warns softly. “Just a sip first.”

You take it—cool water against your tongue, down your throat, grounding in the best way. You gasp as it hits your stomach, then groan, letting your head fall against his chest.

Namjoon strokes your back, the glass now abandoned on the nightstand. “Still fluttery?”

You nod, pupils blown wide. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Just breathe.”

“I tried that.”

“I know.” He squeezes your sides. “You’re okay.”

You blink fast, chest still rising too quick for comfort. “What if I gave myself a heart attack?”

He grins. “You didn’t.”

“You don’t know that, Namjoon—”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your flushed cheek. “Okay, well, if you did, it’s the sexiest medical emergency I’ve ever seen.”

You groan, and the moment he lets go of you, you plop back into the pillows, covering your face with your arms. “You are not funny.”

“And yet, you’re laughing.” He pushes your arms back, kisses your temple again.

“Stop it,” you mumble, squirming weakly, but you’re grinning now, helpless, wrecked, and delirious, but still grinning.

Namjoon kisses the corner of your mouth this time, then pulls back to study you again. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

You hum, dragging your hands down your face, wiping away some of the droplets of sweat collecting in your hairline. “Like a peach that’s been dropped down the stairs.”

He snorts. “Soft and bruised?”

“Sticky and tragic.”

“Still sweet though.”

You blink at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me while I’m this weak and can’t defend myself?”

“I missed you.” Namjoon hums, shameless. “And it’s not flirting if it’s true.”

You narrow your eyes—or try to. They don’t quite cooperate. “You’re taking advantage of a woman in distress.”

“You took double the dose of aphrodisiac and tried to go full olympic solo before i got home.”

“…Fair.”

He grins. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“By teasing me?!”

“By fucking your brains out.”

You let out a sound—half a laugh, half a moan—before it fizzles into something desperate again. The way he’s looking at you doesn’t help. Steady. Amused. So goddamn calm, while you're soaked and shaking and one more teasing word away from actually dying.

“That is only if you want it,” the smug bastard continues. You can see the glint in his eyes. He even has the audacity to wink at you, his grin slow and unbothered as his thumb brushes along your ribs, “I mean, I wouldn’t want to overstep on your whole abstinence spiel.”

You grab his wrist before he can move. Or try to, at least—you mostly just slap at it with jelly limbs. “Do not dare.”

“You said you made udon, right peach?” He smirks—quiet, low, maddening—and starts to rise from the bed like he’s actually going to leave you there. Like you’re not halfway feral and foaming at the mouth for him. Like the loss of contact doesn’t short-circuit your entire brain.

“You’re not funny!” You make another attempt to grab at him, but just end up weakly smacking at his chest.

He chuckles, like he’s finally found that one merciful bone in his body, and still decided to ruin you.

He moves slowly, rolling his sleeves up his arms, making a show of it like you aren't already delirious with thoughts of him twisting you like a pretzel. If you didn't feel this weak you might consider pouncing on him.

Or strangling him.

His hand finds your knee, gently pushing it open so he can move in between your legs, and just from that, you sob, hips hiking up immediately.

“Oh, fuck,” Namjoon groans, raking a hand through his hair as he drinks you in—topless, aroused and sweaty, legs spread and wet, the lace of your ruined panties stretched taut over your inner thigh. “Baby, you look wrecked.”

“I am.”

Namjoon’s eyes flicker—genuine now, none of the teasing smugness from before. Just focused, reverent. A little wrecked himself. “Fuck. You really weren’t joking huh?”

He exhales through his nose, steadying, and strokes his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow like he’s afraid you’ll break at his touch. And in all honestly? You might.

“This might be the best ‘welcome home gift’ ever.”

Your breath shudders. Your hips twitch toward him again, just as involuntary as the first time.

He swears under his breath again.

“Jesus, woman.”

You whimper. “I told you. It’s—it’s not funny anymore.”

“I’m not laughing,” he says softly, leaning in to kiss your knee. Then again, lower. “I’m just trying to figure out how to undo what you did to yourself without making it worse.”

“You are making it worse!”

“I am?” He trails his lips down your thigh, slow and lazy, voice low and warm. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You have—” You gasp as his breath ghosts over your cunt. “You are touching me now! Namjoon, please, please, please—”

“Oh, now you’re begging?” He murmurs, but there’s nothing cocky in it this time. “Never knew you to be one to stoop so low. You usually just take what you want.” He sits back on his knees to look up at you, fingers smoothing slow up your hips, your waist, as if trying to calm you down from the inside, but only making it worse.

Your eyes flutter shut, the last neuron you have firing off warnings that maybe you should be embarrassed about all of this. Still, your breath trembles under his touch, and every inch of your body is vibrating in time with his palm stroking over your ribs.

“I did try,” you whisper, almost ashamed. “I tried so hard. I—I sent you a voice message.”

Namjoon raises a brow, then huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. I got it. It’s my new ringtone”

You cover your face with both hands, groaning. “Delete it!”

“Not a chance,” he says, pinching a nipple. “I’m keeping that forever.”

You’re too wrecked to argue, too lost in him to care. He’s everywhere—his weight anchored between your thighs, his scent flooding your senses, his mouth dragging slow, reverent kisses down your stomach. One hand steadies him beside your hip, the other slinks lower… and lower.

You jolt when his fingers graze the soaked fabric between your legs, your breath fluttering.

“God, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re dripping on the sheets.”

“I do the laundry! I’m allowed.” You try to argue, but it comes out as a weak pant, hips rising with his touch.

His head drops onto your stomach, just for a beat. Like he’s trying to compose himself. But you feel it—his quiet laugh rumbling against your skin—and you whine in protest, embarrassed and turned on in equal measures.

“God, you’re bratty when you’re desperate.” His voice is all amusement and heat, and he punctuates it with another sharp little pinch to your side.

You whine again. His name, stretched and broken, climbing high in your throat. You try to move, to grind against him, but his hands are firm and unmoving, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Go back to begging,” he murmurs, tasting the way your restraint crumbles.

You don’t. You can’t. You just shake your head and sniffle, blinking back tears you don’t fully understand—raw and stinging, dangerously close to something that feels like overstimulation. Which doesn’t make any sense. He barely touched you. He's only teased.

And still, your body is already coming apart at the seams.

“You’re so mean.”

Namjoon’s fingers press into your hipbones, holding you perfectly still as he leans now, mouth brushing over the damp lace of your panties one last time before dragging them down slowly, watching the fabric reluctantly peel from your skin.

“Yeah, well, you’re a brat.” He says, breath hot against your core. You whimper when the air hits you, and he just shushes you gently, tossing the ruined lace somewhere off the bed. “Fuck, you’re soaked. You’re—Jesus, baby, you’re quite the view.”

You can’t even answer. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your vision blurs with heat, and you sob when his thumb finally presses against your clit, like its exactly what you needed.

You jerk, crying out, hands flying to his forearm like you’re afraid he’ll pull away.

“Ohhh, baby,” he breathes, stroking soft, slow circles with maddening care. “You really fucked yourself up, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t—I needed—” Your words disintegrate into gasps as he slides two fingers through your folds, just barely pressing in before pulling out again, spreading your slick up to your clit and back down.“I can’t come. I tried. I—I couldn’t. I think I broke myself.”

His eyes drop to your core, swollen, to his fingers, soaked in you and glistening under the soft light, and smirks.

“No, baby,” he reassures, “You just need me.”

And finally, finally, finally, he presses the tip of his tongue along your pussy in a slow, deliberate stroke.

Your entire body arches. The sound that comes out of you is closer to a sob than a moan, raw and full of relief.

Namjoon groans low in his throat, lapping at you again like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting for this just as long, just as desperately. He flattens his tongue and drags it up from your entrance to your clit in one long, sinful stroke before closing his lips around it and sucking—just once, gently.

And you’re gone.

It hits like lightning. Your hips jackknife off the bed, a guttural cry ripping from your chest. Raw, helpless release that hits too fast and too hard and leaves you shaking like an earthquake.

Namjoon stills. Eyes wide. “Holy fucking shit. You just—” He looks down, at your cunt clenching around nothing, and then back at your face. “That was instant.”

You hiccup. “Told you I was stuck.”

He swears again, softer this time, watching you twitch through the aftershocks.

And then, instead of retreating, instead of being a good loving boyfriend, he ducks right back down like a menace. Except, this time, there’s no more teasing.

He locks his arms under your thighs, pulling you down the bed, anchoring you against his mouth like he’s intent on undoing every second of frustration you’ve ever suffered. His lips wrap around your clit, firmer now, more purposeful, while his tongue strokes in relentless, perfect circles.

Your scream catches in your throat. Your hand flies to his hair, fingers curling in tight, and he groans when you tug—deep and rough, the sound vibrating through you like a second mouth on your skin.

“Joon—” you gasp, the edge of another orgasm already boiling in your belly, coiled so tight it’s almost painful. “Too much! Too fast—”

“You can take it,” he growls against you, voice gravel-thick and dark with want.

He dips his mouth to your entrance, sucks hard—uses his fingers to push your release onto his tongue like he’s a man starved. Like he can’t get enough. Like he’s about to very willingly ruin you.

And it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Not some new technique or secret code that promises to have any woman cumming in five minutes or less.

But right now, it feels completely new, raw and min-blowingly overwhelming.

And still not enough.

Maybe it’s the pills—amped up arousal turned to lightning under your skin, pulsing hot and endless through your nervous system. Maybe it’s the week long build-up, the nights of cold showers and dirty photos, whispering dirty things into the phone speaker because he left for that stupid fucking meeting.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The way he knows your body. The way he listens. How he adjusts his pace every time you flinch, how he flattens his tongue and grinds it just right against you when your hips twitch in that telltale way.

Either way, you’re begging.

“More! More! Don't stop! Namjoon. Don't fucking—” Your voice is foreign. So are the words, but still they leave your lips like a chant and a prayer wrapped in one.

And god—god—he’s thorough. He doesn’t stop when you cry out, doesn’t even slow down when your thighs start squeezing his head. He just wraps his arms tighter around your thighs and keeps going, lapping up everything you give him like he earned it, like he deserves it, like he’s missed it too.

“Nam-Namjoon!” You gasp again, already screaming through your next orgasm, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck. I can’t—”

It’s brutal, this one. Fiercer than the first. Your nails dig into his scalp and he moans, devouring you through the quake of it, never letting up. He doesn’t stop when you come again. Doesn’t stop when your body twitches and tries to wriggle away. Doesn’t stop when you cry out, wrecked and trembling and unable to think.

“Yes, you can,” he says, dragging his mouth up your body, voice rough and gleaming with pride. His lips shine. His chin soaked. His cheeks are flushed. He looks wrecked, like he’s the one who’s been fucked senseless. “You did, actually.”

Your head drops back against the pillow, tears streaking hot down your cheeks now. Your legs won’t stop shaking. Your breath won’t even out. Every inch of you is flushed and trembling, heartbeat thudding so hard in your ears it’s all you can hear.

“Okay,” Namjoon murmurs, catching your face in his hands. He leans in, kisses your temple, your cheek, the corners of your mouth like he remembered he might like having his girlfriend alive. “Okay, baby. Shhh. Breathe.”

You try. You do. But he's still pressed between your thighs, hard and aching and fully dressed with another stupid tailored suit. While you lie there bare and wrecked and dying. And his voice—good sweet god his voice.

“Too much,” you whimper, but it’s a lie and he knows it, because the very next thing that leaves your mouth is a whimpered “Namjoon. My baby. Love. Please. Please fuck me. Thoroughly. Hard. Now.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes once, slow and deep.

“Say it again.”

You don’t hesitate. You’re past shame. Past pride. Past whatever you ever had against begging and drag his face to yours. Wild eyes meeting his.

“I need you to fuck me.”

And you make sure to accentuate every word, on the off chance he might feel funny again and decide to actually put you in a grave early.

“God. I might need to record you.”

There it is. Bastard.

Still, he sits up, long enough to strip. His shirt goes first, buttons half undone and the rest dragged overhead, tossed somewhere blindly. His pants come next, revealing the line of his body in full. His broad chest flushed and heavy, abs flexing with restraint, cock hard and heavy and angry red where it juts out against his stomach. Your mouth waters at the sight of it.

Of him actually.

At the way his hand wraps tight around the base like he’s barely holding himself back.

He strokes once, slow and deliberate, watching the way you clench around absolutely nothing and cry out. All high and wrecked and already too close to the edge again.

It’s humiliating how little it takes, how just seeing him undo himself make your thighs fall open like a reflex, like muscle memory. Lizard brain.

“Fuck.” Namjoon breathes. “You’re still shaking.”

“Yes! I know.” You whisper, hips titling up, offering everything, desperate and unashamed. “Please, baby, please. I need you.”

Your single brain-cell had just one thought left and it was ‘fuck namjoon’. In all senses of the word.

And maybe he hears it, because he doesn't make you wait anymore.

One hand slides behind your knee, and he drags you to the end of the bed, hitching it high around his waist as he sinks into you slow, and deep, the stretch borderline sinful. He groans low in his throat, a rugged thing, like even he can’t believe how wet and tight the pills got you.

Your mouth falls open, no sound escaping at first. Just the raw stretch, the fullness of it, the dizzy pressure as he bottoms out in one long, shuddering thrust. The burn is instant, bright and devastating, but you chase it, legs locking tighter around him, hips lifting off the bed, like he’s the only anchor left on earth.

“Shit,” Namjoon groans, low and stunned. “You’re—god, you’re gripping me.”

“I can’t.” You pant, nails digging into the sheets, “Joon, I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“You can,” He laughs, pressing into you, grabbing the arch of your spine to keep you from falling, the weight of him glorious and crushing and perfect. “I’ve got you. I’ll fix you. Just hold on.”

And then he moves, drags out of you with aching slowness, just enough to make you feel every ridge, every vein, every impossibly thick inch—before slamming back in. The slap of skin on skin echoing sharp in the room. The bed jerks. You do too.

“Jesus, baby,” he grits. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight.” And he pauses just as fast. “Fuck. Look at that.” He mutters it like he’s half-cursing, half-worshiping, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly.

“Right there,” he whispers, voice tight with awe as he rocks his hips forward just enough to feel the weight of him push back against his own hand in this position. “You feel me? Right there, baby—so fucking deep.”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips twitching beneath him. You feel impossibly full, stretched and trembling, every inch of your body slick with sweat and burning with a passion. “Don’t do that now!” You gasp, trying to push him away. “God—Joon, I feel you everywhere.”

He gives you a dopey grin, all dimples and dark intent, like he’s proud of himself for figuring it out. Then he moves, just slightly. A lazy roll of his hips, enough to make you jolt, breath catching as heat coils tight and sharp at the base of your spine.

You whimper, all nerves and no shame, because he’s right. You’re too wound up to make sense of anything anymore. All you know is the ache, the pressure, the stretch of him inside you.

Your nails dig into the mattress as he fucks you open, slow and hard, his hips grinding at the end of each thrust to press just right against every oversensitive spot inside you.

You can’t even speak anymore—only moan, only hold on. You even lost the ability to hold yourself up properly. It’s all him. He keeps you there, hitched up with strong veiny arm under your ribs and ridiculous forearms and muscle groups you don't remember the name of.

You're not even sure what part of you is trembling anymore. Just that he hasn’t stopped and you never want him to. Not when it feels like this. Not when he sounds like that—all low and breathless, half whispering praises and swearwords above you like he’s that close to getting overwhelmed too.

“Every time I move,” he pants, “I feel you pulling—fuck—it’s like your body’s trying to keep me inside.”

You cry out at that, broken, overwhelmed, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. Fingertips clutching at his forearms, his shoulders, whatever you could reach, nails dragging across skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself to him. And his fucking hand moves again, right there over your belly, driving you absolutely up the walls.

He watches you with heat in his eyes, then leans in, pressing his lips to yours—sloppy, desperate, as if he needs it just as badly. His voice ragged against your lips, threading between thrusts. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

And sweet heaven on earth, his mouth is hot, sweet, and familiar. Exactly what you needed. The very thing that shatters you. The way he tastes like something you’d forgotten you were starving for.

You missed this.

You missed him.

And fuck him for only kissing you now.

He fucks you right through your nth orgasm, hips grinding into yours, a thick ring of cum at the base of his cock as he works you into complete, obliterated bliss. Up until he can’t move anymore. Until your body clenches too tight around him. He just groans, caught between holding on and falling apart right there with you.

You’re no longer able to say words. Just syllables that's merely semblance of his name, strung together like a mantra you can’t stop repeating.

And somehow, you’re still begging him for more.

Even though your thighs are dough. Even through your body feels like it’s been torn open and rebuilt around him. Even through every stroke now feels like too much. Too sharp, too good, too deep. You still want it.

Need it.

He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His brow is damp, jaw clenched, eyes wild as he makes sure you’re okay, before going right back at it. “Yeah? you want more?”

You nod so fast it’s practically a sob, mouth falling open like a fish out of water as he drags out just enough to make you feel empty, before slamming back in.

He cusses once you tighten around him again, your pleasure a constant build you no longer have the mind to announce now. What’s the point when you’re constantly there?

But he feels it. The way you twitch, the way you babble his name and trash against the mattress like you’re trying to hold on and let go at the same time.

And this asshole, this absolute jerk, this mean, mean, mean man you love leads you back to the edge, and then pulls away at the last second, completely ruining your orgasm.

You scream—raw, desperate, tears spilling hot and uncontrolled as your voice cracks into broken sobs. “Nooooo—“

But Namjoon smirks, breath ragged, chest damp with sweat, his hands already gripping your hips tight. “C’mon,” he rasps, flipping you with so much ease it makes your head spin. “You wanted this. You asked for this, remember?”

You're too fucked to react. Too dizzy to register just what he’s doing, or when he’s shifting, dragging you along with him.

You’re on top now, straddling him—but you’re trembling, useless, barely able to hold yourself upright. Your thighs are sodden and weak, your arms shaking as you try to brace on his chest, the last thread of control slipping away.

“Go on then,” he says, teasing but tender, watching you through lidded eyes. “Ride me.”

You try. You do. But it’s pathetic—your knees buckle, your hips twitch uselessly forward, and you let out this pitiful, breathless sound of defeat before your upperbody decides to go boneless and melt into his.

Namjoon groans. “Jesus, woman.” He sits up, pulling you in until your chest presses to his, his hands splayed wide across your back. “You really are gone, huh?”

“Baby,” you whimper, helpless. “Please. I can’t—”

He silences you with a tender kiss to the temple, all sweet and soft—then suddenly, without warning, he trusts up into you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

You jolt, hands scrambling uselessly at his shoulders as your entire body clenches down around him. “Fuck! Namjoon!”

His mouth is at your ear now, hot and panting, voice shredded. “Look at you. Taking all of me like you were made for it.”

You can’t do anything but cling, legs barely hooked around his waist as he fucks you—deep and hard, using the leverage of his arms wrapped tight around your back to keep you in place, chest pressed flush to his.

“J-Joon—” you sob, no longer even pretending to participate. You’re just there… held up entirely by this man.

“I got you,” he grits, pace stuttering only slightly as you clamp down again. “Shit—fuck, I got you.” He moans, before shifting, “Just—”

And then he groans low in his throat and pushes you back. You don’t have half the brain to even brace yourself. You just flop. Legs still spread, arms flopping weakly at your sides, a total wreck as he stays inside, braced over you on trembling forearms.

You can’t think. You can’t move. You’re just…open. Shaking. Flattened against the sheets and panting— barely the shadow of the woman you once were.

Your body’s twitching, over stimulated and overwhelmed, but he’s too far gone now—his thrusts hard, measured, brutal in how slow they are.

“You begged for it,” he reminds you, voice dark and tight, his hips grinding in deep until you cry out again. “You said please and everything, remember?”

You nod—or try to—but your mind’s gone syrupy and mushy, melting under him.

Tears are collecting at your temples. That lingering ache in your belly still humming, the knot in your absomen barely giving, and you’re just as overheated as you remember.

And truth be told, it’s only his relentless teasing that kept you tethered, stopped you from completely losing it and passing out half-way.

Even if he is impossibly evil for it.

Though, you’re pretty sure you’ve disconnected from reality. At least a little bit. Long enough for him to reposition you again.

Before you can process it, your face is buried in the pillows, and his hands are on your hips, lifting your ass up, just so—but you slide back down.

You hear his laugh—low and breathless, completely undone. “Fuck, baby,” he pants, dragging a hand down your back. “Still with me?”

You can’t even answer. Don’t even bother. You’re drooling into the pillow, arms sprawled out limply, trembling all over. The only sound you manage is a whimper when he shifts behind you—lining himself up again, one hand steady on your hip, the other gripping the back of your thigh to hitch it higher.

“Can’t even hold yourself up anymore,” he mutters, not even teasing now—just wrecked, amazed. “You’re so fucked-out I could do anything I want.”

And he does.

He sinks in again, thick and slow, watching the way your back arches for him, the way your whole body breaks down into shivers. You twitch around him the moment he bottoms out, another ragged cry punching out of your lungs.

“Still so tight,” he groans, thrusting once, then again, and again, each stroke pushing you further into the mattress. “And so wet.” He says it like it’s a compliment. “Baby, you’re—shit—you’re dripping down my thighs.”

You sob into the pillow, thighs trembling as your body gives out completely, splayed and helpless and used. “C-can’t,” you gasp. “Too much, Joon—”

Or you think you do, because he never responds, he just grinds in deep, not giving you a second of peace.

“Last one. I promise.”

His hand slides under your belly, palm flat against the tremble of your skin—holding you up, holding you still—as he fucks into you, deep and mean and unrelenting. His chest is plastered to your back now, breath hot against your neck, lips brushing your ear every time he exhales.

“You can do that, right?” He challenges, voice hoarse but somehow still fond.

You move—barely. It’s pathetic. You’re wrecked, ruined, a soaked mess beneath him. But you manage a broken little noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

He chuckles—low, rough, breathless. “Good girl.”

Your fingers twitch where they’re splayed against the sheets. Your mouth is open but no sounds come now. Just air. Just heat. Just the slick drag of him inside you, thick and relentless and perfect.

And then his fingers find your clit.

You scream—a raw, cracked sound that rips through your throat like your body doesn’t know how else to respond. You’re already right there, already fluttering and gasping and barely conscious—and still he circles it, slow and cruel, groaning when your walls clamp around him again.

“That’s it,” he pants, almost shocked at how hard you come. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing the life out of me.”

You spasm beneath him, legs kicking uselessly, toes curling, nails scraping weakly at the sheets. You don’t even feel the tears anymore. You just shatter.

And Namjoon—God, Namjoon—he doesn’t stop. He presses you down, one hand on your back, the other still working your clit, chasing his own high now as you whimper through the aftershocks.

He groans when he feels you weakly squeeze him, each trust growing more desperate than the other, like he’s finally arrived at the end of his sanity. And you feel everything.

Every pulse, every drag, every wet, filthy sound your bodies make when crashing together—he stutters, slams in deep, and stays there, groaning raggedly into your shoulder as he finally lets go.

It’s hot. It’s deep. It’s endless.

You died and went to heaven.

Heaven is sticky and salty and dripping down the back of your thighs. Heaven is you squeezing the life out of him and milking him dry him. It's the rugged cry that sounds like you stole it straight from his chest.

It’s the way his arms wrap around you and hold you close to him, like he can’t bear the thought of being even an inch away from you.

And when he finally stills, he collapses forward to bury his face in the mess of your hair.

“You alive?” He mumbles, voice gone.

You think you nod.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Namjoon laughs again—barely breath, barely sound. Just a puff of warmth against your shoulder as he kisses the curve of it, soft now, reverent.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “You’re alive.”

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, draped over your back, one arm tucked underneath you to hold you close, the other smoothing over your side like he’s grounding both of you. His thumb strokes idle patterns into the sweat-slick curve of your hip.

You twitch, and he stills instantly.

“Too much?”

Your body jerks in response—maybe a whine, maybe a shiver. Maybe both.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your spine. “I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

He eases out slow, careful, whispering quiet apologies into your skin when you whimper at the stretch. You feel the wet slide of him between your thighs, the obscene mess cooling against your skin—and then the weight of the bed shifting as he finally pulls away.

“I’m gonna clean you up, alright?” He says, already reaching for tissues or a towel or whatever he can find, voice hushed like he’s afraid to scare you off the edge of consciousness.

You groan in response, more of a gurgle, face still mushed into the pillow.

He huffs a soft, fond breath. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You don’t even have the strength to smirk. But maybe, just maybe, you manage to reach for him blindly with one hand—fingers curling in the direction you think he is.

And he catches it immediately.

“Got you,” he says again, like a promise. Like a fact. Like he always will, kissing your knuckles.

When he returns to wipe between your thighs, he’s almost maddeningly gentle. You flinch at first—overstimulated, sore, still twitching—but he hushes you softly, kisses your temple, and takes his time.

Eventually, after an entire lifetime, you find your voice again. Cracked. Shaky. Thread-thin.

“Joon?”

“Mm?”

“I will kill you.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I’ll browse for coffins in a bit. Right after I hydrate you and carry your limp ass to the shower.”

You open one eye. Just barely. “You broke my legs.”

“You asked me to.”

You try to scowl. Fail. “I was delirious.”

Namjoon just grins, dimples flashing as he leans in to kiss your forehead, sweaty and salt-warm.

“You were beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth still pressed to your skin. “You still are.”

And somehow—somehow—you manage to smile. Even if you’re still lying there like a starfish. Even if your brain’s mush and your thighs ache and your lungs don't remember how to work.

Namjoon doesn’t rush you.

He could. He’s already done unspeakable things with his mouth, his hands, his cock—but now, he moves like he’s afraid the whole moment might shatter if he breathes wrong. Like he’s suddenly remembering you’re human. Fragile. Made of muscle and bone and too-soft fucked-out nerve endings.

You feel the warm weight of him between your legs again. One hand cups the back of your thigh, gently easing it to the side to clean you better.

You groan faintly, half-protest, half-exhausted praise. “You’re… thank you.”

Namjoon’s hand stills. Just for a moment.

Then it’s on your hip, firm and grounding, his thumb pressing lightly into your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

He leans in, voice lower now, rougher with something that sounds suspiciously close to adoration. “You’re welcome, baby.” He lets his breath go shaky through his nose. “You should’ve seen yourself.”

“I felt myself.” You mutter, cheek still mushed into the pillow. “I felt you too. Every inch. Repeatedly.”

A breath of laughter stirs your hair.

Then, quietly, “You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

You hum. “I scared the shit out of me too this time.” Then you shift, painfully sore, just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m never arguing with you ever again. You’re right.”

“About what?”

“Whatever you like,” you mutter.

He huffs, soft and stunned, his expression somewhere between pride and disbelief (because he knows who he’s dating, afterall).

“Oh yeah?” He murmurs, brushing your hair back from your damp cheeks. “That’s all it took? A few orgasms and a psychological rewrite?”

“So many orgasms,” you groan. “I think II saw God.”

“Pretty sure it was me.”

“Shut up.”

You try to glare at him. You really do. But your face is too slack with afterglow and your body’s too wrung out to hold any expression. It melts halfway, leaves you grinning against your will, all content and defeated.

Namjoon watches you like he’s trying to soak you in. Memorizing you like this—pliant and undone but still cracking jokes, still sharp underneath all the softness. His thumb traces the line of your ribs, warm and slow.

“C’mon. Bath time.”

“No. I don’t have legs.”

Namjoon laughs—really laughs, breath hitching with the kind of post-sex giddiness that only comes when you’re both totally, utterly wrecked. “I’m well aware,” he says, tossing the towel somewhere vaguely behind him. “That was kind of the point.”

You grumble something unintelligible into the pillow, but he’s already sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. And when he lifts you—limp, boneless, ruined—you let out a tiny, pathetic squeak.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “You’re just rubbing it in now.”

“You love it,” Namjoon says, smug as hell, voice all syrupy and fond as he cradles you against his chest.

“I hate it,” you whisper, face burrowed into his shoulder like you haven’t just been absolutely desecrated.

“Sure.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “That’s not what you were screaming twenty minutes ago.”

And he doesn't stop smiling, not even when your head lolls against his shoulder and you pretend to bite him. You don't have the energy to commit to it though, not really. He laughs anyway, smug and a little breathless.

You feel it in his chest, under your cheek. The way it rumbles. Warm and content.

You grumble something that might be fuck off, but it’s lost in the thick haze of goat weed and whatever catastrophic chemical cocktail he’s left wrecking your bloodstream.

He carries you with irritating ease, like you don’t weigh a thing. Like he didn’t just demolish you in every position except missionary, and maybe even invented a few new ones in the process.

Namjoon pushes open the bathroom door with his foot, flicks the light on with his elbow, and sets you down on the counter like some fragile, sacred thing. His eyes scan your face, still glazed and heavy-lidded, and then flick to your chest—rising a little steadier now. You can tell he's checking. Again. Like he’s memorizing your pulse just in case you decide to have a random cardiac arrest.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, but your voice is still slurred and cotton-soft. “You broke my back, not my heart.”

He gives you a look. Stern. Fond. “You sure?”

You nod, and then wince, because apparently nodding also uses a muscle group he absolutely obliterated earlier.

He swears under his breath—affectionate, worried—but still laughs at your pain. Because you deserve it. Because he knows you know you deserve it.

He gently cradles the back of your head with one hand, steadying you like you might just tip over from a particularly sharp exhale. “You're a menace,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your forehead, slow and deliberate. “A very sexy, very broken minx.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re the one who overdid it. I was just a passenger on this ride.”

Namjoon scoffs. “You brought us here.”

“Under the influence,” you mumble.

He huffs a laugh through his nose and turns on the faucet, letting the tub fill while adjusting the water temperature with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this for you before. His bare back moves with every reach, broad and golden under the soft bathroom lights, and you take a moment to shamelessly ogle him through your post-orgasm haze.

“I can feel you looking at me.”

“You’re pretty,” you say, unapologetic, cheek pressed against the mirror. “I missed you.”

Namjoon glances at you over his shoulder, hair tousled and lips still pink from everything he’s done to you. He narrows his eyes playfully. “You’re not allowed to be horny again.”

“I’m not,” you lie, blatantly. “I’m just admiring my choices.”

“Which ones? Overdosing on aphrodisiacs?”

You hum. “No. The one where I decided you’re taking them tomorrow. You’re a big boy—you can handle it without the risk of heart failure.”

He laughs and shakes his head as he walks back to you. “Don’t say shit like that unless you want round…whatever the fuck we’re on.”

Your lips tilt up. Your body is beyond wrecked, but your mushy brain? Already plotting the comeback as he steps between your knees again, hands settling on your thighs like he’s already forgotten about the bath.

“I’m just saying,” you murmur, feigning innocence “I need to bring some balance back in this relationship.”

“Are you saying you want to ruin me, baby?” he murmurs, dragging his palms up, thumbs tracing the bruises blooming on your hips.

You grin, teeth flashing. “No, I’m saying I will.”

“Dear god help me.”

You don’t make a lot of noise as you get the machine ready for a nice cup of coffee. All three of you had gone in on it so you could get the expensive, fancy kind. Jeonghan had called it an investment, and you had wholeheartedly agreed. Seungcheol grumbled about it a little but gave his part of the money anyway. He kept claiming he wasn’t that big on coffee, but ever since you bought it, he has had a cup every morning without fail, something Jeonghan will never stop teasing him on.

The aroma is warm and rich in your nose as it slowly infiltrates the kitchen. You contemplate if you want breakfast now with your coffee or later, and decide to grab an apple. You’re just staring at it, wondering if the brown spot on it is something you can ignore or if you should discard the whole thing, when you hear light pattering on the floors outside.

You expect Jeonghan’s slumped, languid figure to slink into the kitchen, groaning about how tired he is, or maybe Seungcheol with his head of short, spiked hair all over the place and that perpetual pout that undercuts his years of effort building impressive muscle. But it’s neither of them. It’s someone you don’t know.

She blinks owlishly at you, hair tangled on her head and wearing a bright bodycon dress, holding a pair of heels in her hand. Her mascara is smudged, but under the distressed look, you can tell that she is amazingly pretty.

“Hi.” She chirps. It’s soft and almost melodic. You manage to smile back. The air is painfully awkward, so she shifts and takes a hesitant step back.

“I should just go.” She says sheepishly, and before you can say anything (not that you were planning to), she disappears from the doorway of the kitchen. After a few seconds, you hear the front door click shut. You swallow hard, but the knot formed in your throat doesn’t go away.

Friday nights don’t just mean waking up at noon with terrible hangovers. They also mean a girl trying to tiptoe out of Seungcheol’s room. And always a stranger. Never the same one twice.

You sigh and turn back to the coffee machine, which lets out a beep. You quickly take the pot to fill your cup, deciding against adding milk and just taking a sip of the dark mixture. You wince when it slides down your throat, but it’s hot enough and bitter enough that the knot in your throat loosens. You stare at your cup, the swirling liquid, and try your best to not think about your recent interaction.

There’s no point in it. Seungcheol is just….. like that. Someone so unbelievably different that you can’t fathom how you even ended up in the same orbit.

Well, you know exactly how. Yoon Jeonghan.

Jeonghan was in your first ever introductory class in college. He was seated right next to you, and after knowing you for the duration of just one lecture, he asked if you were looking for a place off campus, and then offered you his in the same breath. Apparently he and his roommate were desperate, and they really needed a third cohabitant in order to make rent. You just turned out to be the one who was looking for a place to stay, so you ended up saying yes, because Jeonghan gave you great vibes.

Seungcheol did too, when you met him.

You were immediately taken by him. He was loud and a little rough around the edges, but so endlessly kind. Seungcheol doesn’t look it, but he’s very in-tune with people’s emotions as well as his own. He knows what he wants out of life, he has endless confidence in himself. He’s charismatic, magnetic, and it only helps that he is beyond attractive. Tall, built like a brick house (something he is very proud of), soft dark hair and that charming smile accentuated by a dimple on his right cheek.

That fuckass dimple.

You knew you liked him. It was immediate. You were excited just at the thought of sharing space with him. And so you moved in, giddy at the thought of having your own place for the first time in your life, and sharing it with two guys who looked like seemingly amazing people.

And they truly are. It’s just that you were naïve to think Seungcheol’s appeal didn’t extend to everyone else like it did to you.

He’s like a lighthouse, attracting everyone to him like lost travelers. His friend circle is huge, from the gym dudes like Mingyu and Jihoon he works out with, to the party freaks like Soonyoung and Joshua he spends weekends with. He’s not in a frat, but he moves among a lot of similar people. Then there’s their friends, just an endless network that won’t stop expanding. This means meet-ups and parties every weekend, and that means there’s a girl in his room every two or three weekends.

You can’t even fault him. If someone looks like that, it would be criminal if they didn’t get regular action.

You and Seungcheol are fundamentally different people. You have friends too, but fewer, and more tight-knit. You are a homebody above anything else, and if it wasn’t for your friend Seungkwan, who is the most extroverted person you know outside of Seungcheol, you would never even leave your house. But Seungkwan’s definition of going out is much different to Seungcheol’s. So while Seungcheol likes the gym, pregaming, bowling and frat parties, you have scheduled cooking classes, basket weaving workshops, and arcade tournaments that Hansol drags you to once every month.

You’re poles apart. And you’re content with that. You can float in his periphery, and that’s enough for you. He’s miles out of your league anyway. So you’re happy just being an admirer.

“It’s pathetic.” Hansol often mumbles, voice devoid of any real venom. He sounds disinterested if anything.

“Thanks.” You shoot back. Seungkwan looks at Hansol, offended on your behalf.

“I think it’s cute.” He defends you. You grin at him and pinch his cheek. He swats your hand away, making you laugh.

“How bad can it really be if you just tell him?” Chan pipes up, his head down as he concentrates on pouring his wax into the mold slowly, trying not to spill it. You genuinely think his candle will smell the best out of your group, since he’s the only one truly concentrating. You’re too focused on telling them about the girl in your kitchen this morning.

Hansol snorts, tapping his mold on the table like your instructor told you to. His is a strange, muddy brown color. It smells like shit, but you don’t have the heart to tell him. You and Seungkwan did drag him to this candle making class on a weekend when he could just be sleeping all day, so he could make the worst candle known to man and you will still hype him up.

“She doesn’t have the balls.” He mumbles. You look at him with a gaping mouth.

“Hey!”

Hansol raises a challenging eyebrow. “Do you? You won’t tell him you like him. Ever. I’m not wrong.”

You scowl, feeling deeply offended. He isn’t wrong, and you all know it, because Seungkwan isn’t defending you this time. He just gives you a wince, indicating he agrees with Hansol. Dammit, you’re cornered.

“Your candle smells like shit.” You shoot back.

That distracts him, and he starts doubting and fretting over his candle, leaning down to sniff it over and over. The rest of the workshop is spent trying to salvage Hansol’s attempt, so you don’t get back to the topic you were previously discussing.

Good.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol are both on the couch by the time you come back in the late afternoon. They both look bleary-eyed and half dead, hair still damp on their heads from showering, eating takeout and watching TV. They greet you brightly when you come in, and you slump onto the couch next to them.

“What did you bring us?” Jeonghan asks. You always bring your crafts home, including today. You made three candles, one for each of you, and you’re excited as you take them out of your tote, hand them over, describing the scents you used.

“I made lavender and vanilla for you.” You hand Jeonghan his. He hums and nods in satisfaction as he sniffs, smiling big.

“Oh I need to light this immediately.” He pipes up, quickly standing to trudge into the kitchen. You grin.

“And me?” Seungcheol smiles at you, still leaned back on the couch so he can rest his head on the cushion. You can tell his head is still hurting a little.

“Your favorite.” You smile. “Cherry.”

Seungcheol looks excited as you hand it over. He eyes the dark color for a little bit before bringing it to his nose, sniffing. You watch his eyelashes flutter.

“Oh.” You see his lips tug up in realisation. “It smells like my cologne.”

“Yeah. The other note is sandalwood.” You feel the sides of your face heat up. “You…. you like those scents a lot.”

You immediately feel like you’ve revealed too much when Seungcheol’s eyes soften. He watches you for a few seconds, sniffing again.

“I love it.” He says, turning it over in his hand. It looks comically small in his hold. “It’s perfect.”

You nod jerkily and fidget a little, trying not to think about how fast your heart is racing, or how gentle this moment feels. Intimate, almost, sitting so close to him that your knee almost touches his thigh, his hair half falling into his eyes, the eyes he still has trained on you, the candle you put care into held delicately in his hand.

Jeonghan walks back into the living room with his lit candle, talking about how much trouble he had finding a lighter. The air around you breaks, and you stand up, mumbling something about how you’re tired already, so you’re going to head to bed. It’s only afternoon, and the excuse is bullshit, but you know you can’t be close to Seungcheol much longer without your heart hurting. You don’t feel Seungcheol’s eyes on your back as you leave, and you have no clue about the knowing way Jeonghan looks at his friend.

…………………………

Weekdays are filled with classes. So you have no time to relax.

You think it’s a fundamental flaw in you that you are taking so many classes, but your overachieving tendencies won’t let you back down from even one of them. Some days, it leaves you annoyed and frustrated, but often, those same classes serve as a blessing in disguise, because they preoccupy you so much that you don’t have to worry about any other problem in your life.

By the end of the week, you’re so exhausted that you just want to glue yourself to your bed, vowing not to move for the entire weekend. Of course, Seungkwan always plans something and inevitably drags you out of your humble abode, but you will take what time you have, unwinding and letting your brain shut down after a long and tiring five days. You fall asleep in the middle of your Modern Family marathon, managing to get only halfway through the season before you’re shutting your laptop, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Before you know it, you’re knocked out, and you don’t move until well into the next morning.

You wake up because you’re burning hot. Sweat makes your shirt cling to your back. In fact, your back is so warm that it’s uncomfortable. Your face pinches in annoyance, and you shift a little. At your movement, something tightens around your waist.

Your eyes pop open.

Morning light filters in through the curtains on your windows, setting the room up in a soft glow. You’re on your side, staring at the far off wall of your bedroom. There is weight draped over your waist, a warm touch splayed over your stomach. When you shift again, just slightly, the touch twitches and moves.

A hand.

You almost scream, but then you feel the soft hit of air on the back of your neck, periodic and deep. Like someone exhaling. You breathe in, the smell of cherry and sandalwood in your nose. You would recognise that anywhere. Even barely half conscious, you know who that scent belongs to.

Your entire backside, your torso, your ass, the back of your thighs, are pressed tightly to Seungcheol’s front, his arm a heavy weight draped around you so that he hand grips your stomach gently. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, his exhales on your skin. You’ve gone so stiff you can barely feel your body, but you’re hyperaware of every part of you that touches him. You lay there in shock, contemplating.

What the hell is he doing? How did he end up in your room? How did he end up spooning you?

You have no answers, but you do know you need to get out of here. You brace yourself, using your leg in contact with the mattress to push until your body disconnects with Seungcheol’s a little. You freeze when he groans, a low sound that cracks under the weight of sleep, and you barely hold in a gasp when he tugs harshly with the arm around you, making you lurch back so he is once again pressed into you. He curls tighter around you, like his body is melting into yours, and your heart kicks painfully at your ribs. That’s when you feel it, hard and insistent, just nestled between your ass cheeks, his erection straining against the jeans he probably wore to whatever party he attended last night.

Mortification hits your veins like ice. You’re rock still in his arms, not even able to process what the fuck is happening to you. You feel his hand move a little, squeezing subconsciously, his fingers sinking into the plush of your stomach. Your face flames, and you can’t take it anymore. You grip his wrist tight and tug hard, loosening his grip, and immediately lunging out of bed. Your feet barely hit the floor before you’re already making a beeline out of the bedroom and straight into the bathroom. You don’t look back once. You definitely used enough force to wake him, but maybe he was so drunk before he passed out that he didn’t get roused by your movements.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, the horrified look on your face, your wide eyes, and the fact that your heart is beating so fast that it’s making you breath heavily. You lean against the sink, your legs shifting, and you realise you’re wet, nearly soaking through your shorts.

Your hands tremble as you wash them, staring at nothing. You remember how warm Seungcheol was, almost unbearably so, how good it was to feel him against you, the solid frame of him, caging you in like you were meant to be in his arms. His hand, digging into your flesh like it was his, and his bulge, so prominent and urgent, pressing into your ass, inches away from where you need him the most.

You’re so fucked.

You don’t think twice before jumping into the shower, letting the water pour over your head even though it’s not hair wash day. You don’t even wait for the hot water to come in, just standing beneath the stream as it slowly warms up. The initial shock of cold does wonders, calms your racing heart and smothers the heat in the bottom of your stomach. You let out a shaky breath.

It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. He was probably so drunk he didn’t even realise where he ended up crashing. Your room is the first one on the left, his is the first one on the right. It’s an easy mistake, especially if someone is wasted. It seems like the best explanation, way more plausible than him actually sliding into your bed intentionally, a notion that just sounds absurd in your head.

You don’t know what to do.

You stay in the shower for so long that the pads of your fingers prune and the water turns cold again. You slip your pajamas back onto your wet body, because you didn’t bring a change of clothes with you, and finally, you brace yourself and return to your room, taking a deep inhale before opening the door. The bed is empty. He’s gone.

It’s relieving, because you were in no way prepared to see him. When you look at the clock, you realise it’s almost midday. So you pick up your phone and text Seungkwan, asking what his plans for the day are.

Seungkwan is honestly confused, because you almost never initiate meet-ups yourself, but he doesn’t turn you down. Him and Chan are both free, so you decide to meet up for a simple lunch. Hansol opts out, since his sister is in the city for the weekend. You’re grateful you have someone, because keeping this inside is feeling more and more impossible. As soon as you sit down, you blurt out everything that happened in the morning.

Seungkwan is beside himself, mouth opening and closing not unlike a fish, horror struck. He gasps at every detail, but groans disapprovingly when you talk about Seungcheol’s hard-on against your ass.

“You could’ve left that detail out.” He mutters.

“But it’s important!” You insist. “Kwannie, I’m a mess. What do I do? How can I even look him in the eye after this?”

Chan huffs, looking a lot calmer than Seungkwan. “Don’t do anything. Look, you’re right. It was probably a mistake. And if he remembers it at all, he will be pretty embarrassed. So just don’t talk about it at all. Don’t bring it up. Be normal.”

Right. That’s solid advice. Be normal.

But it’s hard to do that, not when you can’t stop thinking about it. The sizzle of his touch is something you’re reminded of when you lay in your bed that night, staring up at your ceiling and remembering how it felt to have his breath hit your skin, so close that you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. And when the heat becomes too much, when your mind goes awry and shuts down, your hand slides into your shorts.

It’s too much. You can’t face him when your brain and your actions are so depraved.

When Hansol finds out what happened, he says what he always does, that this is a problem of your own making.

“You chose this.” He says on Monday, when you finally meet him and tell him everything. “You live with him. It’s unavoidable that something weirdly uncomfortable would happen when you’re in close quarters with someone. And you can’t avoid him. You will see him every day.”

To you, it was always a net positive that you got to see Seungcheol every day, any unrequited feelings aside. Your hidden crush on him was trumped by the fact that he was so endlessly charming to you, your little puppy crush urged on by seeing him, being around him, basking in his presence. But now, that very thing is coming back to bite you in the ass.

You go a whopping three days without coming face to face with him. But then, your sneaking finally fails you. He catches you before classes on Wednesday, cornering you in the kitchen when you’re there to fill up your water bottle.

“I’m really sorry about that night.” He sounds sheepish, embarrassed. You remember Chan’s words, shaking your head in the best way you can think of to placate him.

“It’s fine! You were drunk, you probably don’t even remember that you did it. Honest mistake, right?”

Seungcheol smiles a little, his eyes trained carefully on you.

“Right.” He mutters.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet, and you want to blame it on his embarrassment. You feel uncomfortable, and you wonder if it has to do with what happened between you, or if he’s just being a little weird today.

“I should go.” You mumble. “Just had to fill this up.”

You hold up your water bottle for him to see. His eyes finally leave you to focus on it, and he raises a thick eyebrow.

“That’s new.” He points to the handle. You have a small Sanrio keychain hanging from it. You’re surprised he noticed, but you nod excitedly.

“Hansol’s sister came to see him for the weekend. She got all of us little trinkets.”

Seungcheol hums. “She knows your favorite Sanrio character? That’s cute.”

You smile and nod again, more enthusiastically. “I’m sure Hansol told her….”

A thought enters your head. You tilt your head to the side in thought. “How did you know?”

Seungcheol blinks, then lets out a small laugh. “You’re not exactly subtle about it, sweetheart. It’s plastered all over your room.

Right. Your room. The room he was in because he slept with you in your bed. Your stomach twists and you swallow hard. He looked around your room? When? After waking up? While you were showering? The thought of Seungcheol being in your private space, saying all your little interests laid out everywhere makes your heart flutter. You’re very private about your space, both him and Jeonghan know this. You don’t think either of them have been in your room since they first helped you move in.

You watch Seungcheol from where your back is against the counter. He watches you. You remember that night as the air around you two holds its breath. He was so close, closer than anyone had been in a long, long time. But you bet it was normal for him, this physical intimacy. After all, he’s had a steady rotation of girls in his room for as long as you’ve known him.

Right. This is Choi Seungcheol. Popular, attractive Choi Seungcheol. Wildly out of your league Choi Seungcheol.

“I’m gonna….” You gesture to the door. There’s a knot in your throat, and you don’t think you can speak. Seungcheol blinks and nods, steps away so you can walk past him. Your fingers shake as you tug your shoes on and escape quickly through the front door.

You walk to campus alone, already in agreement with Seungkwan that you will meet him there. You’re grateful for it, because you can go through your jumble of thoughts silently, so you can try to address this deep, uneasy feeling right in the center of your chest. It’s a strange mix of dread and longing that leaves you with a strange emptiness inside, like a sinking hollow. You think, for the first time since you moved in, that maybe being around Choi Seungcheol wasn’t the best idea. Maybe this will ultimately be your unraveling.

The hollow feeling settles like a weight. You walk to class slowly.

You still arrive ten minutes early, but you don’t have to worry about distracting yourself, because Seungkwan is practically buzzing in his seat. You raise a curious eyebrow as you sit next to him, and he immediately turns to you, like he was waiting for you to show up.

“There’s a party.” He says. “In the frat Seokmin is a part of.”

You blink. “Your biology lab partner Seokmin?”

Seungkwan nods. His grin is so wide you’re surprised his face hasn’t split.

“I didn’t know he was in a frat.” You mumble, pulling your laptop out and setting it on your desk.

“Well, he is.” Seungkwan answers impatiently. “Anyway, he and I just finished wrapping up the end of semester project. And I guess he’s super happy about it, because he said we should stop by the frat this Friday night for some party they’re having.”

You eye Seungkwan, giving him an incredulous look.

“You? At a frat party?” Seungkwan really isn’t the type. But then you pause. “Wait, what do you mean ‘we’?”

Now Seungkwan has the decency to look a little sheepish. “I was hoping you would go with me.”

“No.”

Seungkwan immediately starts pleading, like he was expecting exactly this. Which wouldn’t be surprising. You despise parties. You had gone to a few at the very beginning of freshman year since you were so curious about college parties, and every single one of them without fail were horrific experiences. This was before you met Seungkwan and the guys. The people you were friends with at the time always got shitfaced, leaving you to pick up after them and get them home at the end of the night. The drinks there were usually awful unless you were bringing your own. And everyone was horny out of their minds, just chatting so they could hook up. All of this is turned up to a hundred when the party is at a frat, which this particular one will be.

“Ask Hansol.”

“He already said no.”

“Chan, then.”

“You know he’s not good with crowds. Listen,” he looks at you so earnestly it makes your heart squeeze, “I know you don’t like parties. But please, we have to do this. I’ve never been to one ever. First and last time, I promise. I’m just so curious.”

You hesitate. You understand where Seungkwan is coming from. You had the same curiosity as him way back then, and no matter how much you tell him that you already know it won’t be his cup of tea, he really needs to see it himself to swear off them like you. So you sigh painfully and nod, slightly placated by the fact that it makes Seungkwan cheer so loudly and hug you until you can’t breathe, promising he will treat you to lunch for the next two weeks.

Sounds like a good deal.

When you get back home that evening, Jeonghan is frying something on the stove. You seat yourself on the kitchen island, telling him about your day, because he’s always kind enough to ask.

“Oh, by the way.” You tack on. “I’m going to a party this Friday.”

That makes Jeonghan pause, turning to look at you with wide eyes. “A party? You?”

You sigh. “I know. Seungkwan was invited and he’s never been to one before so he kinda talked me into it. It’s at Sigma Tau Nu.”

Jeonghan looks even more shocked. He lets out a laugh. “A frat party.”

You nod.

He whistles low, turning back to his sizzling pan. “Seungcheol’s not gonna be happy.”

That makes you pause. You scowl at Jeonghan’s back. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, not bothering to turn around again. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me. Why won’t Seungcheol be happy?”

Before Jeonghan can answer, another voice speaks up.

“I won’t be happy about what?”

You stiffen, turning to the kitchen doorway. You didn’t hear the front door at all. Seungcheol is covered in sweat, still in his gym clothes, face a little flushed. His gym bag hangs over his shoulder. You swallow tightly, looking away so you won’t stare. Jeonghan, however, has no qualms about speaking.

“She’s going to Sigma Tau Nu on Friday.”

Seungcheol’s head snaps to you, eyes wide. “What?”

You fidget. “Seungkwan was invited.”

“So?”

You can’t help but frown. “So, he’s my friend. I’m going with him.”

“Like hell you are.”

Your jaw drops. Jeonghan barks out a laugh. You want to strangle him, but you’re too shocked at how Seungcheol’s voice has hardened. In fact, his blatant and sharp refusal has only managed to irritate you.

“Why not?” You sound petulant.

Seungcheol is walking to the fridge, pulling out a water bottle. “Because that place is a cesspool.”

“You go there every weekend.” Your voice is accusatory. Something in Seungcheol’s face flickers.

“That’s different.”

The irritation in you is swelling now into more of an anger. You don’t appreciate his tone, or whatever superiority complex he has that makes him think it’s okay for him to go but not you.

“So you can go but I can’t?” Your voice is louder than before. Even Jeonghan pauses, turning to look at you both cautiously. “Why? I’m not good enough for your parties?”

Seungcheol’s face hardens, and you almost back down. He has never, ever, looked at you like that before. “You think that’s what this is about?”

“Looks like it.”

“It’s not.”

“Then what is it about?”

He huffs, annoyed. “I’m just saying. Sigma Tau Nu…. the guys there…. they aren’t good.”

“You’re a guy there.”

His face drops. It’s such a slight shift, but immediate, and his expression turns a muted and stoney smooth. His grip on his bottle tightens until the plastic crinkles a little, but his face is almost forlorn.

“I know.”

You don’t know what to say.

Seungcheol sighs, as if to break the heavy silence, hiking the bag he has on his shoulder a bit further up before walking past you to leave.

“Just don’t go, okay?”

You and Jeonghan are left standing in the kitchen after he’s gone, just staring at each other in the silence.

………………………………

“Seungcheol can fuck off.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep a straight face as you apply finishing touches to yourself. But Seungkwan is not discouraged by your silence, continuing to rant on from where he’s sitting on your bed.

“No, seriously. Where does he get off telling you what to do?”

You sigh and shake your hair out, staring at yourself in the mirror. “He’s just looking out for me.”

That earns a scoff from your friend. “As if. More like he’s looking out for himself. He doesn’t want you to see what a sleazy, pervy bastard he is and how many girls he indulges when he goes out. Wants you to think he’s a good person.”

“He is a good person.” You turn to scowl at him. “He’s been nothing but kind to me.”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. You keep going.

“Let it go, Kwannie. We’re going anyway. So it doesn’t matter.”

It really doesn’t, because you’re all dolled up already and ready to go. You’re in a plain black dress, nothing too fancy, thin straps and a flared out skirt. It’s from your freshman year, and to your dismay, it’s a little tighter on you at the bodice, but nothing that doesn’t fit, so you’re rolling with it. Seungkwan also made it a point to tell you twice that you look hot, so you’re taking that as a good indication.

“Ready?” He prompts, you nod.

“Remember our agreement. One hour. You get a feel of the place. Then we leave.”

He nods enthusiastically. You can’t help but smile.

The place is packed. You feel dread already when you and Seungkwan climb out of your cab, but your friend looks alarmingly apprehensive, enough for you to suck up your own negative feelings. You’re already here, might as well try and make this as enjoyable for Seungkwan as possible.

“Come on.” You take his arm, walking up the front steps and in through the open door. The music is so loud, the lights are dim enough that you’re worried about something spilling on your dress accidentally. Seungkwan has a death grip on your hand, and you try to navigate to the kitchen.

“Boo Seungkwan!” The voice is booming, so loud and bright, and it immediately catches both your and Seungkwan’s attention. From the relief on his face, you know instantly that this is Seokmin. He’s grinning wide, and draping an arm around his shoulder is another man with spiky blond hair and sharp eyes. They introduce themselves, Seokmin and his frat brother Soonyoung, and you do the same. Soonyoung watches you closely.

“I’ve never seen you here before.” He shouts over the music, leaning closer to you to speak. You think you would have heard him just fine even without it, but you suspect he is doing it on purpose to get close to you. This may not be your thing, but you’re not an idiot.

“I don't usually come to parties.” You reply, trying to be polite. Somewhere behind your back, Seokmin is putting drinks into plastic cups. You can see the exact path Soonyoung’s eyes take as they drag down your body, lingering on your chest. You almost want to sigh.

“Want a tour?” He offers. “I’ll show you around.”

You want to say no, but a tour would mean you and Seungkwan can see everything quickly and leave. So you nod and turn around, linking an arm with Seungkwan to pull him along. He’s got a cup in his hand, already half empty, and you want to groan. Drunk Seungkwan is almost impossible to deal with.

Soonyoung doesn’t seem perturbed. He just nods and gestures for you two to follow along. You make it through the seas of people in the huge house as he points and shouts names. You don’t even understand half of them, but you’re not particularly interested. Seokmin is trailing behind all of you, and when Seungkwan’s cup empties, he exchanges it for a new one. You wince. Seungkwan is a notorious lightweight. You play drinking games all the time, and he’s always the first one to tap out, leaning heavily on Hansol as he gets dragged out of your apartment. With the way his cheeks are flushing at a concerning rate, you know he’s getting to that point already.

Soonyoung occasionally grips your arm to steer you in the right direction. Seungkwan’s hold on you keeps increasing as you navigate through the house. Then, you’re in the living room, and your eyes find the large, sprawling couch pushing against the far wall, particularly, the man lounging on the corner of it.

He has a cup in his hand, arm thrown around a girl pressed to his side. On the arm of the couch next to him is a guy you vaguely recognise as his gym buddy. You watch him bring the cup to his lips and throw it back in one big gulp, shaking it at his friend when it’s empty, who just snorts and pours more in it from the bottle of clear liquid he’s holding.

His head turns to look at his glass, but his eyes meet yours instead. You see the exact moment he recognises you.

You feel it again, that hollow feeling in your chest, mixed with something else this time. You almost don’t recognise him. His hair is tousled, carelessly swept, his top is sleeveless and tight, silver chain hanging from his neck, pants baggy, legs sprawled without a care in the world. Your eyes are still on each other when the girl on his side leans in and whispers something in his ear, following it up with running her tongue up the side of his neck.

Bile rises in your throat. You look away.

Seungkwan has downed his glass, again, and Soonyoung is gesturing for you to follow him to some other part of the house. But the music is changing into something faster, and Seungkwan’s eyes widen with a gasp as he recognises it.

“This is the first song I know!” He exclaims. You want to snort at how excited he is. “Can we dance?”

Oh no. You open your mouth to protest, but Soonyoung nods enthusiastically and points to the dance floor not far off from where you are. You can feel Seungcheol’s eyes burning holes in the back of your head as Seungkwan tugs you along with him. Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t follow, because at that moment, he’s bombarded by another group of people. You’re left with Seungkwan only, which you prefer.

Except, Seungkwan is drunk, and pulling you close so you can sway together. You snort and indulge him, fully aware of how touchy he gets with alcohol in his system. He’s singing along to the song, hands on your waist, bobbing back and forth, side to side. You grin, laughing. You genuinely didn’t imagine yourself having a good time at this place, but being here with your friend is a little fun, though you would only begrudgingly admit that.

The song picks up, getting wilder, and you let yourself go to the music with Seungkwan. He’s laughing and grinning, turning you around so his back is against you. Bad idea, because as soon as you open your eyes, they meet heated, dark ones from across the room.

Seungcheol is watching, and he doesn’t look happy.

The girl by his side is now on her phone, tapping away. He’s not interested, raising his cup to his mouth and taking a long gulp while his stare is trained on you. Your heart pounds. You feel Seungkwan’s hands on your hips, your waist. There’s a voice in your head, and you listen to it, eyes fully on Seungcheol as you reach an arm up and behind you, running it through your friend’s hair.

Seungcheol’s face pinches. His lip curls in an ugly snarl. It catches you so off guard that you immediately turn back to Seungkwan, your heart pounding.

“I need air.” You shout over the music. “It’s too hot here.”

Seungkwan nods and points to the back of the house, past the staircase. You contemplate leaving your friend there. He’s having a good time, and you can let him dance a little before you start insisting that you should leave. Sliding glass doors take you into the patio overlooking the backyard. You take a deep breath.

The patio is less crowded, though there’s still people milling around. There’s a couple a few feet to your right, making out against the wall. You make a face and walk away from them. The cool air is working, clearing your head just a little. You wonder if there’s something in the hot, humid air inside that clouded your judgement, that made you look Seungcheol straight in the eye as you let your drunk friend sway you side to side. What did you want to achieve? Did you want to get a reaction out of him? Why? He doesn’t care about you that way, so what was the point?

Part of you is still annoyed at him because of the semi-argument in the kitchen. The other part is just…. sad.

“You came.”

You close your eyes. You were hoping he would leave you alone for the night.

“I did.” You reply.

Seungcheol stops right next to you, a little closer than you would like. You can feel the heat of his body. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays.

“Don’t worry, Seungkwan and I are just going to have one more drink and leave. I won’t….. disturb you much longer.”

He says your name, a tone of defeat in his voice. Your stomach twists. You turn to him, and for a brief second, your eyes meet his. He has that same look in them, that quiet desolation he had when he was with you in the kitchen. The heat from before, the simmering annoyance, has gone.

“Seungcheol.” Your throat tightens. Your chest is so hollow. “Just make sure to crash in your own bed this time. Okay?”

You turn and walk back into the house.

……………………………………

You don’t know the longest time you’ve gone without speaking to Seungcheol. You’ve never had any reason to count. You do now, and it has been seven days.

Seungkwan thanked you profusely for going with him to the party, vowed never to go again (that made you laugh), then bought you lunch for four days straight before you felt bad and just started paying for your own. You don’t think his experience was worth two weeks of comped meals, but you have a feeling he knows you’re bummed about something, so he keeps offering to pay.

You don’t even know why you’re bummed. You just are. And Seungkwan isn’t the only one who has noticed.

Jeonghan has been walking on eggshells with you too, watching you intently when you’re having a meal together, taking note of the fact that you leave to lock yourself in your room as soon as it becomes close to the time Seungcheol is due back home. It’s easy to avoid him because he himself makes no effort to talk to you either. It should make you glad, since it means you can dance around whatever this suffocating feeling between you two is. But it doesn’t. All you feel is more hollow, more crushed.

Something has changed between you, definitely for the worse. You regret going to that party every single day.

To Jeonghan’s credit, he never asks. You wonder if Seungcheol told him, but then you ask yourself what exactly there is to tell. Literally nothing happened. You don’t even know what to call that little stint on the dance floor, or the heavy way his eyes traveled over you. As for the girl he was with, you’re just upset because the man you have been pining for your whole life has a roster of romantic prospects outside of you. For so long, you had only known about it, like it was some far away entity, but seeing it with your own eyes, some unknown girl sprawled half on top of him, it broke something in you that you don’t know how to move on from. So while you grapple with your own mess of feelings, you just know you need to stay far, far away from him.

But seven days after your self-imposed Seungcheol ban, your roommate has apparently had enough, and he decides to break it. You hear a knock on your door and hum, expecting it to be Jeonghan asking about dinner or something. But instead, a head of thick brown hair pops in through your door.

“Can I come in?”

You're shocked for a good few seconds, before nodding and gesturing to him to do so. Seungcheol lumbers in, hesitating for a second before opting to sit on the chair in front of your desk, turning it around to face you. You’re still frozen in place, crosslegged on your bed, waiting for him to say something.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

You blink. “You didn’t do anything. What are you sorry for?”

He lets out a laugh, but it’s bitter and mirthless. “For everything. For all of it. For telling you not to go to that party. For going there myself and letting you see me like that. For even being like that….”

“Seungcheol.” You protest. “You didn’t do anything-”

“I did.” He cuts you off. “You don’t know it, but I did. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that my drunk, stupid mind thought it was a good idea to end up in your room that night. That I somehow genuinely believed that I could wake up next to you and you would be mine.”

Your heart pounds. Blood roars in your ears.

“I remember all of it.” He whispers, his eyes not leaving yours for a second. “How I felt that night. How badly I just wanted to be with you. No drink was helping, no one…..” He laughs again, shakes his head as if admonishing himself.

“You know what my drunken plan originally was? I wanted to wake you up and finally just tell you how much I love you. But I was so drunk and exhausted that by the time I got to you I just ended up passing out on your bed.”

“And then the next morning. I was awake the second you first moved. And I didn’t want to let go. Call it brain fog, I don’t know. I hoped I could lie there forever and just…… hold you.”

You only break your eye contact from Seungcheol when your vision swims, getting wetter and more blurred.

“This isn’t funny.” Your voice shakes.

“I’m not joking.”

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your frantic thoughts. Never, never in your life did you expect this. You remember that morning again, how Seungcheol’s hand tightened on you, how your ass pressed hard against his-

“You were awake.” It isn’t really a question.

“I was.”

When your eyes meet his again, it’s different. Something sizzles, sharp and anticipatory, like the air around you is afraid to move. But Seungcheol isn’t. He stands up and walks closer to where you are sitting, one knee planting on the mattress, until he’s right in front of you. His eyes are like melting pots of brown, and the intensity in them takes your breath away.

“You felt it, right?” He whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. You turn me on so much.”

You can’t move even if you try. It feels like something has severed the connection between your brain and body. When Seungcheol leans in, you don’t resist. Your eyelids flutter when you feel his breath on the side of your neck, just like that morning. His lips brush just so over your skin.

“Cheol….”

He hums, shifts just a smidge, and his lips plant a chaste kiss under your ear. But you don’t say anything more. You don’t know if you can. You’re overwhelmed, both physically and mentally, and the smell of the cherry and sandalwood in his cologne is making your mind foggy.

“Let me show you.” He whispers. “Let me show you how much I love you, just like I wanted to that night, just like I dreamed of for so long.”

You’re human, after all. And you’re weak for him. You’ve always been weak for him, and that’s why you’ve let all of it happen. Him in your bed, you at his party. So you turn your head and let your lips brush over his. You can almost feel his shaky sigh just before he closes the distance between you.

It’s rushed from the start, like he’s desperate. You feel the same, hands reaching up to cup his face, your heart squeezing when you realise that this is finally happening. You’re kissing Seungcheol, the guy you’ve been deeply enamoured with for as long as you’ve known him. The guy you never, ever thought you would have in this way, but still imagined it in the depths of the night when there was no one but you and your fingers. He was here now, on the same bed that you thought filthy things about him in, kissing you like he needs to steal the air from your lungs. He tilts his head, lips sliding over yours, capturing your bottom lip between his. He nibbles softly and it makes you moan.

The sound does something to him, because he curses brokenly and reaches for you. Strong hands grip your waist and tug, pulling you closer. Your legs scramble to find purchase, settling on either side of his as he pulls you into his lap. His tongue slides into your mouth, hot and wet, and you can feel something flutter right in the base of your stomach. Your panties are already damp, but from what you can feel, he’s straining through his sweatpants too. You whine into him.

“Cheol…”

He groans, hands digging into your flesh. They slide under your shirt to run over your bare skin. You instinctively arch into him.

“Love it when you call me that.” He rasps. “Only you do. Only you.”

So you say it again, whisper it into his mouth while his tongue is in yours, and you can feel how his force increases, how he unravels just a little bit more. His hands under your shirt get more frantic, and finally he pushes up, peeling it off your body. You let him, but when the cold air hits your skin, you realise you weren’t wearing a bra.

“Fuck.” He curses softly, eyeing your half naked body. You feel your skin heat under his gaze, squirming a little.

“Beautiful. You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

No, I’m not. Your mind immediately supplies. Because it’s true. You can’t help but think of all the girls he’s had like this, in his lap while he runs his tongue down the column of their throats, nipping here and there. He probably feels you stiffen, because he pulls away and looks you in the eyes, his expression cautious.

“What’s wrong?”

You swallow tightly and shake your head, leaning forward to kiss him again. But he pulls his head back before you can, watching you closely.

“Tell me, sweetheart. What is it?”

Your heart squeezes. You try to arrange your thoughts and look for words. You feel Seungcheol’s hands run up and down your back and sides comfortingly.

“I just don’t want this to be a one time thing.” You finally say, because you don’t want to tell him how much doubt you have. How deeply ingrained it is within you that you can never be with someone like him. You’re almost halfway certain that even this, what is happening right now, is some extreme exhaustion-induced dream and you will wake up to a cold, empty bed, but you don’t want to think about that.

Seungcheol’s eyes dart between your own. His face is soft, open, like he’s coming to the slow realisation of what you mean. When he sighs, you feel his breath on your skin. He leans forward so his forehead is pressed to yours. You don’t dare break your stare, even if it makes you go a little cross-eyed.

“I would never do that to you.” He whispers. “I’ve been in love with you for so long.”

Your breath hitches. Your hands on his shoulders tremble.

“I dream about you every night. I lay in my bed and I think of having you next to me. But I never did anything about it. You’ve always felt so far away. Like I can’t dare touch you or you will be tainted.”

Your eyebrows furrow. You watch as Seungcheol’s gaze dims into something like resignation.

“But seeing you at that party with Seungkwan, having you see me like that.” He shakes his head, a miniscule movement. “I knew something had to change. And it had to come from me. Whatever illusion I had in my head about us being just roommates, and me being happy with that, it wasn’t working.”

His hold tightens on you with that last sentence, hands running over your bare back again. His fingertips slide under the waistband of your shorts, just an inch, teasing you. You arch into him.

Seungcheol’s eyes travel to your lips and stay there. The air around you feels like it’s charging up again.

“Saw your little friend draped all over you, and I couldn’t stand it. Why does he get to touch you but I can’t?”

Your lips brush again. Your arms wind around his shoulders. “You can.”

“Hm?”

You can feel your cheeks heat. “You can touch me.”

Something flickers in Seungcheol’s eyes. “Where, baby?”

Baby. A shiver runs down your spine. “Everywhere.”

Your lips meet again. It’s hungry. It’s desperate. You feel his hand cup the back of your head, guide your movements like he wants them to, and it goes straight to your core, tightening it. You know you’re soaking your shorts, and you realise belatedly that you’re not wearing underwear either. Embarrassment hits you fleetingly, but before you can think about it more, Seungcheol is pushing forward to lay you on the bed, your hair sprawling on the pillow. He doesn’t break the kiss even once, fitting his hips between your legs and grinding into your heat. You gasp and cry out.

“You make the prettiest sounds.” He groans. “So responsive. I haven’t even done anything yet. Haven’t even touched you the way I want to.”

But he has. He’s all over you, taking over your every sense, infiltrating you until you can feel him thrumming in the hollows of your bones. You arch into him when he nips at your neck again, teeth digging in teasingly. If he leaves marks, so be it. You will wear them proudly. How long have you spent fantasising about having his lips on you? And here he is now, trailing kisses down until he reaches your chest. His tongue peeks out, smooths over your left nipple so that it is laved in his spit. He blows air on it, making you gasp. You wouldn’t see his smirk if it weren’t for the fact that a dimple cleaves through his right cheek. He pops your nipple in his mouth and sucks.

Seungcheol works you over while you whine and moan. Your hands meet his hair, running through the short ones on the back of his head before burying your fingers into it and tugging. He hums into your skin, and you can feel the vibration. It makes you clench desperately, making your hips buck.

“Cheol, please…”

He pops off your nipple after one last hard suck. You’re already taking in big, heaving breaths, like you’re losing your senses. You feel his tongue run up your sternum.

“What do you want, baby?”

You squirm, buck up again so that it brushes over his crotch. He chuckles.

“Impatient little thing. All you have to do is ask nicely.”

You blink through wet eyes, meeting his half-lidded, heated gaze. “I did. I said please.”

He groans. “Say it again, then.”

You make sure you’re looking him right in the eye as you buck up again. “Please.”

Seungcheol’s fingers hook in your shorts and he tugs them down. His face twists when he realises you’re not wearing underwear. He curses long and low, pushing your legs open to peer down at the mess between them.

“Dirty girl.” He moans. “No panties?”

You shake your head. “I don’t wear them to bed.”

His eyes widen as he thinks back.

“That night….”

You know exactly what he is referring to. The night he spent in your room, spooning you. You shake your head.

“Fucking hell.” His lips crash into yours, near feral as he devours you. You whimper and let him, hooking one leg over his waist.

“Could’ve fucked you back then, right? Just pushed your shorts aside and put my cock in you. Bet you would’ve loved that.”

You would, in your deep, dark fantasies. The thought of just being used by him is so hot that it lights your nerves on fire. You tug his shirt, having had enough, and he immediately obliges, pulling it off. Your mouth waters as you eyes the large expanses of smooth skin stretched over his muscles. You’ve never seen Seungcheol shirtless around the house, he’s very careful about it. The most you have seen is his arms through those tight tanks he loves so much. You run your hands over him as he goes back to licking and nipping at your neck, hooking his thumbs in his sweatpants so he can take them and his boxers off in one go.

His cock springs up and hits his navel. He’s thick, so much that it makes you suck it a long breath. All the blood that has rushed to it has left it aching hard and throbbing, shiny at the head with precum. You’re just wondering how you can even take it all the way in when he slides down your body once again, this time going further than your breasts, until he’s settling between your open legs. Your face flames, fighting the urge to close your thighs when he stares at you like that, licking over his bottom lip.

He runs his fingers down your soft, heated folds, one on each side in a V-shape. He spreads his index and middle fingers, opening you up.

“Such a pretty pussy.” He mumbles, leaning down to barely dance his tongue through your slit. Your legs jerk at the feeling. He’s holding you open, which makes his touch hit deeper, in more sensitive places. You sigh when he flattens his tongue over you finally, licking a thick stripe. His hands position themselves on your inner thighs, keeping you open and his head shifts side to side, running his lips and tongue over every part of you.

He’s amazing at this.

He’s eating you out like he’s starving for it, eyelids fluttering, nearly rolling up, and just the sight of Seungcheol like this, face progressively getting more and more flushed and he leans down and sticks his tongue as far as it can go inside your cunt, has you shaking and crying, your high approaching embarrassingly fast. You want to sob, tell him to stop, that it’s too much all at once, but it feels so unbelievably good that you won’t dare, locking your legs over his broad shoulders, hands fisting the sheets as you wail and cum with no warning. His hold on you is iron strong, holding you in place and not stopping the rapid flicks of his tongue until tears slide down your face and you push his head away. He parts from you with a loud, filthy slurp, licking his lips. He’s breathing hard, but not as hard as you while you’re shaking from your orgasm.

He uses his index and middle finger to wipe the lower half of his face, his chin, the line of his jaw. Then he shifts forward to kneel between your trembling legs again. He taps the two slicked up fingers on your mouth.

“Open up, baby.”

You do, lapping your tongue over the digits as they slide into your mouth, making sure not to break eye contact with him. He watches heatedly as you suck on his fingers.

“Jesus.” He breathes. “Why’d I stay away from you for so long?”

He pulls them out when they’re slick with your spit, reaching down and immediately prodding at your entrance. You sigh and buck up. He smirks, a sexy sight that you barely have time to process before he’s sliding both fingers inside you at once. You gasp and arch, taken aback by the sudden intrusion. He’s already curling his fingers, slowly pumping them in and out.

“God.” You whimper, instinctively reaching down to grab his arm. He doesn’t mind, letting you hold it as he fingers you. You feel his muscles shift with every movement under your palms. As he works you open, he occupies his mouth with your neck and shoulder again, nipping and kissing. You realise Seungcheol is a little bit of a biter, not that you’re complaining.

You’re barely down from your last orgasm, so this one takes an even shorter time to build up. You moan with every ram of his fingers into you, he’s murmuring little encouragements and praises into your skin. His voice is rougher, breathier, and it acts as the catalyst that hurtles you over the edge again. This orgasm is just as intense, if not more, leaving your limbs boneless and your head empty. Your breaths come out chopped and heavy as he slows down, needling out the last remnants of your high.

“Gorgeous.” He hums. “I could do that for hours. Just make you fall apart over and over until you’re begging me to stop.”

Your insides twist. Seungcheol shuffles until he’s seated fully between your legs again. He watches your cunt flutter and twitch, already used and abused. You watch him wrap a large hand around his thick girth, jerking himself harshly a few times. He slaps his shaft over your slit. You gasp and jerk. His eyes shoot up to you and he smirks teasingly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Too much?”

You vehemently shake your head. “N-no. Want your cock.”

He hums, running the swollen, leaking head through your folds. He rubs it back and forth over your clit. You whimper.

“Sure about that?”

You nod and buck your hips up. It catches against your opening, making you gasp. “Please, Cheol.”

That does it for him, because he’s lining himself up and leaning down over you, pressing his forehead to yours before pushing forward. Your jaw goes slack as he carves his way in through your gummy walls, inch by inch, until you feel his pelvis meet yours.

“God, you’re still tight as hell.” He grits. “After taking my fingers like that too. Why didn’t you loosen up, baby? Wanted to stay nice and snug for me?”

His words are filthy, and never something you ever imagined coming from his mouth, in his delicious, raspy voice. You don’t say anything, brain wiped clean as he chooses that moment to start thrusting. It feels divine, he’s so thick that he stretches and hits all your spots without even angling his hips any which way. His tip nudges your cervix just slightly with every thrust, a fluttering sensation ensuing in your stomach. Everything is so much, so intense, that it’s hard to even breathe. Your eyelids fight to close, but you keep them open, because no way in hell would you miss the sight before you right now.

The muscles in Seungcheol’s arms flex and shift, hands planted on either side of your head to hold himself up. His skin is covered in a thin layer of sweat that shines under the lights of your bedroom. His torso undulates, precise and well aimed thrusts that hit just the right spots. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, face pinched in arousal and focus. His hair sticks to his temples, the rest is messed up because of how much you’ve run your hands through it. The apples of his cheeks are colored a lovely shade of pink that makes him look sensual, his eyelashes curling over his skin when he closes his eyes.

You wish you could burn this image in your mind forever.

He’s watching you just like you’re watching him, and you see the exact moment his face softens.

“Look at you.” He coos. “So pretty. So sexy like this. I imagined this, you know? When you had Seungkwan all over you, I imagined you under me.”

You whimper. The train of thought of last week’s party somehow riles him up again. His thrusts get harder, your skin stinging slightly with every ram of his hips into yours.

“And then there was fucking Soonyoung-” Seungcheol punches out. “Eyeing you like a piece of meat. If he got his hands on you, I would break every bone in his body.”

You mewl and shake your head vigorously. You can barely speak, but you’re desperate for him to know. “There’s no one, Cheolie. Only you. I only want you.”

You claw at his shoulders, tugging him down when you’re unable to resist, planting a searing kiss on his mouth. He groans into you.

“That’s right. Mine. My girl, my body, my cunt. All this is mine.”

You feel his hand sneak between your bodies so he can toy with your clit. It makes you cry out, already so sensitive from being toyed with.

“I’m not cumming until I feel your pussy milk it out of me.” He grunts, thrusts getting sloppier, and you keen. He’s determined to get you there one more time, and with how wound up you are, you know you will give it to him.

He cums at the same time as you, your walls contracting around his sloppy final thrusts. Your sweaty bodies writhe together, pressing into each other and on the bed, his hands digging into your hips and thighs while you rake your nails down his back. Finally, he buries himself deep and stills.

You sigh as tension slowly drains from your body. Seungcheol takes a moment before pulling out, flopping down next to you with a grunt and running a hand through his sweaty hair. You watch him and he eyes you back, a small smile crossing his face. He grips your arm and tugs, maneuvering you so you’re on your side, his front against your back. You giggle. It’s the same position, except this time, you’re both naked.

Silence descends over both of you, your eyelids heavy with slowly encroaching sleep. You’re roused when you hear Seungcheol softly speak.

“I meant it, you know?” He mumbles. “That I’m in love with you. Been in love with you for a while now.”

You can’t help your giddy smile. You rest your hand on the back of his and squeeze. “I have been too, for a while.”

You can feel his smile on the back of your neck. “Good.”

You fall asleep to his lips laying careful kisses on your shoulder.

So many paths that will never cross–this is a thought you constantly have as you stare at the museum and gallerygoers wandering through the exhibition hall, their footsteps muffled by the polished wood beneath them, their gazes fixed on frames capturing bodies, brushstrokes, and meaning.

You often find yourself watching people as much as you watch the art. Maybe it’s habit. Or maybe it’s the same flicker of wonder you felt the first time you ever walked into the Guggenheim Museum in New York. You’d gone to help a close friend move into the Columbia University dorms to start her first year as an architecture major, and she took you there on a whim. You didn’t expect to fall in love–not with a person, but with the silence between walls, with the hush of reverence, and with the people who stopped in their tracks, struck by something they couldn’t name. Art pieces obscure and beautiful of all shapes and sizes.

That feeling never left you. You chased it all the way to Seoul, through your grad school years at Seoul National University and working at their Museum of Art, through internships at Gana Art Center, and temporary roles at Gallery Hyundai and the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Seoul. You finally landed here at Kukje Gallery about eight months ago. First as an archivist. Now, you're curator.

And yet, for all the ways you study art, you’ve always studied people too.

You can’t help it. The way your mind drifts when you see a stranger paused in front of a sculpture or squinting at a canvas. The thoughts creep in.

Who are they? What brought them here today? What are they carrying that you’ll never know?

Moments of sonder, you’ve always called it. Realizing every person is living a life as vivid and complex as yours. Yet you pass each other without ever intersecting.

You’ve carried that thought with you ever since.

Still, you never acted on it. Not until one quiet afternoon, in late August, when your body moved before your mind could catch up.

He was tall. Broad shoulders, muscular frame. Thick thighs that tapered into lean legs. Thick-rimmed glasses, sometimes paired with a mask and a ball cap, sometimes not. His outfits rotated from pressed button-downs and slacks to oversized hoodies and shorts. Casual. Low-key. Purposefully anonymous.

He came often, yet never drew attention. Quiet. Observant. Always lingering in front of each painting for longer than most, as if he were dissecting every brushstroke, every nuance.

And despite the hundreds of visitors who passed through the gallery, there was something about him that made your eyes follow him every time.

One day, you left your desk to retrieve documents from the archive room across the hall. As you returned, you spotted him again. He was standing in front of Kim Heungsoo’s Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. There was something about his expression this time–creased brows, a slight frown. Frustration?

Your curiosity got the better of you.

“Something wrong?” you asked, in Korean.

His head jerked slightly, startled. “Huh?”

His eyes flicked to your chest–your name tag. L/N, F/N. Recognition flickered behind his lenses. Foreign name. He thinks he’s seen you here before, working. Somehow, that small confirmation calmed him.

You noticed the way his stance eased. Still quiet, still a little guarded, but less… rattled.

“Oh, uh,” you continued, “you looked like you were looking at the paintings and thinking really hard, so I was curious to see if you were okay.” Should you not have asked? Maybe he thinks you’re weird. You’re not sure why after all this time of observing people at museums looking at paintings, that you decided to finally interact with one of them in their most pensive moment.

He just nodded, weighing his next words. For a second, you thought he might brush you off. You wouldn’t blame him for it. But instead, he followed it up with a question. 

“Um, do you know who wrote these artwork label descriptions?”

“Oh, these?” You glanced at the placards and then back at him. “That would be me, the art curator of this gallery. Why?”

He glanced at you, and then back at the art, lost in thought.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he began, his gaze returning to the paintings. “I know art is subjective and open to interpretation, but…” He paused, then looked back at you. “I think you’re missing something in your interpretation of Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. Especially in terms of Kim Heungsoo’s perspective on form and desire. It’s not just about appreciation of the body. It’s about the subtle tension between abstraction and eroticism. Your labels don’t really touch on that.”

Your mouth opened, stunned. You weren’t used to being challenged–at least not like this.

“Uh, what do you mean? I studied these pieces,” you said, defensively. “I curated this exhibition. I spent months researching the cultural context, the artist’s interviews, the stylistic evolution–”

He gave a small shrug, then responded in English, shocking you completely.

“I still think you’re overlooking something important. But I’ll agree to disagree. Thanks.”

And with that, he turned and walked ahead. Just like that. Leaving you standing in the quiet gallery, blinking at the space he left behind.

He turned and walked away, disappearing further down the hall.

You stood frozen, utterly thrown off, appalled. What was that?

Did he just… mansplain a label you wrote? Who the hell is this guy? You doubt he’d have any understanding on erotic modern art pieces like you do. This is your forte after all. You learned about all of this through blood, sweat and tears. What does he know?

Ugh. It left you feeling like after eating a sour hard  candy,

You wanted to say something back. Something witty, cutting, professional yet scathing. But you held your tongue. You had a job to do. So you sighed, going back to the office as there were some remaining things you had to do before you head home.

Still… seriously? Who does he think he is?

A few weeks pass.

It’s a slow Tuesday evening in the late summer–still a bit warm, golden light stretching through the tall glass windows, shadows melting across the polished floor. Foot traffic is light. Most people don’t visit galleries on weeknights unless there’s a special event, and tonight, it’s just a few quiet souls drifting through the current nude modernist exhibition.

You’re at the front desk, going through the evening checklist, when a familiar figure enters. The same figure that lit a flame in you not too long ago.

This time, he isn’t wearing a mask. His black baseball cap casts a soft shadow over his face, but you see him clearly–hoodie, matching gray 5-inch shorts. Still effortlessly tall. And frustratingly… attractive. No surprise to be completely honest. There’s handsome men like him who frequent museums in Seoul just to feel something or to feel nothing, just performative for their social media or social rich circle.

You’re still mildly irritated with this guy as you see him approach a painting at the entrance, lost in his own thoughts. You shouldn’t play with fire, but something about him doesn’t let you just ignore him. So you stand behind him and pounce on the moment.

“Are you here to look at an exhibition and tell me I’m bad at my job again?” you ask dryly in English, remembering how this man went on a whole rant in Korean only to end it in perfect passive-aggressive English.

A small chuckle escapes him as he settles into your language. “Hey, no, I’m actually here to sign a few papers. I was just looking at the painting while waiting to see if one of the people I know here would come out, but even the front desk is vacant.” His head gestures to the empty front desk. You assume he wanted to see the chairwoman, who left to go to a small event earlier. Sekyung’s not even here to help because she went to grab dinner with a friend. So much for a quiet night.

“Oh, I see.” You quirk a brow. “Well, what papers did you need?” Once again, a hint of hesitation that you catch in seconds because it becomes nonchalance.

“I don’t really like to mention this because I hate bragging,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck, “but… I donated a bit of money to the gallery. Just to keep supporting research and future exhibitions. I like coming here, and I want to keep coming.”

You pause. Wait, what. Who the hell is he, even? Donating money for the arts? No way… but this would make so much sense as to why he was being so critical when you first met him.

Your tone softens, caught between guilt and surprise from your previous thoughts about him. “Oh? That’s actually really kind of you. I can pull up the paperwork for you. What’s your name?”

And again! The hesitation. A flicker in his eyes as he speaks before it goes away.

“…Kim Namjoon.”

Okay?

“Ah. Okay. Mr. Kim Namjoon.” You type it into the system, and sure enough, his name pops up. “I see you here and the pending paperwork. I’ll get the documents printed out.”

He watches you, his gaze studying your face with care. Still no flicker of recognition from you, he thinks.

Do you really not know who he is?

He doesn’t want to be obnoxious, but… he’s Kim Namjoon. BTS. Global phenomenon. Cultural ambassador. A foreigner like you must know who he is, right?

He waits for a double-take at any moment. Even a pause for you to say something about him.

But nothing.

“Oh,” you add, scrolling through the screen, “there’s also a form here about submitting your own pieces for a future exhibition? You collect art?”

His earlier thoughts dissolve. “Oh, uh–yeah. I do.”

“Well.” You flash him a tight-lipped smile. “That explains why you were so critical of my work. You’re a collector after all.” Another petty remark you throw out. Why are you like this? You’re going to get yourself fired if he reports you to the execs. 

He winces a little, chuckling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you the other day, Y/N.”

You freeze.

Your name.

You aren’t wearing your name tag today–you forgot it at home.

Your eyes slowly lift from the screen to meet his. Your heart thumps once, heavy in your chest.

“How did you…” you start, but your voice fades.

He looks back at you, unreadable behind his glasses and cap, and continues before you can press further. “I apologize about the other day. I was too deep in my thoughts and said something rude without thinking. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

I’m sorry, what?

Your fingers hover above the keyboard. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

Is this… an apology? From him? Mr. know-it-all?

You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “You don’t have to do anything. Really. It’s part of the industry. I’ve seen it happen to others when critics walk in–I just didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly. At least… not like that.”

He nods slowly, turning each of your words over in his mind. “I get that,” he murmurs. “I’m not a critic or anything, but I care too much about art sometimes. Especially when it moves me.”

“I can see that, but you’ve already given back to the gallery,” you reply, your voice softening. “That’s more than enough to show you care.”

“But I want to make it up to you, Y/N.”

You blink, caught off guard by his insistence. You hesitate.

Maybe this could help smooth over the tension between you two. He’s a donor. Maintaining good relations is in the gallery’s best interest–your best interest. For your research. Your exhibitions. Your job.

Yes. That’s a good reason.

“…Maybe,” you say slowly, eyes dropping. “Buy me a coffee?”

You bend down to retrieve the printed forms from the tray beside the desk. “Sign here on this page, and then again on the back.”

You place the papers in front of him and hand over a pen. Your fingers brush, just briefly, but it’s enough to send a flush creeping up your neck.

He signs quickly, glancing up afterward.

“How about dinner instead?” he asks. “I know a laid-back spot that has great food. No pressure–just… a peace offering.”

You look at him, a little amused, a little surprised.

“So this is how you bribe people you offend?” you tease.

His lips curve faintly. “Not exactly. Maybe I just want more than five minutes to talk about art… and to hear your point of view.”

You smile, slower this time, your gaze lingering.

“Then sure,” you say softly. “I’d like to hear more about your thoughts, too.”

“Alrighty.” He picks up one of the business cards in the acrylic holder on your desk, flips it over, and writes neatly–his number and KakaoTalk ID.

Namjoon slides the card across the counter. “I’ll message you. Does Friday evening work?”

You nod, tucking the card away into your blazer pocket. “Yeah. That works.”

He bows slightly before heading to the exit, the warm evening light catching the back of his hoodie as the glass doors slide open.

For a long moment, you just stare at the space he leaves behind.

You’re not sure what just happened.

Only that it leaves your heart beating faster than it should.

That night, after your shift, you return to your small studio apartment, kick off your shoes, and curl up on the couch with your phone still in hand.

A part of you hesitates. Should you message first? Will he really follow through?

[You] Hey! Just wanted to confirm for Friday. What’s the name of the place we’re meeting?

A moment passes. Then another. You tap out of the conversation, scroll through Instagram aimlessly, then tap back in.

Still nothing.

Then–a reply. A few minutes later.

[Namjoon]Yetnal Guksi in Yongsan. 8pm. Let me know if you have trouble finding it.

You pause, staring at the profile photo he uses–some anime character in profile, hair tousled, playing a saxophone. His display name isn’t even his real name. It’s a casual, half-joke Korean nickname. It doesn’t match the polished, reserved guy you met at the gallery at all.

But you don’t question it.

You type back:

You: Got it. Thanks. See you then.

And then, without overthinking it, you set your phone aside and go to bed.

You leave work earlier than usual. Your coworkers agree to cover the last two hours of special guest tours, and you’re quietly grateful.

Still, the journey is long. You take the subway from Anguk Station, transferring at the stop connected to Lotte Department Store. Weaving through corridors of glowing cosmetic ads and the rush-hour crowd, you switch lines again until you finally arrive at Noksapyeong Station.

From there, it’s a ten-minute uphill walk. The evening is starting to cool; your hair sticks slightly to the back of your neck as you pass small bars, cafés, and the slow hum of a residential neighborhood waking for dinner.

Almost an hour in total. Maybe you should have asked him to pick you up. But maybe he’s busy before this. Maybe that’s why he didn’t offer. You hope that’s the reason. And not that he’s some prick after all.

You finally arrive at Yetnal Guksi (옛날국시), a modest, old-school noodle joint with handwritten menus taped to the window and the steady clatter of bowls from inside. Nothing fancy, but comforting. You like that, honestly. You check your watch. 7:53 p.m.

He isn’t there yet.

You stand just off to the side of the entrance, pretending to browse your phone. Minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.

No Namjoon.

Your chest tightens. Anxiety blooms slowly beneath your ribs. You pride yourself on punctuality–getting somewhere early helps you stay calm. But it also means sitting in that discomfort longer when the other person doesn’t show.

At exactly 8:15pm, you send him a message.

You: “Hey, I’m here. Where are you?”

No reply.

A part of you starts to spiras. Maybe meeting him outside of work is a mistake. Did he seriously stand you up? Why bother giving you a time, a place? You’re not sure where he lives. Not like you bothered looking at any of his personal info in his file, but you can’t imagine he’d get here any time soon. It took you awhile to even get here yourself after all.

You suddenly feel eyes on you. An ajumma from the restaurant steps out, drying her hands on her apron.

“Are you coming in to eat, miss? Or…?” Her tone carries the unspoken question: Or are you just going to be loitering suspiciously outside this establishment?

“I’m waiting for someone,” you explain with a forced smile. “But he hasn’t arrived yet.”

Just as you finish, a soft gust of wind lifts your hair–and then a low voice behind you, in Korean: “I’m here.”

You turn.

Namjoon stands there, slightly breathless, baseball cap pulled low, a thin sheen of sweat on his neck. His hoodie clings to him like he jogged the last few blocks.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently, back in English. “I should’ve texted. Got caught in traffic.”

Irritation that was flickering inside you fades into relief.

He really came after all.

The ajumma nods at you both and waves you inside.

You follow Namjoon into the narrow space–walls slightly yellowed from time and oil, the clinking of metal chopsticks and bowls playing beneath the low hum of a TV in the corner.

Most diners are older–old people sharing soju, middle-aged couples eating quietly, a few solo regulars bent over their bowls. No one pays you any mind, which feels strangely comforting compared to other places out in Seoul.

Namjoon slides into a booth near the back, tucked by a wooden window cracked open for the breeze. You settle across from him, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as he pulls a laminated menu toward him.

“Want me to order for us?” he asks, glancing up.

“Please do. You said you’ve been here before, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. I come whenever I want something simple and quiet. Their bibimguksu is solid. And we’ll get a small plate of gomabap, too. Mini gimbap rolls.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He flags down the ajumma with a warm, familiar tone–nothing overly polite or stiff, but respectful, like he’s done this many times before.

Soon, two steel cups of barley tea are placed in front of you. You lean back slightly, watching him.

“You come here alone?” you ask.

“Uh, yeah, usually,” he says. “Sometimes with a friend or two, but mostly on my own. It’s pretty peaceful. Away from the crowd.”

You see why. Despite the lack of frills, the place has a worn charm. The light is yellow and soft. The air smells like sesame oil and chili paste. No one’s here to impress anyone.

When the food arrives, the scent makes your stomach flutter. The bibimguksu glistens red with sauce, sliced cucumbers and boiled egg resting on top, noodles glossy and tangled. The gomabap rolls sit neatly beside a small bowl of soy sauce.

You pick up your chopsticks, twist a bit of bibimguksu around them, and take a bite.

Your eyes widen instantly. “It’s really good!”

Namjoon smiles at your reaction. “I’m glad you like it too.”

“It’s… sweet, spicy, cold…mmm–it has so many layers. I wasn’t expecting this level of flavor.”

“Right? The sauce is just the right kind of fermented. And they don’t cheap out on the gochujang.”

You try a piece of gomabap with soft rice, crisp vegetables, a hint of sesame. Clean and light. Perfect alongside the fire of the noodles.

“I have to admit,” you say, grinning between bites, “I was kind of dreading it being bland. But this might be better than some trendy restaurants I’ve been to lately.” “That’s the thing,” he replies, leaning on one elbow. “Places like this… they don’t try hard. They just know what they’re doing.”

You nod thoughtfully, then look up. “So what’s your usual order here?” you ask, half-teasing. “Or is this it?”

“Sometimes kalguksu if I’m tired. But usually this.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face. “I didn’t want somewhere fancy. Figured this would be better.”

“It is,” you say sincerely. “Thank you for bringing me.”

He looks down for a moment, hiding how his smile pulls wider.

You fall into a comfortable rhythm–eating, talking, trading casual stories about art. You tell him about how you once dropped an entire tea tray at your old gallery job and cried in the archive room for twenty minutes. He tells you about buying a sculpture he thought was two feet tall but turned out taller than him. He hesitates to say where he ended up putting it, scared it might reveal too much. But despite all of his efforts to put up a wall to prevent you from learning too much about him. There’s a part of him that wants to tell you. He has a feeling. A good feeling. A feeling that you’re a safe person he can confide this with.

And once you ask him this question, it truly has battling with opening up himself to you, to his world.

“So what do you do for work outside the art world, Namjoon?”

Caught off guard, he wonders what to say. Should he really tell you he’s an idol? The fact you haven’t recognized him still surprises him. What would you say if he told you? Judge him? Freak out?

He reminds himself again that he doesn’t know you well, and the thought scares him to share too much given what he’s seen in the past. To him, to his members.

But he decides to be genuine. Lying feels worse. Plus, the feeling he has about you is something he’s never felt about someone before.

He sets down his chopsticks gently, wiping his hands on a napkin, stalling a moment. “I’m… actually a musician,” he says carefully, watching your reaction.

You blink, chopsticks hovering. “Oh, really? Like… producing? Or do you perform too?”

He hesitates. “Both.” You tilt your head, lips quirking. “That’s cool. What kind of music?”

He laughs softly, almost in disbelief. You still don’t know after all these hints, he thinks. 

“Mostly hip hop and pop. I’m… in a group. We’ve been around for a while.” A while is twelve years, he thinks.

Your brow furrows. “A group? Like a band?”

“Not exactly.” He leans in quietly, readying for the grand reveal. “BTS.”

A beat of silence.

You stare. For a moment, your brain lags behind your ears.

You run his words over–BTS–and something clicks. The glasses, the quiet composure, the careful words, the way he observes art like air. You knew about BTS–your close friend back home was obsessed with K-pop in her teen years, trying to rope you in with playlists and videos, especially featuring their “leader,” Rap Monster… or RM. You’d listened here and there, curious, but fangirling over K-pop always felt a little unrealistic. A little too delusional Life was hectic, so the interest faded.

You’d heard headlines about Kim Namjoon in the art world, maybe seen a photo or two online, but none of it mattered much–until now.

Now you’re here, eating dinner with him.

Your chopsticks lower slowly, words whispering out in the quietest voice, “Wait. Like… the BTS?”

He nods, almost sheepishly. “Yeah.”

You laugh, stunned, sitting back. “Wow. I… I didn’t recognize you at all. That’s insane.”

His eyes flick to yours, searching for a change in tone. But there isn’t one. You’re not freaking out. Not grabbing your phone. Just surprised. Maybe a little amused. A bit of disbelief too.

“I thought you looked familiar,” you admit. “But I didn’t want to assume. You didn’t act like… you know. Someone that famous. So i shrugged it off,”

“I try not to,” he murmurs. “It gets tiring.”

“I can imagine.”

You pause, looking down at your nearly-empty bowl, gathering thoughts. “So that’s why you knew so much about those pieces. You’ve probably been studying art a long time.”

“I try. It started as just going to a museum while on tour years ago. Purely a hobby, just collecting, but now it’s… part of my life. Something I love.”

You nod slowly, still a little floored but smiling. “Well, you’re were still kind of rude about my curated labels.”

That makes him laugh, low and genuine, warming your cheeks.

“Yeah. I deserved that.”

You sip barley tea, shaking off the surreal feeling of sitting across from a global icon who just asked you to dinner at a tiny, greasy spoon. But he’s still the same man who stands in front of paintings, deeply, frustratingly thoughtful.

He doesn’t ask for special treatment, and you won’t give it.

You lean your chin into your palm, eyes softening across the table.

“I’m glad you told me.”

His gaze meets yours, grateful behind his glasses. “Me too.”

You both linger over the last bites, the plates mostly cleared, spice tingling pleasantly on your tongue. The restaurant has thinned out, leaving only a few older couples finishing in silence. The air is warm and still, laced with sesame oil and the clink of silver chopsticks against ceramic.

Namjoon sets down his spoon, wiping his hands with a napkin. “That was nice,” he says quietly, the moment calling for softness.

“It was,” you agree, smiling. “I’m glad you didn’t stand me up.”

His hand comes up, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was close, apparently.”

You both laugh.

“I should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone. “It’s getting late.”

“I can take you home,” he offers immediately.

You shake your head gently, already anticipating. “That’s sweet, but I live a bit far. The train’s faster.”

A flicker of hesitation passes his face.

“But,” you add, standing, light in your voice, “if you’re not in a rush… I wouldn’t mind you walking me to the station. Just ten more minutes.”

That makes him smile–the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to grin. “Yeah. I can do ten minutes.”

Outside, the night greets you with a soft breeze. Namjoon quietly pulls a black face mask from his pocket and tugs it over his nose and mouth. You notice but don’t comment. It makes sense.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say after a few steps, voice light but sincere. “I won’t tell anyone… about you. I’ve worked with private clients before. I know how to keep things quiet. If you want, I’ll sign something.”

He chuckles, low and warm beneath the mask. “I’m not going to make you sign anything. Honestly, I get a sense about people. And I don’t think you’d do that.”

You glance at him as you walk. “Thanks for trusting me.”

He shrugs, hands in pockets. “It’s not just that. I… don’t have many female friends to talk art with. Mostly my younger sister, my mom or older gallery owners and retired curators who send me handwritten notes.”

You smile at the image. “I feel honored to be in such company.”

He laughs quietly. “No, I’m honored to have you spend time with me. I’d like to see you again. If you’re up for it.”

“I’d like that,” you say, meaning it.

You continue toward the station in a quiet, easy rhythm. Just two people sharing a corner of the night.

This is the nice boundary to keep. He escorts you to the front entrance of Noksapyeong Station, the traffic humming low in the background, headlights glinting off passing cars. You come to a stop just before the stairs lead down.

“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice muffled slightly behind the mask but still warm.

“That sounds good. See you around, maybe, Namjoon?” You give him a polite bow, hands folded in front of you. It feels a little too formal for what tonight was, but you don’t know what else to do. When you rise, you catch the flicker of something in his eyes–like he wants to say more, maybe even lean in and hug you, but holds himself back.

Silly Namjoon, he thinks to himself. He can’t afford to be careless in public. Not here. Not with who he is. Any passerby could snap a photo, leak a name, turn a small moment into a scandal. And the last thing he’d want is to inconvenience you with something like that. You’re a kind and smart woman, he thinks. A bit feisty, but he find that endearing. Even just by the conversations he had today, his heart began feeling something, which is rare for him.

Despite all his thoughts about you, he settles on a soft, almost wistful smile. “Will see you sometime in the future. Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night,” you say, your voice quiet as you disappear down the stairs, heading home.

Two weeks pass. No messages.

You don’t dwell on it. Not really. You get it. This is RM. Kim Namjoon. BTS. You’d be naïve not to assume his days are consumed by meetings, recording, traveling, photoshoots, whatever comes with being who he is. You heard he was recently discharged from the military. It makes sense he’s adjusting, returning to a rhythm that doesn’t leave much room for casual texts or catching up with the art gallery girl.

So, on a quiet Saturday afternoon, you throw on an old tee and decide to do a deep clean of your loft in Myeongdong. The space is small but cozy, perched above a cosmetics shop with a big bay window that lets in too much sun during the afternoon. You don’t mind. It’s not like you’re home that often anyway.

You’re wiping down your kitchen shelf, halfway through reorganizing your spices, when your phone buzzes on the counter.

[namjoon] hey y/n. i apologize, i've been busy so i haven't had the time to message you. how have you been?

You stare at the screen for a beat, lips quirking before you even realize it.

And just like that, the long, continuous, conversation begins. Slowly at first. Then steadily. Messages weaving in and out across days, with gaps and time zones and all the signs of two people trying to find a bubble of time in the chaos of their lives. He asks about your favorite artists. You ask what exhibitions he’s excited for. The conversation flows easily over the course of days–sometimes a few texts a day, sometimes long pauses between messages–but neither of you seems to mind. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing.

You both fall into rhythm talking about painters and sculptors and entire exhibitions you wish you could relive. Namjoon talks about his admiration for Yun Hyong-Keun–how the earth tones and minimalist brushwork feel deeply meditative to him–and how Kim Whan-Ki’s dot paintings remind him of memory fragments and starlight. He brings up Roni Horn too, her approach to identity and landscape through sculpture and photography. And Thibaud Hérem, with those intricate architectural drawings. “There’s a weird comfort in the details,” he texts. “It’s obsessive, but beautiful.”

You tell him you’ve always been drawn to the emotional tension in Rothko’s color fields, the sense of vast stillness in Agnes Martin’s grids, and the chaotic sensuality in Cecily Brown’s layered canvases. You mention you once stood in front of Girl on a Swing for twenty minutes, not even realizing you’d been holding your breath. He sends a voice message: “I totally get that. Brown’s stuff is like... the aftermath of a dream.”

Namjoon replies late one night with:

You pause, rereading that line. There’s something deeply sincere in the way he talks about art–as if it’s a language he’s been speaking longer than he’s known himself.

[you]Woah, I’ve always wanted to go. Rothko makes me feel both grounded and like I’m floating. It’s weird but calming.

The next morning, he sends a photo of his bookshelf–several monographs, poetry collections, and a thick exhibition catalog from a Kim Whan-Ki retrospective.

You send a picture of your coffee table covered in old gallery pamphlets and the Cecily Brown zine you picked up in London.

You ask what exhibitions in Seoul he’s excited for. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing. 

Later on he asks about your favorite music artists. You talk about what brought you to Korea, the music you listen to–The Marías, Emotional Oranges, Frank Ocean, Wave to Earth, Se So Neon.

He likes them too. You exchange playlists. Listen to new music you’ve never listened to before. You tell him you paint in your free time. For fun, not for any hope of becoming famous. He says he admires that, because he only painted something once and thought it’s not his thing after all.

Gardening comes up. He says it calms his mind. You have several plants as well though, you accidentally forget to give them water and have killed a few in the past. He tells you he’ll help you pick the right ones that will be easier to care for next time. You say, next time?

You even get into film. One night, the thread leads to Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he texts. “I love how it plays with longing and detachment.”

You admit you haven’t seen it.

A pause, then:

[namjoon] do you want to watch it together?

Your thumbs hesitate above the screen.

[you] uhh, how is that gonna work? is it showing in theaters again?

His reply is instant:

[namjoon]lmao no. it came out a few years ago. we can stream it.

You bite your lip, grinning.

[you] so… you’re inviting me over to your place?

Seen.

Typing…

[namjoon]only if you’re okay with that. no pressure.

Typing…

[namjoon] i’ll even make you tea. or wine. or beer. or ramen. whatever works.

You stare at the message. Then you smile to yourself, heart beating just a little faster.

[you] only if it’s good ramen.

[namjoon] challenge accepted.

October 11th.

It’s another Saturday, exactly three weeks since Namjoon messaged you again after that dinner, and now you’re standing at the entrance to Nine One Hannam.

The building looms ahead, all sleek lines and understated opulence, tucked behind tall stone walls and trimmed hedges. A sign gleams beside the entrance gate. You’ve heard whispers about this place before. A-listers, diplomats, generational wealth. The kind of neighborhood with valet spots for Teslas and private elevators.

And apparently, this is where he lives. Kim Namjoon.

You pause a few feet away, adjusting your long cardigan as your nerves start to hum. Are you seriously going in there? Is this outfit appropriate for a casual hang out with you, art mutual? These thoughts linger as you look down to your outfit: a navy blue oversized cardigan, a white spaghetti tank top, a denim mini skirt, white converse sneakers.

You spot the small booth outside the pedestrian gate, a security officer already eyeing you as you walk up. The air feels strangely still, as if even the trees here breathe quieter.

You clear your throat. “Hi, I’m here to visit Unit 244A.”

The officer–middle-aged, buzz cut, clearly alert–looks you over with polite suspicion. A foreigner, he likely notes. He reaches for a clipboard and pulls up the visitor log.

“Name?”

“Y/N L/N.” You hand him your ID without hesitation, just like Namjoon told you to do.

He checks the list, confirming. A subtle nod. “Alright. Go on in.”

You give him a quick thank you, stepping past the gate. The building ahead is massive, its exterior modern but quiet in that rich-people-don’t-need-to-try-hard kind of way. Your sneakers feel too loud on the pavement. And now that you’re in–how the hell are you supposed to find his unit?

“Hey.”

You practically leap out of your skin.

He’s there. Namjoon, leaning casually against the wall, dressed down in a forest green Tyler, The Creator Chromakopia Tour hoodie, the hood pulled halfway over his face. His black shorts barely hit his knees, and his long legs look even taller without trying. He’s got his phone in hand, smiling as if this whole thing is the most normal Saturday hangout in the world.

“God, you scared me!” you exclaim, laughing in relief.

He chuckles, easy and deep. “It’s hard to explain directions to a place like this in English, so I figured I’d just come down and walk you up.”

“Well, thank you for the rescue,” you say, nudging his arm lightly.

“You’re welcome,” he grins. “Let’s go. I got food delivered for this occasion, instead of ramen.” “No ramen?” You say sarcastically. “Might just go home then.”  “Oh, come on. I got something better,” He gently tugs at your shoulders with both hands, before pulling away. He had a moment of realization that maybe he was being a bit touchy when he hasn’t been like this to you before. He’s been like this with his members ever since they all came back from enlistment, but never with anyone else. He doesn’t want you to think he’s weird, like some of these other men out in this city. The walk to his building is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and distant birdsong. Inside, the elevator glides up without a sound, and he makes some small talk–but it doesn’t feel awkward. There’s a calm between you two that neither of you feels the need to fill.

When you step into his unit, you blink in surprise.

It’s spacious–more spacious than you thought any Seoul apartment could be. A clean hallway leads into an open-concept living room, where daylight pours through sheer curtains. Stacks of books sit against the walls, climbing toward the ceiling like curated towers. A soft grey couch stretches along the far end, low to the ground, lived-in but elegant. Potted plants fill corners. Sculptures and minimalist furniture round out the space.

But the art. The art.

“Whoa,” you whisper. “This place is… beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Namjoon says, sliding off his slippers. “Took a while to make it feel like home. Got some pieces I really care about, too.”

Your eyes sweep over the walls and freeze immediately on one familiar work.

“Oh my god–” you gasp, walking closer without even thinking. “You have Roni Horn’s ‘But the Boomerang That Returns is Not the Same One I Threw’ artwork? That’s so cool!”

He grins at your recognition, clearly pleased. “Oh yeah! That one hits me hard the first time I see it. I keep thinking about how memory isn’t linear and how we come back to people and places and ideas changed. I have to get it.”

You step closer, looking at the piece with reverence. “You know, I referenced this once in a thesis. It’s about the circularity of memory in contemporary installation art. This line stays with me.”

Namjoon smiles, brushing his knuckles over the side of his hoodie. “See? I knew you’re the right person to talk about this stuff with.”

You turn to him, arching a brow. “Are you saying you lured me here with art and food?”

“Maybe a little,” he laughs. “But mostly for the company.”

You flush slightly, feeling the easy warmth between you again. He motions toward the couch. “Come over, let’s eat before it gets cold.”

You sit on the soft, clean-lined sofa while Namjoon brings over the food–a spread of tteokbokki, fried mandu, japchae, and a couple of dishes you don’t recognize. “You weren’t kidding when you said food was already here.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says as he sits next to you, cracking open a couple of sparkling waters.

Impress you? There really is no need for that. If anything, you should be the one trying to impress him, the client of the art museum you work for.

The two of you begin eating. Between bites, you look around the curated chaos of his apartment–organized piles of art books, records stacked near a turntable, a small bonsai on the windowsill, and paintings and prints on nearly every wall. There’s a calm sense of order to it all, but nothing sterile. It feels lived in, thoughtful. Like him.

“Do you ever get overwhelmed living here?” you ask softly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of sweet potato japchae.

“Yeah,” he admits, “sometimes it feels too big. I’m used to small spaces. But I’ve learned to make it feel... grounding. Plants help. Books help. Art helps.”

You nod. “I get that. Your place doesn’t feel like a celebrity’s house. It feels like a collector’s sanctuary.”

He smiles at that, modest but proud. “That’s kind of what I want.”

After you finish eating, he clears the plates while telling you to scroll through streaming apps looking for Decision to Leave.

“It’s on here,” you call out. “Should I start it?”

“Go for it,” he replies from the kitchen, rinsing off a bowl. “You want beer? I’ll get some out from the fridge after I’m done?”

“Oh yes, please.”

By the time he comes over and dims the lights, the film has begun. He settles in beside you on the couch again, this time a little closer. Your elbows nearly touch.

The opening scenes of Decision to Leave unfold quietly. Detective Haejun, a murder mystery, his insomnia, his marriage already dissolving at the seams. A routine case turning seductive, falling for a strange foreigner, his restraint slowly breaking.

You watch in silence, fingertips loosely wrapped around the sweating bottle of beer, but your focus begins to drift–not from the film, but from the proximity. The way Namjoon’s arm lightly brushes yours when he shifts. How his thigh rests just close enough to yours that you have to force yourself not to notice.

You try to focus on the film, but from the corner of your eye, you see the way his arms fold, the slope of his shoulders, the flickering light catching on the sharp cut of his jawline.

Ten minutes in, a sex scene fills the screen. Slow, quiet, achingly intimate but very awkward.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of your own breathing. Of Namjoon’s proximity. His scent, clean, soft, like cedar and something faintly citrusy, fills your lungs.

You clear your throat.

He doesn’t look at you, but he smirks. “It’s... definitely not a movie to watch on a first hangout,” he murmurs, chuckling as his eyes stay on the screen.

“You didn’t mention that,” you pout, sinking lower into your seat.

“I forgot, I swear!”

You let out a breathy laugh and try to focus.

Every now and then, you glance at Namjoon, who watches with furrowed brows, like he’s mentally cataloging everything. It’s kind of attractive.

“I’ve always loved how Park Chanwook balances contradiction,” Namjoon murmurs during a lull in the dialogue. “Like that line–‘grief as an envelope or slowly spreading ink.’ It’s brutal, but elegant.”

You turn to him, the glow of the screen painting your profile. “That one gets me too. The metaphors in this film are so carefully placed. It’s not just a love story at all.”

He nods. “Yeah. Like when the detective lies to his wife about sushi, but brings the best for Seo-rae. His values contradict, but love bends people that way.”

“Oh! You’re so right!”

You realize he’s such a yapper; now you’re really hanging out with him in the comfort of his home.

“You like Yun Hyong-Keun, right?” he asks at one point during a slow moment. “That scene with the fog rolling through the mountains? It reminds me of his palette. That kind of smoky grief.”

You nod. “I see the vision, filled with the same exact emotions.”

He turns his head to look at you. “You really know how to talk about art.”

You smile, a little shy. “It’s kind of my job.”

Later, when Haejun mentions he has insomnia, Namjoon stirs beside you. “That part hits close.”

You turn to him, brows drawn. “You have insomnia?”

He gives a half-shrug. “Since I was in the military. Something about the routine… or the lack of it. Stress, maybe. Sometimes I think it’s just residual from everything–work, my members, the future. Not knowing what will happen while I’m in there and when we get out.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he says “we.”

You want to say something comforting, but then Seo-rae whispers: “I wish I could give you a piece of my sleep. Just like a battery.”

That’s it.

You both fall quiet.

Neither of you speak for a while after the credits roll. The silence that follows isn’t awkward–it’s full. A current of thoughts stretching out beneath the stillness, taut and invisible.

You finally speak. “You know… when Haejun tells her to throw away the phone, he’s basically telling her to hide the murder, right? But to me, that’s the closest he ever gets to saying ‘I love you.’ Because if he didn’t, he’d let her get caught.”

Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow. “Yeah, it’s tragic. But it’s also… pure, in a way. Like loving someone means making a choice that could destroy you.”

Loving someone… it’s been too long since you’ve done that. Why bother thinking about this now?

You turn toward Namjoon now, fully. The room is dark but you can still see him, his brows drawn in quiet thought, the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes.

After a pause, he sets his empty beer bottle down, the soft clink echoing in the quiet. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“It’s getting late,” he says. “But I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. It’s gonna take a few hours, but that’s life.”

You hesitate for a second, then lean in just a little, close enough to really look at him. “Might be silly, but I wish I could give you my sleep,” you say softly. “So you could rest. So you didn’t have to carry so much, all the time. Living the life of an idol. Plus, I don’t really need mine anyway.”

Namjoon turns his head toward you, his expression faltering for a moment. Like your words knock the wind out of him a little. There’s something startled in his eyes, almost boyish. But then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. Small. Disbelieving. Touched.

He laughs once…quiet, breathy. Not teasing. Not dismissive. Just... moved. Like maybe he hasn’t heard something so gentle in a while. But you think otherwise, “Sorry! It’s late and I’m just yapping away. I don’t know–”

“Is that your way of telling me you like me?”

The question lands like a spark in your chest.

Your eyes go wide. “H-Huh?”

Your heart stumbles. Trips. Nearly crashes. The beer bottle in your hand feels like an anchor now–too cold, too slippery. You suddenly feel very aware of everything: the slope of his knees beside yours, the faint warmth radiating from where your thighs nearly touch, the low hum of the movie credits still rolling.

“I–I mean–not like that,” you blurt out. “Not like Seorae or anything, I think I’m just a bit tipsy so the words just–”

Namjoon lifts his hand in mock defense, grinning now, though not unkindly. “I’m kidding,” he says, the words slow and gentle. “Just teasing.”

But the glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. And neither does the silence that follows.

You take a breath, trying to ease your pulse. “Don’t play around like that, Namjoon,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching downward. “Don’t you have someone you’re with?”

The words fall out before you can stop them.

Regret pricks at you the moment they hang in the air. because it sounds invasive. And maybe it is. You’ve established this simple friendship through your love for art and other miscellaneous things, but questions about anything else–his members, his deeper relationships, his family–certainly feel off-limits.

You shift your gaze down to the neck of your bottle, feigning casualness, even though your mind is screaming. God, he’s thirty-one. He’s too attractive. Too grounded. There’s no way he’s not seeing someone. Even if it's not public. It’s not like you keep up with tabloids, but every friend you’ve had who followed Western bands swore up and down about many secret flings and long-term hidden lovers. Why would Namjoon be any different?

Why wouldn’t he?

But then he answers.

“No,” he says simply. Calmly.

Your eyes snap back up to his face.

He meets your gaze without hesitation, his posture still relaxed. But there’s a weight behind his words that makes them feel true. Not performative. Not for effect. Just honest.

“I’m not,” he repeats. “I haven’t dated in a long time. There was someone over four years ago. And someone else… maybe seven years before that.” There were others he was seeing for a bit, but it never evolved into anything. And usually always, he seemed to be the root cause of that. Not really worth mentioning that, he thought.

He shrugs one shoulder slightly, as if brushing it off, but the quiet undercurrent in his tone betrays him.

“They didn’t last. Not because they weren’t good people. They just–” He pauses. “There wasn’t really time before. Not real time. Not the kind where you could actually… show up for someone.”

You stare at him now. Not just his face, but his whole being. The slope of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw. The lines around his eyes that you now recognize not as age but weariness. You wonder how many pieces of himself he’s had to give away. How much of him is left for himself. For this version of him now–barefoot on a couch in sweats, sipping beer with you at midnight.

You’re about to respond when he shifts, looking over at you again.

“What about you?” he asks, and there’s something shy behind it. Hesitant. Like maybe your answer matters more than it should.

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Me? I haven’t dated in a while either,” you admit. “College was… busy. Two or three flings that never really turned into anything. I always chose work, my projects. I guess I just figured there wasn’t room for both.”

Namjoon listens intently, eyes on you, head slightly tilted.

You swallow, voice softer now. “And at some point… I think I just stopped believing I was the kind of person people waited for. I settled just to not date.”

The room falls quiet.

He looks at you–not just looks, but it feels as if he sees you. Like you opening up about your love life rearranged something in him. His brow softens. He sits up a little straighter, knees brushing yours.

“That’s not true,” he says, voice low and sure. “You’re... someone people definitely remember.”

His hand reaches out, tentative, searching. His fingers graze the side of your face, knuckles brushing your cheek in a slow, reverent touch. You freeze under it, heart in your throat.

He leans in a little closer. Not rushing, not assuming. Just closing the distance like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you don’t move. You’re eagerly waiting for the next move.

And your voice wavers. “Namjoon…”

“I’m not trying to complicate anything,” he says, his forehead nearly touching yours now. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about you… and I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want to know you beyond art.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

And in the next moment, you both move–together, unsure of who initiates–but it doesn’t matter. Your lips meet in a kiss that’s hesitant at first, barely a brush. Then again, longer. Surer. Warmer.

Namjoon feels the shape of your mouth, the curve of your breath, the way you sigh into him like you’ve wanted this too.

God, he thinks. She tastes like an escape. A great escape. From all his stress. From sleepless nights. From this whole life he chose to live many years ago.

You both pause, pulling back a fraction, breath mingling. The room pulses with something unspoken.

Then you dive in again. This time slower. Deepening. Exploring. His hand cups your face more fully, thumb stroking your cheekbone as if to memorize the curve of it.

You kiss again and again, and somewhere in the middle of it, you shift forward, knees brushing his. He pulls you in gently, and before you know it, you're climbing into his lap. Straddling him.

Your knees are planted on the cushions below, your hands resting on his shoulders as you settle against him, close enough to feel his heartbeat hammering through the thin cotton of his hoodie.

Namjoon lets out a low breath, stunned at first. Then his hands move instinctively to your hips, steadying you, holding you there like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real. 

You’re facing him now, fully, and the sight of you this close, your flushed cheeks, your kiss-bitten lips, the wide, searching look in your eyes, undoes him.

You feel his breath against your neck, his hands warm through the fabric of your tank top. He tilts his forehead to rest against yours, the closeness unbearable in the best way.

“Fuck…I’ve thought about this,” he admits, voice roughened with restraint. “A lot.”

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

“You have?” you whisper.

Namjoon nods. His eyes flick between your own. “Since that evening I saw you at the museum. Since you sent me instagram reels that reminded you of things i’ve mentioned.” He grins, but it fades fast into something more serious. “Since you told me what you loved about Yun Hyong-Keun. Since I’ve seen you wear these sexy, yet simple, casual outfits,”

Your breath hitches.

“I’ve tried not to think about it too much,” he continues. “Tried to stay in control. Be good. Remember that you’re a curator probably just trying to maintain a good relationship with me, your client. But that wasn’t just it for me. You’re just not easy to forget.”

Neither are you, you think. In the last few weeks, you’ve grown to wait for his messages, and hear about his thoughts and his feelings. You’ve enjoyed him sending you selfies. You’ve thought about him late at night. But the words don’t come out to let him know.

Instead, you lean in again. And this time, there’s nothing tentative about it.

And underneath it all, you have no idea how long he’s wanted this.

To touch you. To consume you. It might’ve even been from the moment he met you. Reading your labels, opening up a new world to him that amused and frustrated him at the same time.

His hands grip your hips more firmly now, thumbs pressing into the rough fabric of your denim skirt as your mouths crash together again–deeper, messier. You're no longer holding back. The second your hips rock forward, you both inhale sharply. It’s instinct, friction, need–years of restraint unraveling between stolen breaths. You want to feel him, no, need to feel him.

Namjoon groans softly against your mouth, like the pressure against his cock beneath his  shorts surprises him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you feel how hard he is beneath you–thick and straining against the cotton of his shorts. Your breath stutters. You grind down again.

“Shit,” he whispers, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he sucks in air. “You can’t… you can’t move like that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” you breathe, the words barely formed. “I mean it.”

Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, pulling him in as your hips start a slow, grinding rhythm against his. There’s nothing frantic about it. Just drawn-out, indulgent friction. Dry, but heady. Heated. Real.

Namjoon kisses your throat now, lips warm and reverent, dragging along your skin like he’s desperate to memorize the taste of you. You tilt your head back to give him more, gasping when his tongue darts out to soothe where his teeth grazed. His hands remove your cardigan and slip under your tank, splaying wide against your back, dragging up slowly until his thumbs brush just under your breasts.

You arch into him. He pulls back slightly, searching your face.

“Okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, trembling with restraint.

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

And then his hands find your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your blue lace bra. Your back curves with the sensation, thighs tightening around him, as a low moan escapes you. He watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and reverent.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck.”

Your hips grind down harder, and the sound that escapes him is almost guttural. He grabs your waist with both hands, guiding your movements now, slow and deep, grinding the shape of his cock against your clothed center.

Every motion sends sparks along your spine.

When Namjoon’s fingers slip under the hem of your tank. He doesn’t rush. He just pauses there, his thumbs brushing soft circles against your skin. Then he tugs, gently, not forceful, not demanding. Just a question, wordless but clear.

Your breath catches. The haze in your head lifts slightly, the thrum of arousal edged now with hesitation.

You pull back a little, just enough to meet his gaze. “Wait…” you say softly, fingers curling around his wrist to still him. “Can I tell you something first?”

Namjoon’s eyes are immediately alert, open. “Of course.”

You take a breath. Then another.

“I’m not really… confident about my body,” you admit, trying to keep your voice steady. But it honestly just sounds like word vomit. “Especially not with my chest. My boobs are kind of… weird? They’re not perky. They droop, but not in that cute teardrop way people talk about online or show in porn. They’ve always been like that. Just… heavy. Uneven. And I guess I always worried that guys wouldn’t know what to do with them. Or worse, would see them and just… lose interest.”

God, he’s going to think you’re ridiculous, isn’t he?

However, Namjoon just stares at you for a moment, and then he smiles. So soft, so full of something almost like wonder. A giggle slips from him, not mocking but sweet and earnest.

You blink. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” he says, resting his forehead briefly against yours, “You’re talking to someone who once spent an hour staring at Koo Bon-woong’s Nabu at the MMCA, completely mesmerized by the lines of a woman’s back and the uneven curve of her breasts.” His hand strokes slowly over your side, not daring to go further yet. “Or Lee Kwae-dae’s 기대어 앉은 나부 1940년대. Have you seen it? One breast is visibly fuller than the other. Her arms look a little too long. It’s imperfect. But it’s alive. It stays with you.”

You swallow, something cracking open in your chest.

God, you really picked a intelligent man.

“Art doesn’t care about symmetry,” Namjoon continues gently. “It cares about presence. About the truth of something. And you…” His voice drops, reverent now. “You’d be a masterpiece. No matter how you look.”

Your eyes sting suddenly. You don’t know what to say.

Namjoon leans in, kissing your cheek, your jaw. “I want to see you,” he murmurs. “Only if you want me to. But I promise, there’s nothing here that could scare me off.”

You hesitate one last second. Then you nod.

And when he lifts your tank off, slow and careful, his eyes don’t drift. They stay locked on yours, until the fabric slips away and your skin meets the air between you.

Namjoon exhales. A soft, almost awestruck sound.

His hands glide up your sides, reverent, and he murmurs something in Korean under his breath you don’t quite catch. But you can feel the meaning in the way he holds you. Tender. Certain. Present.

Like you were never anything less than art.

And then his mouth is on you again, kissing a path down your collarbone, over the swell of your breast. His hand comes up to cup you while his lips close around your nipple, tongue swirling, sucking gently. New sensations storming through you with these actions.

“Namjoon–” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair.

“They’re beautiful, just as i thought.”

He moans against your skin, one hand lifting up your skirt to rub at your clit covered by your blue panties. It only pushed Namjoon further seeing that you matched your lingerie just to come hang out with him. You rock into his touch, needy, grinding down onto his hand and the firm press of his cock beneath you. The pressure is maddening. Delicious. Not enough.

You both move like you’re chasing something–chasing release, connection, the safety of each other’s hands. His thumb rubs slow circles where you’re aching, and your whole body shudders. You’re soaking through your underwear, can feel the wet heat smeared against the curve of him through all the layers between you.

Namjoon’s head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as your hips roll harder, faster. “Fuck, if we keep going–”

“I know,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “But I want to.”

He kisses you again–desperate now. Bruising. Starved. You rut against each other in sync, messy and quiet, until both of you are trembling.

Your breath hitches. Your stomach coils tight. You’re so close.

“I–” you start, but your voice breaks. He hears it anyway. Feels it in the way your body tenses.

“Come for me,” he whispers, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Just like this. I’ve got you.”

You do. With a broken cry muffled against his shoulder, you shake in his arms as your orgasm hits. It rips through you, drawn out by the relentless friction and the heat of his voice in your ear.

Namjoon curses low, grinding up into you a few more times before his hips stutter beneath you. He buries his face in your neck, breath shattering as he comes hard, cock twitching in his shorts against the soaked heat of your center. His grip on you tightens, then softens.

The silence after is thick. Heavy with breath. With everything that just passed between you.

Eventually, you both go still. Your forehead rests against his, your chest still heaving.

Namjoon chuckles softly, breathless. “Shit, so much for taking it slow.”

“Agh, I’m actually embarrassed.” You laugh weakly, arms still wrapped around him. “We didn’t even make it off the couch.”

He chuckles, “Don’t be embarrassed. I don’t regret this at all,” he murmurs, voice low and tender.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, smile against his cheek.

“Neither do I, though now i can’t go home like this.” you groan, carefully getting off of him not trying to stain his likely very expensive grey couch. “Just throw your ruined clothes in the washer,” he says, nodding toward the laundry area. “Stay the night.”

“Stay the night?” You blink, caught off guard.

He reaches for your hand and threads his fingers through yours. “It’s late anyway. I don’t want you out there with all the drunkards on a Saturday night. I’ll get you one of my shirts…”

Wearing one of his oversized shirts does sound dangerously comfortable, but then he adds with a smirk:

“After we move to the bed and finish what we started.”

Oh my god.

“Kim Namjoon?!” you gasp, then lower your voice with a sharp whisper. “Did you plan this all along? Are you really that deprived of sex as an idol–?”

“Yes. God, yes,” he giggles, dimples flashing. “But hey–I didn’t know you’d actually feel the same way. You played into it too, so we’re in this together.”

You roll your eyes, heart thudding wildly. You had thought about it, of course. But the risk, the reality of getting involved with someone like him always held you back. And yet, he’s the one making the moves. Making it real. And harder to resist.

“I was perfectly content being art buddies,” you mutter, teasing.

“But now we’re doing more than just talking about art. Doing art,” he grins.

“Clearly.”

“Starting again…right now,” he declares before scooping you up into his arms. You yelp in surprise.

“W–Woah! Hey!”

He mutters something under his breath–probably praying he doesn’t drop you–and somehow makes it to the bed in one piece. He sets you down gently, brushing your hair back from your face.

“I have condoms,” he says, already reaching for the drawer in his nightstand.

“Good to know,” you reply, then cock an eyebrow. “But… you’re not gonna make me sign an NDA or anything? This is kind of a big risk, no?”

Namjoon looks at you seriously, hand pausing on the packet. “I already told you. I trust you. There’s no need for all that.” “I admire that,” you say softly. “And I’d never dream of telling anyone. Not even my K-pop-loving friends from back home. They’d combust on the spot and probably crucify me.”

“Glad to hear it,” he murmurs, then leans in to kiss you again.

The kiss deepens quickly, all tongue and hunger. He lifts your knees gently, unbuttoning your skirt, fingers hooking onto your underwear and skirt and sliding them down with care. You shiver when the cool air hits your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by his touch–his fingers slipping between your thighs, finding your slick heat.

He strokes you slowly at first, kissing you through each quiet moan, then teasing your entrance with one careful finger, then two. When he feels how wet you are, he pulls back from your lips and shifts lower, eyes full of dark, focused hunger.

You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel his mouth on you–warm, insistent, devoted. His tongue slips inside you and your head falls back with a strangled cry. He groans against you like he’s starving for it, like the taste of you is something he’s imagined far too many times.

You buck your hips against his mouth, chasing the wave rising in your core–but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he pulls away.

“Wait–what–”

Immediate sexual frustration hits you.

But then he flips you gently onto your stomach, his hand sliding under your hips to raise them. You hear the soft rustle of clothes being shed, followed by the rip of a foil packet.

“I’m going to put it in, that okay?” His voice is hoarse with restraint.

You nod into the pillow, voice a breathy whisper. “Y–yeah–ah!”

He presses into you slowly, the stretch making your eyes fly open.

“Oh fuck–” you choke out, nails gripping the sheets. “Couldn’t even wait, damn..” “I’ve been waiting a bit too long, baby.”

Oh, baby…

You haven’t even seen his dick–but you can feel how big he is. Each inch pushes deeper, and your body trembles around him, overwhelmed. 

Is it even possible to fit it inside you? You’ve been thoroughly prepped, but still! You haven’t done this in a few years.

Namjoon lets out a low groan behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You feel–fucking amazing…”

Namjoon’s thrusts start slow–but deep. Each drag of his hips feels like he’s trying to memorize the way your body fits around him, how you twitch and squeeze at every pullback. But it doesn’t take long for him to build rhythm, and then he’s pounding into you like he can’t help himself.

“F-fuck, Namjoon–!” you cry out, forehead pressed to the sheets, grabbing the same said sheets for dear life.

He grunts in response, fingers digging into your hips as he drives himself in again and again, filling you completely every time. You’re reeling–your body not used to this kind of stimulation. No one has ever stimulated you this way. No one has ever wanted to make it known how much they wanted you. Or how badly they wanted to ruin you.

You’re definitely soaking him and these sheets. The sounds between you two are obscene, and it only turns you on more.

Your mind spins. How did this happen so fast? You’re usually so cautious, so calculated when it comes to sex. But he has you unraveling. There’s something about the way he takes you–how open and vocal he is, how tender and filthy all at once. It makes your pulse pound with something deeper than just lust.

Another orgasm sneaks up on you before you can even brace for it.

You clench hard around him with a gasp, your whole body seizing with pleasure. “Shit–shit–I’m cumming again–!”

Namjoon groans loud into your neck, the sound vibrating through your spine. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

Your arms give out under you, and you collapse against the bed, panting into the sheets. He slows for a moment, breathing heavy, eyes searching your face.

“You okay?”

You’re flushed and pissed–and not at him.

“No,” you snap weakly, breathless. “I’m fucking mad.”

He freezes. “Wait–what?”

“I lost myself too quickly,” you groan, turning your face to look at him. “I told myself I’d take it slow, and now I’m already cumming twice like I’m in some kind of fever dream.”

Namjoon’s lips twitch in a smile, clearly amused.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn. “I can go for more.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“I want to make you cum this time,” you declare, sitting up and pushing your messy hair from your face. “Let me ride you.”

That wipes the grin clean off his face, replaced by something darker.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. He is gonna fucking love this.

“I’m sure.”

He smirks, impressed. “Alright then. Let’s see what you can do, baby girl.”

You roll your eyes, move quickly, both of you shifting positions. Namjoon lies back, head propped against his pillows, arms resting behind him in a slow, cocky sprawl. His eyes track your every move, and now that you have space to look at him fully–fuck.

You finally see him.

Your gaze drops–and your breath catches.

Holy shit.

His cock, slick and flushed and painfully hard, looks even bigger now that you’re seeing it properly. Veiny, thick, girthy in a way that makes you second-guess every confident thing you just said.

You’re about to put that inside you again? You’ve officially lost your mind, L/N F/N.

Still, you climb over him, hands trembling slightly as you wrap your fingers around the base.

“You good, baby?” he murmurs, watching your expression with quiet concern. Constantly calling you baby… God…he will be the death of you. This man feels the same too, though you don’t know that.

“Y-Yeah, just processing your... situation,” you mutter.

He laughs, husky and low. “Take your time.”

You hover over him, grip tightening as you angle him toward your entrance. Slowly–so slowly–you lower yourself down.

The stretch makes you groan instantly, your thighs trembling from the effort.

Namjoon’s eyes flutter closed, brows furrowing in pleasure. “Fuck, you feel good.”

You inch down further, and further–until you’re seated fully in his lap, completely filled. Your nails dig into his abs for support.

“God,” you pant, adjusting your hips. “How are you fucking real?”

He gently rubs circles into your back with his palm. “You’re doing amazing, baby. Just go at your pace.”

You nod, focused, letting your body settle before testing the motion–shifting your hips in a slow, grinding roll.

Namjoon opens his eyes to look at you–and the moment your rhythm picks up, his mouth parts in awe.

She’s beautiful, he thinks. Completely unfiltered. The way your brows pinch in concentration, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, the way your chest bounces slightly with every motion–he’s fucking obsessed.

He swore he’d let you take the lead. He swore he’d hold back.

But that restraint doesn’t last long.

Your pace quickens, and the look on your face–the pleasure, the determination, the way you ride him like you own him–it breaks him.

“Shit–” he groans, hands flying to your hips. “Sorry, baby–I need to–”

He slams up into you with force, taking control again, driving himself deeper as you gasp out his name.

“Namjoon–!”

He pounds into you from below, hands guiding your hips down to meet each brutal thrust.

You can barely breathe, let alone think. All you can do is ride the wave of it–the rhythm of his cock stretching you open again and again, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls.

You’re both already close–so close–and the heat between you builds to another breaking point–

You ride him hard, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in rhythm with your quickening breath. Namjoon’s grip tightens on your hips, grounding you through the rapid push and pull of pleasure mounting on both ends.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling sharply beneath you. You’re barely holding on–thighs trembling, eyes fluttering shut as another orgasm builds low in your belly. And then it crests, stealing the air from your lungs as you cry out, clenching hard around him as your body shudders from the release.

Namjoon gasps under you, brows furrowed deep, his voice cracking in that final second as he comes too–hips jerking up as his cock twitches and empties inside the condom, thick and warm, filling it far more than you expected.

He groans, head tipping back, completely undone. “Shit…”

You collapse forward a little, hands splaying out on the solid plane of his chest, using him to steady yourself. He’s warm, his heart thudding against your palms, the faint sheen of sweat across his skin glowing soft in the low light.

You're spent. Or at least, your body should be. But your mind is still racing. You want more. Want to see him fall asleep completely relaxed–without tension in his jaw or worry in his eyes. You want him to feel cared for, too, in a way you’ve never really offered to anyone else.

Carefully, you lift yourself off of him with a whimper at the sensitivity, reaching between your bodies to gently roll the condom off his softening cock. It’s heavy with his release, warm in your hand.

Namjoon lets out a slow, almost incredulous breath as he watches you. “Already eager to keep going?” he asks, a lazy smirk curling on his lips.

“Of course,” you murmur, tossing the condom aside and shifting your body again. You crawl up between his legs, knees pressing to either side of his thighs, hands sliding along his skin. “Now doing this…”

You lower your head and give the underside of his cock a soft, lingering lick–kittenish and slow. His body jolts faintly, oversensitive but already responding. You glance up at him, eyes wide, a faux innocence in your expression that makes his throat bob with a swallow.

You let your tongue trail up from the base to the tip, deliberately teasing, holding eye contact the whole time. His cock twitches against your tongue, not yet fully hard but already awakening under your gentle attention.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he rasps, watching you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

You press a kiss to his tip and then lick again, this time with a firmer stroke. “Wanna help you sleep like a king tonight,” you whisper against his skin. “No tension. No stress. Just melt into the pillows and let me take care of you.”

He exhales shakily, his hand lifting to brush your hair back from your cheek. “You’re so dangerous,” he mutters, but the way his fingers linger says he likes that about you. 

You giggle softly and wrap your lips around the head of his cock, coaxing him back to life with every warm, wet suck. One hand cups his balls gently while the other strokes the base of his shaft, your mouth working in slow, tantalizing pulls. You can already feel him growing hard again under your care–eager, despite just having cum.

Namjoon groans, one hand clenching the sheet beneath him. “You’re seriously gonna make me fall for you deeper by doing shit like this.”

You hum around him–intentionally letting the vibration tease him deeper–and keep going.

You suck him slowly, deliberately, coaxing him into full hardness again with your mouth, your tongue teasing every ridge and sensitive vein along his length. Namjoon’s hands slip into your hair, not forcing, just grounding himself in the sheer pleasure of your lips around him. His breath grows ragged, eyes fluttering as he tries–really tries–to hold back.

But then your tongue swirls around the head of his cock and you moan just a little, like you enjoy the taste of him, the feel of him stretching your lips. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck–baby, I’m gonna–”

He chokes on the rest of the warning as he comes hard, cock twitching in your mouth, hot spurts of cum hitting your tongue–and more. A thick, sudden spill lands warm on your cheek. You close your eyes and take it all in stride, swallowing every last drop with ease.

It tastes…surprisingly good. Slightly sweet, salty, clean. He really must eat well. Idol diet and all.

You finally pull off with a soft pop, licking your lips, and wipe your cheek with the back of your hand as you glance up at him. Namjoon looks absolutely wrecked–mouth parted, chest heaving, the remnants of disbelief in his eyes.

“Damn…” he exhales, voice hoarse.

His head tips back against the pillows, muscles twitching with aftershocks. He wants to go again–you can see it in the way his eyes trail over you, hungry and dazed–but this time, his exhaustion catches up to him first. For the first time in a long while, his eyelids actually start to flutter shut on their own.

“That…was so fucking hot,” he mumbles, still breathless. “But we need to take a hot shower before we sleep. I also need to change the sheets…”

You glance at the state of the bed and smile lazily. “If we go in together, we could finish faster and head to sleep?” you tease.

Namjoon laughs and instantly reaches for you, sweeping you into his arms again. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

He carries you–again, praying he doesn’t trip over his own feet (he’s a bit clumsy) and brings you into the bathroom just to the left of his room. It’s massive. Double sinks, a wide soaking tub set in dark marble, and a luxurious glass-enclosed shower with rainfall and handheld settings.

You both step in, the hot water already running and filling the space with gentle steam.

Namjoon pulls you under the spray and wordlessly reaches for the body wash. His touch is gentle as he lathers his hands, then begins softly washing your arms, your shoulders, your back. His fingers linger, not overtly sexual, but reverent. Almost too reverent. It makes your insides twist with tenderness.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice husky and close to your ear.

You nod, but your voice is small. “Yeah. Just…sensitive.”

He leans in and kisses your temple. “I know. You don’t have to push yourself for now.”

You shake your head, eyes closed as his hands gently trace suds over your waist. “It’s not that. It’s just–this feels really nice. And it’s making it hard to go back to a professional relationship.”

Namjoon’s hands pause. His chest presses into your back. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he says, almost too softly.

You don’t reply. Not yet. You simply turn and take the body wash for yourself.

“Your turn,” you say with a little smile, wanting to keep things light.

You gently start working the lather across his chest, over his broad shoulders, and then down his back. The muscles move under your hands like smooth, sculpted marble. He sighs deeply at your touch.

“You know,” you murmur as you wash down the center of his spine, “your back looks like a landscape to me.”

He chuckles. “A what?”

“Like a canvas. Like–I could paint a tree on it. Or wings. Or maybe a river cutting through hills.”

Namjoon hums low, smiling to himself. “You’re such an artist. Everything you touch turns poetic.”

“You’re the one who quoted nude paintings during sex, remember? You even make music about poetic euphemisms of riding you,”

He laughs, the sound echoing off the tile. “Touché.”

When you’re both finally rinsed and clean, he shuts off the water and steps out, grabbing the largest, fluffiest towel and wrapping you in it first. Then he ruffles another towel through your hair, drying you gently like you’re the most delicate thing in the world.

Once you're mostly dry, he hands you one of his oversized white t-shirts. It swallows you completely, falling down to mid-thigh, and smells just like him–earthy, clean, with a hint of something musky and expensive.

“You look really good in that,” he murmurs with a grin as he pulls on his own sweats.

You help him strip the bed, tossing the stained sheets into a hamper tucked in the corner of the room. Then, together, you remake the bed–Namjoon smoothing the fitted sheet while you fluff the pillows and pull the new comforter into place.

When everything’s set, you both crawl under the covers, bodies warm and damp and soft with sleep.

Namjoon pulls you into his chest, your back to him, his arm draped protectively over your waist. He exhales one last time, burying his nose into your hair.

“Can’t believe I’m going to sleep without checking my phone for hours,” he mumbles, already dozing. “You’ve gotta be magic.”

“That’s honestly all just you,” you smile to yourself, your eyes fluttering shut. “Goodnight, Joon.”

“‘Night, baby.”

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, he sleeps soundly through the night.

+

That night became the catalyst for a series of sexcapdes with Namjoon. You started visiting his place regularly–what started as late-night hangouts became something far more intimate, far more regular. Despite the chaos of his world tour preparation, long hours at the dance studio, late-night recording sessions, and relentless content filming, Namjoon always made time to see you. He'd slip home in the narrow windows between his schedules just to wrap his arms around you, to kiss you like he’d been starved, and to fall into bed tangled together.

Your sex life evolved into something rich and varied, a secret world just for the two of you. Namjoon, surprisingly attentive and open-minded, explored your body with curiosity and care, never rushing, always wanting to understand how you responded to every touch, every angle, every rhythm. You enjoy this too, and opt to go on birth control after some time just to ease the process for you both, while still using condoms at times to maintain protection. These are risky activites after all.

The kitchen table became your first unconventional setting. One late night, dressed in one of his oversized T-shirts and nothing underneath, you’d leaned against the marble countertop while making kimchi jjigae. One look from him, slow and hungry, and somehow you were up on the dining table seconds later. He tugged your hips closer until your toes barely touched the floor, then lifted one of your legs to rest on his shoulder as he thrusted his cock into you. The cold contrast of the table made you shiver, but his body was warm and grounding. His hands gripped your thighs tightly as he shoved himself into you, slow and deep, each movement echoing off the kitchen walls. The stew became cold, forgotten. Namjoon’s breath came heavy against your collarbone as he muttered, “Fuck, I could take you like this every night. Watching your body shake just from this angle–God.”

Another time, in the living room, you’d found yourself in his lap one late afternoon, straddling him while his back sank into the plush couch. You were both reading a book, which soon became forgotten. The light from the window cast golden streaks across his chest. You pressed your hands against his shoulders and sank down on him slowly, the stretch sharp and perfect. You moved with languid rhythm, your knees digging into the cushions, hips circling as your eyes fluttered shut. Namjoon couldn’t look away. His large hands spanned your waist and guided you as you rode him harder, your rhythm growing frantic, both of you getting lost in the slick, slapping sounds filling the space. One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a messy kiss. She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s above me like this, he thought, hips bucking upward. “Just like that, baby… keep using me.”

The shower was chaotic in the best way. Slippery skin, fogged-up glass, and steam curling around your bodies as he pinned you against the wall. Your legs up, wrapped around his waist, water cascading down his broad shoulders as he thrusted into you, the sharp clap of wet skin muted under the patter of the spray. You gasped against his neck while he braced one hand against the tile and the other held your ass, adjusting your angle so he could hit even deeper. “You drive me fucking insane,” he growled into your ear, barely holding back. And even when he was losing control, he still reached down between your bodies to rub you gently, expertly, pushing you over the edge even as his own release built.

And then even at times, the bathtub. It started as a soak, your back against his chest, legs resting atop the edge, wine glasses on the side. But the moment you turned to straddle him under the water, your mouths met in a slow, heated kiss, and his cock slipped between your thighs. You guided him inside, gasping as the hot water surrounded you both. Your movements were slow and indulgent, bodies rocking beneath the surface, water spilling over the sides with every rise and fall of your hips. Namjoon held your waist with reverence, marveling at how your breasts bounced gently with every motion, your lashes wet and cheeks flushed. He whispered, “Baby, you look like something out of a dream,” just before his head fell back against the rim of the tub, lost in the pleasure you gave him.

One night, he brought up the Kama Sutra. You were sprawled on the bed, still slick and panting from a particularly intense session, and he casually flipped through the app on his phone, showing you diagrams. “For art and science,” he teased, nudging you with his elbow. You grinned, your curiosity piqued.

You laughed. “You’re actually such a pervert, Kim Namjoon.”

“You’re no different from me!” “I’m not even going to argue with that, let’s just try one.”

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a ritual. It helped him sleep better, too. You felt more livelier again after living in such a draining city. A surprising bonus.

He wanted to visit your place next, but you lived in Myeongdong, right above a busy alleyway filled with cafés and foot traffic from both tourists and locals. Too risky. One slip and someone might spot him, and you refused to be the reason his privacy got breached. So instead, his Hannam-dong apartment became your second home. His sanctuary turned into a shared one.

You started leaving things behind–changes of clothes, your favorite moisturizer, a toothbrush. Eventually, you even had a drawer, then a shelf. He didn’t mind. His closet was massive. You began using his place to rest after museum shifts, sometimes staying the night even when he wasn’t around. He’d given you the door passcode weeks ago, murmuring how precious you were to him while he typed it into your phone himself.

There were quiet nights when things were reversed. Sex first, then lounging, late night talks about music, art, artists, exhibitions, life, etc. One evening after a steamy sex in the shower, still wrapped in towels and slightly damp, Namjoon brought up something you’d mentioned during your first night over.

“You said you wanted to paint a tree on my back,” he says, rummaging through the closet.

You blink. “You remembered that?”

“I bought some body-safe paints and brushes. Even got a canvas drop cloth so we don’t ruin the floors.” He lays everything out with boyish excitement. “I thought it might be fun.”

Your eyes light up. He smiles, gently patting your head. “You’re seriously so cute.”

You both sit naked on the drop cloth, backs resting against the couch, warm lighting casting shadows across the room. Namjoon sits in front of you with his back to you, strong shoulders relaxed, spine straight. You dip your brush into black paint and start with the roots, then move slowly upward–every stroke intentional.

“So… what are we?” you ask suddenly as your brush moves along his lower back.

He chuckles. “Isn’t it a little late to ask that? We’ve been seeing each other for three months.”

“Just checking,” you say with a smile. “We’ve never put a label on this, so I want to know how you feel.”

He pauses for a moment before speaking. “I don’t mind labels. Or not having them. Some of my members don’t like being tied to those terms, especially with our jobs. But… being able to call you my girlfriend?” He turns slightly, flashing you that warm, dimpled smile. “That makes me even happier.”

You blush, caught off guard by his honesty. “Stop… you’re making my cheeks heat up…”

He laughs with his whole body, shaking his head in amusement. “What about you, baby?”

You hesitate. “I’ve been scared of labels, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if that would burden you. I didn’t want to add pressure on top of what you already deal with as an idol.”

Namjoon tilts his head slightly, sensing the sincerity in your voice. “If it’s you, I don’t mind it. Honestly, I think it’d give me more energy if you called me your boyfriend.”

You smile to yourself and dip your brush back in the paint. “Then, okay, my lovely boyfriend, I have finished the art.”

He stands and walks over to the mirror in the hallway between his bathroom and the closet. His eyes widen. “Is this a plum blossom tree in traditional Korean ink style?”

You walk over beside him. “It is. Plum blossoms symbolize resilience, hope, and perseverance in adversity. I think you embody that completely, especially after everything you’ve told me about your journey as an idol.”

Namjoon looks at you softly through the mirror, your reflection beside him glowing with warmth. His expression softens. His heart swells.

He turns and hugs you close, your bare chest pressing against his. You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

“I truly love you, you know that?”

You giggle softly. “Yeah… of course I know. And I love you too.”

He pulls back with a playful smirk. “Now it’s my turn to paint you. Maybe I’ll put some flowers on your chest.”

He’s so precious. You burst out laughing at his cuteness, already reaching for the brushes again.

“Go for whatever your heart desires.”

January. After months of constant hangouts and long, ongoing conversations, itt’s been two weeks since Namjoon last texted you.

You don’t really mind the lack of communication. You know better than to assume the worst. He’s an idol. He’s juggling a packed schedule with rehearsals, interviews, late-night studio sessions, choreography tweaks, and the constant pressure of the public eye. Silence isn’t always rejection. Sometimes, it’s just exhaustion.

Still, the quiet lingers in your phone like an unopened letter.

You consider texting him to let him know you’ll be at Frieze Seoul, the international art fair held annually in the city, known for bringing together global collectors, artists, and institutions. It's one of the biggest events of the year–a week-long celebration of contemporary art spanning prestigious museums and galleries across Seoul. This year, the after-party for opening night is being hosted by Artue in a private rooftop space above Itaewon.

You’ve seen past articles–photos of Namjoon quietly observing installations at events like this, tucked in black caps or sponsored by a prestigious brand in branded clothing. He’s no stranger to Frieze. He even reposted a sculpture from the fair two years ago. But you doubt he’ll make it this year. With the tour prep underway and pressure all on as the comeback nears, it seems impossible.

Still, you hover over your phone screen. Should you let him know?

Would that be weird? Does he even care about your schedules?

Would maybe seem to him that you’re fishing for attention? Or worse–assuming he’ll be there? You don’t want to seem like a clingy girlfriend and you also don’t want to interfere with whatever he’s been up to. You get it. Maybe you should just get back to work.

You lock your phone without sending anything.

The COEX Convention Center is buzzing by the time you arrive, bright white lighting softened by the elegant glow of uplights bouncing off glass panels and floral installations. You walk through the tall revolving doors beside the Kukje Gallery Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee, CEO Charles Kim, as well as 3 other big gallery staff members you closely work with. Your heels click quietly across the marble.

Your For Love & Lemons Ophelia Gown, a floral satin slip dress clings to your figure, swaying at the hem with each step. The corseted bodice shapes your waist, soft ivory fabric catching flecks of light like pearls. You blend in–yet stand out. Clean and classic. Soft and smart.

“Y/N,” the Chairwoman leans in slightly, speaking over the hum of jazz and clinking glass. “You look lovely tonight. Walk with me.”

You heard the big lady boss, so you do.

“Tonight’s about presence. You don’t have to say much–just listen, absorb, and know who to recognize. Frieze is where art meets capital, and relationships are the real investment.”

“Yes, Chairwoman,” you nod, adjusting your clutch as you follow her into the crowd.

You’re introduced to gallerists from Tokyo and Berlin, a Swiss collector who apparently has a soft spot for Korean post-war art, and a British curator who mentions she follows your gallery’s Instagram. You smile graciously, thank her, accept the champagne flute a waiter hands you. Every few minutes, Director Bokyung Park sweeps past with a whispered cue–“That’s the Arario team. Oh, and the woman in green? She used to work with Zwirner.”

Jiwon and Sekyung, fellow Kukje Gallery assistants, are more relaxed now with drinks in hand, joke quietly near the sculpture exhibit by a Norwegian artist–tall slabs of glass stacked precariously like a frozen Jenga tower. You recognize a few celebrities from afar. One of them, a K-drama actor, brushes past your shoulder and nods with a grin. You smile politely, tucking hair behind your ear.

Matthew Thompson, the international liaison working at the Kukje Gallery with you, leans over and murmurs with his usual British charm, “You’re handling this well. Most first-timers freeze up at events like this.”

“I’ve worked under people like Curator Sungah Serena Choo for far too long to freeze up at events like these,” you reply with a small laugh. “That’s impressive of you, especially at your age being in this world.”

The night rolls on with curated elegance. Music swells from a live quartet in the corner, and the soft chatter of artists, dealers, critics, and collectors swirls around you like the fizz of your champagne. You’re perfectly composed, but something nags at the edge of your mind.

Would he have come here tonight?

Would he walk through those doors?

And if he did… would his eyes look for you, with the same thoughts that you’d likely be here?

You sip your champagne, gently sway your hips to avoid a passing waiter, and smile at someone you half-recognize from an online networking panel last year.

You remind yourself you're here for the art.

Not for the chance to see him.

But your eyes still glance toward the entrance.

Just once. Maybe twice.

A sudden roar erupts from outside the COEX venue–louder than anything you’ve heard all evening. It crashes through the air like a wave, spilling into the open glass lobby from somewhere far beyond the polished walls.

You glance up. Fans have been camped outside since sunset, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite idols and actors as they arrived for Frieze Seoul’s opening. Most can’t even get past security, but they wait anyway, with cameras in hand and phones pressed to barricades.

But this time, the noise is different. Sharper. Higher-pitched. Sustained.

Something tugs at your heart.

Could it be…?

“Oh my god–it’s BTS RM and J-Hope! They’re here!”

Gasps flutter across the floor like startled birds. Conversations falter. Glasses pause mid-air. And then the migration begins–art professionals, dealers, and curious attendees flock toward the mezzanine railing of the second floor, eager to catch a glimpse.

You follow slowly, stuck behind a few people in the crowd forming, your heels clicking against the marble as you try to peek between shoulders and heads. Eventually, you find a sliver of space near the glass edge–and there he is.

Namjoon.

Wearing a VISVIM Crosby short-sleeve leopard print shirt, black slacks, and a sleek crossbody bag. Next to him stands J-Hope, dressed in Louis Vuitton, just as effortlessly casual. Both are flanked by tight security and rich older socialites sponsoring the events, surrounded by camera flashes and waves of cheers from fans outside the building’s lower entrance.

Namjoon’s calm in the chaos, nodding politely to a curator you know who greets him. He lifts a hand in soft acknowledgment toward the crowd below. You just barely catch his profile. His sharp jawline, the lines of concentration that crease his brow.

You freeze. It’s glamorous moments like this that remind you how different your worlds really are. The privacy you shared, your bodies tangled together in the quiet of his apartment, feels so far removed from this spectacle. Still, you can’t help the soft awe that creeps in. He’s so composed. So charismatic. So... him. Yet, so different from the Namjoon you know.

You turn away before he can spot you. Not like you think he would amongst such a big room with a lot of people. Back to the exhibit you go. Back to the safe familiarity of your team, who’ve now scattered into small groups across the gallery floor. Just before adjusting the strap of his bag, Namjoon looks up toward the mezzanine. He catches sight of a figure turning away–your silhouette. Was that really you? The thought tugs at him, feeling bad that he hasn’t had the time to message you, or anyone really.  He needs to finish two more tracks on the album so he’s locked himself in the studio with the occasional Yoongi and Pdogg to help him with producing. Today was just lucky enough for him to have a schedule that pulled him out from the hell pit of work. And to see the sight of you after so long, it leaves his heart feeling excitement, yet sorry. He feels bad to cast you aside a bit, but he hopes you understand. But for now, he has other matters to attend to.

The rest of the evening passes in a haze of polite smiles and steady conversation. You network with visiting curators, directors from European museums, and several artists whose work you've followed since grad school. Champagne flutes come and go, passed around by white-gloved staff. You laugh at a lighthearted comment from Matthew Thompson about Americans trying to understand makgeolli, and smile as Bokyung Park introduces you to a pair of Paris-based collectors interested in your last exhibition.

But there’s a dull ache in your chest. You haven’t seen Namjoon again. Not even once.

And yet, you remind yourself–this is your job. He’s doing his. There’s nothing wrong here.

Later, an art world acquaintance you haven’t seen in a year waves you over, and you catch up while waiting for your ride to Artue’s exclusive rooftop after-party in Gangnam. You consider skipping it–your heart feels too unsettled–but something inside you says to go. To loosen up. To reclaim the night for yourself.

And so, you do.

At Artue’s rooftop after-party in Gangnam, you try to loosen up. Lights twinkle above like stars tethered to wires, casting a soft glow across the rooftop. The skyline hums around you, music pulses through the crowd. You sip your drink and sway a little to the sounds of H.E.R. performing, followed by Rosé and Se So Neon. Then Crush, then Dean. It’s electric. Dreamy. The air smells of night-blooming flowers and expensive perfume.

You sip your drink and let your body sway to the rhythm, willing yourself to dissolve into the crowd. For most of the night you’ve managed to stay on the edges, drifting between familiar faces, nodding through conversations, pretending the distance in your chest doesn’t ache.

And then you see him.

There he is.

Front and center near the main bar, Namjoon stands with J-Hope at his side, both of them animated in easy laughter. Two idols flank them, and then Minju Kweon–Head of VIP & Business Development, Asia at Frieze–glides into the circle, her tailored dress catching the light as she leans in to greet them. You recognize a few more faces orbiting in, industry players and rising artists eager for a moment, a smile, a photo. Phones flash discreetly, capturing proof of proximity.

Namjoon poses, not resisting the camera. His hand rests casually in his pocket, his expression gentle, open, polite. He bends down slightly when Minju says something, the corner of his mouth tugging into that warm half-smile that you usually see from him. J-Hope throws his head back at a joke, and Namjoon’s laugh follows, low and familiar.

From where you stand –maybe twenty feet away, tucked into a pocket of the crowd–it feels like a universe. You are close enough to trace the slope of his shoulders, to notice how the glow of the rooftop catches on his rings, yet far enough that he might as well be untouchable. He hasn’t seen you. And a part of you wonders if you want him to.

The divide between you sharpens under the music. Him: easy in his element, at the center of gravity, people orbiting without hesitation. You: an observer on the edge, glass sweating in your hand, caught between the pull of wanting to belong and the urge to disappear.

You start to turn your head, already imagining the neatness of a discreet exit. Better to leave the moment untouched than to risk being pulled into a spotlight you’re not sure you’re ready for. You sway, feeling a bit dizzy. Snap out of it. This isn’t good for you to ponder about. “Y/N.”

A hand taps your shoulder, jolting you out of the thought. You blink and turn.

Sekyung.

"There are a couple of idols who said they wanted to meet you. They’re fans of your works."

You blink. "Oh?"

She steps aside, and you’re introduced to two young men–Ricky and Matthew from Zero Base One.

"You curated the Origins of Silence exhibition at Kukje, right?" Ricky says, shaking your hand with a surprisingly warm smile, followed by Matthew complimenting and doing the same. 

"It was incredible. Your curation notes alone had me googling artists for hours."

"Thank you, that means a lot," you reply, your nerves smoothing into flattery.

You speak in Korean for a while about a few specific pieces with both men, before Ricky nods politely and excuses himself to mingle further. Matthew lingers.

"You’re American?" he asks in perfect English.

You blink. "Yeah–I’m from California, originally. Are you…Canadian?"

"Yeah, how’d you know?,” He chuckles. 

“I can hear it a bit from the accent!”

“Haha, it feels relieving to talk in a language I’m comfortable with." He leans slightly closer, still casual. "I’ve just started tagging along with Ricky at these events, but it feels so awkward trying to act so sophisticated and professional."

You laugh, the tension in your chest loosening more than you expect. "No worries, I feel the same, but hey, you’ve found another international person here to make you not feel too alone."

From across the party, Namjoon spots you.

He had lost sight of you hours ago, but he was sure he saw you earlier. Now, seeing you again–standing so close to Matthew, laughing–it triggers something deep inside his chest.

He knows about Matthew. Funnily enough, before a specific Weverse post of a fan accidently copy pasting the wrong korean meant for Matthew, instead of him. Young, talented, bright-eyed, full of momentum as Zero Base One ride the high of fourth-gen stardom. It’s not that Namjoon doesn’t respect him. It’s that Matthew represents something Namjoon is beginning to fear.

Time. Change. Relevance.

Namjoon clenches his jaw. He hates when he does this–spirals. Doubts. Wonders if he’s too old, too worn down, too deeply embedded in a life of late-night studio sessions and leadership roles to be someone’s... boyfriend.

Especially yours.

You're younger. Bright. Blossoming in your own career. So perfect for him it almost hurts. But maybe… not meant for him after all?

No. Fuck that.

He pulls out his phone and calls you.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance at the screen. Namjoon.

Your breath catches.

“I’m sorry,” you tell Matthew gently. “I have to take this.”

He nods. “Of course.”

You step aside, barely hearing the music over your own heartbeat as you answer.

“Turn toward the center,” Namjoon says.

Your gaze shifts. And there he is.

Eyes locked on yours. A stillness in a sea of bodies.

“You’re here,” you whisper.

“Meet me by the emergency stairwell door in the back. We can’t talk here.”

His voice is low, firm. Sweet beneath the command.

“Okay.”

You weave through the crowd. He moves too, both of you drawn together like magnets. The stairwell is hidden behind a catering table and a black curtain. He reaches you first, hand closing gently around your wrist before tugging you behind the wall and through the heavy metal door. "Woah, Namjoon–"

"So when I'm not here, you decide to go talk to other idols?"

"Huh? What?"

"I saw you talking to Matthew, all smiling and shit. What was that about?"

"Huh? Matthew?" The idol you were just talking to? You had already forgotten his name. "Ah, the member from Zero Base One? Our gallery sales assistant introduced me to him were just talking about art and our upbringing abroad. Nothing more!"

"Really? Because it didn't look like that to me, or maybe even others."

"Absolutely not. What the hell are you on about? Are you jealous or something?"

Namjoon sighs, feeling stupid that he let his emotions get the best of him. "No, I'm not.." He scans you and the dress you're wearing. the way it hugs your body, the way it shows your cleavage. 

"Doesn’t sound like it to me!"

He looks away, "Ugh, let's go home. We've clearly been apart for a little too long and we’re taking this frustration out on each other." Two weeks doesn't feel too long, but dammit, it does to him. And to you too.

"Woah, wait!" He pulls your arm, pulling you walk down the emergency stairwell. He calls his manager to get the car to pick him up from a backdoor emergency exit that leads out an alleyway. no one should be able to see you two leave from here. He texts J-Hope to tell him that he's leaving ahead of him.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard that you won't dare to talk to another idol and only think of me," he says  as the car arrives and takes you to his place.

You swallow hard.

Tonight is far from over.

The car pulls into the underground parking garage at Nine One Hannam, its tires whispering against the smooth concrete. Namjoon’s hand is already on your thigh, jaw clenched and unreadable, the tension in his body palpable.

The second the door opens, he’s out first, rounding the car to open yours. He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hand, intertwines your fingers with his, and walks you briskly toward the elevator. His palm is hot, firm, grounding.

The elevator doors close behind you.

It’s like a dam breaks.

His mouth crashes against yours with a hunger you haven’t felt from him in a while–raw, claiming, desperate. He cups the back of your head, tongue sweeping into your mouth, breathing heavy through his nose. Your hands curl around his shirt collar, pulling him closer, gasping when he angles your head and kisses you even deeper. You worry the elevator will open at another floor and someone will enter, but luckily, it doesn’t happen. It seems the stars have aligned just for you and Namjoon here.

When the elevator dings at his floor, he doesn't stop. Just pulls away with a firm, “Come on,” voice dark and low.

He unlocks his apartment with one hand while the other holds your waist, already pawing at the curve of your hip. As soon as the door shuts behind you, he pins you to the wall beside the entryway, one hand gripping your jaw while the other slides down your side.

“This dress,” he growls softly, eyes raking over your body as though he’s just now really letting himself take it in. “God, baby… you look incredible.”

You barely have time to murmur a breathless “Thank you,” before he adds, voice lower, rougher, “But you look better out of it.”

He tugs at the zipper at the side, peeling the floral satin from your body slowly, watching your expression like a man starving. You step out of it, heat rushing to your face as you’re left in your lace white thong and heels. Namjoon’s already undoing his shirt–each button flicked open with precision–but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, like it’s a fact. Not a question. So domineering, you think.

Your fingers brush at his lips slowly, as if sealing them will silence him and his urge to consume you. “I know.” 

Then he’s kissing you again. Guiding you backwards toward his bedroom without breaking contact, walking you there with strong hands and stolen breaths. Clothes trail behind the both of you: his shirt, his pants, your heels. When your knees hit the bed, he pushes you gently onto it, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

His voice dips. “Lie back. Spread your legs.”

You do–eyes wide, heart pounding–and he climbs over you, muscles taut and tense with restraint. His cock, thick and flushed, presses against your slick folds as he settles between your legs. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he says softly, hips grinding forward so the tip of his cock drags through your wetness. “You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?”

“It was seriously nothing–” you breathe, but he cuts you off with a thrust.

It’s rough. Deep. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Then you won’t mind me reminding you who fucks you like this.”

He pounds into you again, each stroke controlled and precise, angled perfectly to hit the sensitive spot inside you. He lets your wrists go only to push your thighs up higher, spreading you open more obscenely so he can drive deeper. You moan, high and needy, and he growls as he pulls out, slapping the length of his cock against your soaked entrance–once, twice–before plunging back in. He’s gritting his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, watching you unravel. Your legs are trembling around his waist as he fucks you deeper, harder.

“You like that, baby?” he growls against your mouth. “Only I get to feel this tight little pussy. Only I can make you cry like this.” Thrusts continue as the wet slap of your bodies echoes in the room.

“You’re so…a-ah, f-fuck..Namjoom, please” you moan.

Hell, you are even crying a little–more from pleasure than anything. His pace is ruthless, but he still keeps checking in with soft touches, lips brushing your temple, whispers of “you okay?” that only you can hear.

At one point, he pulls out and flips you over. Presses your chest into the mattress and grips your hips hard enough to leave imprints. When he sinks back into you from behind, he lets out a broken moan–like he’s finally letting his jealousy melt into pure, greedy need.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking into you with long, possessive strokes. “Taking me so good, even when I’m this deep?”

You whimper something like a yes, your cheek pressed to the sheets, barely coherent.

Then he leans down over your back, lips near your ear. “Let me see that face,” he says.

He grabs your waist, pulls you upright, your spine flush to his chest as he continues fucking you from behind in this new angle. One hand circles your throat lightly, keeping you steady. The other slips between your thighs, rubbing your clit in tight, focused circles. His thrusts grow sloppier as you clench down on him–your body tightening and pulsing in time with the strokes of his fingers.

“Come on, baby. Come with me. Show me who you belong to.”

You explode immediately. Trembling, gasping, your nails dig into his thighs as pleasure rips through you in waves.

He follows, only seconds later, with a guttural moan that sounds ripped from the base of his throat. His hips jerk as he fills you, pulsing deep inside until he has nothing left to give.

Then he pulls out suddenly, breath ragged. “On your knees,” he orders.

You scramble onto all fours, but he doesn't go behind you just yet. Instead, he walks around, grabs your chin, and presses the tip of his cock to your lips.

“Open.”

You do, and he slides in slowly–so slowly–until your mouth is stretched full, lips wrapped around the base. He lets out a shaky groan, hand cupping the back of your head. He doesn’t thrust at first. Just holds you there, watching tears prick the corners of your eyes. Then he begins to move. Controlled, deep strokes that leave you gasping and drooling.

“You take it so well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your spit-slicked cheek. “All that smart mouth and now look at you. Fuck.” You give me a sly, silly smile. You’d love to argue a little bit more to rile him up, but your headspace is all over the place right now. Let’s just accept this fate being devoured by one of the finest men in Korea.

He pulls out with a wet pop and slaps his cock across your tongue–once, twice–before giving your ass a sharp smack. “Back on the bed. Face down.”

You scramble into position again, heart racing, and he doesn’t waste another second. He slaps your ass once more before grabbing your hips and driving back inside in one deep, punishing thrust. You cry out into the sheets as he pounds into you from behind, rougher now, voice rasping, “That’s it. Let me fuck the thought of anyone else out of your head.”

“Y-yes!! Fuck!”

Your orgasm crashes through you hard and fast, made sharper by the sting of another slap to your ass as you come. And he doesn’t stop–he keeps fucking you through it, body trembling with effort, until his own release overtakes him with a low, guttural growl.

You both collapse after a few more rounds, tangled in sweat-slick sheets and each other, your breathing uneven, hearts thudding out of rhythm before slowly syncing again. His hand strokes your waist lazily, thumb drawing idle circles into your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “I really lost myself… after not seeing you for so long, and then suddenly seeing you talking to another man.”

You giggle, tilting your head toward him. “Ooh, you were jealous? Did you think I lost interest already?”

“Stop, baby,” he groans, hiding his face against your neck. “No. But… I wouldn’t have blamed you, honestly. I’ve been neglecting you.”

“Namjoon…”

“No, really. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to text you, but I’ve been drowning in work. The album..we’re pushing for release in the next 2 months, and I haven’t been able to–”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cut him off gently. “I figured as much.”

“I missed you so much,” he admits, voice breaking with honesty. “More than I could even say.”

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “But next time… just let me know. Even a short text, so I don’t worry. You were completely M.I.A.”

“I know.” He exhales, brushing a strand of hair back from your face with aching tenderness. “I thought I could power through and surprise you with big news when it was done, but… I was wrong.”

You press your forehead against his, closing your eyes as his warmth seeps into you. “Joonie. Like I’ve always said, don’t worry about it. I’m here now. My worrying yapper king.”

Namjoon chuckles, dimples deepening, eyes soft as he looks at you. “Yeah. You are.”

He lingers like that a moment longer before carefully rolling out of bed, his body still languid from the intensity. He pads to the kitchen and returns with a tall glass of water. The kind of post-sex gesture that’s not flashy, but intimate–like he knows your needs before you do.

You sit up, muscles sore, and take the glass from him gratefully. As you sip, he sits at the edge of the bed beside you, his fingers ghosting down your back.

He hesitates. Then, quietly:

“Y/N… do you want to come by the HYBE building sometime?”

Your lips part, the glass freezing halfway to your mouth. “Huh?”

“I want to introduce you to the members. Officially.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Wait. Really?”

“I think it should be fine,” he explains, careful, like he’s rehearsed this in his head. “People already know I like art. If anyone sees you with me, they’ll just assume you’re an ‘art friend’...someone I know through exhibitions or gallery connections.” His tone softens into something more vulnerable. “But to the guys… I want them to know who you really are.”

The words sink in, spreading through your chest in a way that feels almost too big to contain. Meeting his members. The people he’s built his entire life and career with. The people who have seen every version of him you’ve only caught glimpses of in photos Namjoon has shared with you or just mentions in your late-night conversations with him.

It hits you like a tidal wave. This is real. Not just a pocket of time you’re stealing together, not just secrecy behind closed doors. He wants to bring you closer, to fold you into the circle of trust he holds so tightly guarded. Your excitement prickles with nerves. What if they don’t like you? What if you say the wrong thing? But beneath all that anxiety is something brighter, warmer: the thrill of being chosen, of being claimed, of being seen. By the person you love so dearly.

Namjoon has always moved with intention. Never rushed, never careless. And this? This feels monumental. Like he’s opening a door you hadn’t dared imagine he’d ever unlock.

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a whisper. “Okay.”

His gaze flickers to you, searching. “Okay?”

You nod, a smile curling shy but sure across your lips. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Relief washes over him, loosening his shoulders. “I think the guys’ll love you.”

“You sure they won’t hate me for monopolizing your time?” you tease, though your heart’s racing too fast to sound casual.

“Are you kidding?” His grin is wide, boyish, the kind that makes your chest ache. “They’ll thank you for keeping me sane.”

You both laugh, soft and sleepy, and lean back into each other, your head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist again like muscle memory.

The bath can wait. Sleep can wait. For now, it’s just the two of you. Breathing. Holding. Wondering how everything is somehow moving forward.

It didn’t help that he had a spring in his step as he got up from his rolling chair and walked to the door of his production studio, quickly typing out the code that unlocked it. And there you were, standing in the slightly dark hallway, heavy backpack thrown precariously over a shoulder –even if he always told you to put on both straps, lest your back get crooked–, a pout on your lips and the perfect copy of the aforementioned pleading eye emoji. 

You were already stepping out of your shoes, knowing Yoongi didn’t like them inside his space, and throwing your arms around his middle as you hid your face on his chest. Now that wasn’t a common occurrence at all. Yoongi didn’t like people in his personal space, a fact you very much knew and respected. Then again, you weren’t just people. 

“What happened?” he asked, arms wrapping around your smaller frame almost instantly, resisting the urge to sniff the top of your head.

“Kibhamun.” was your muffled reply, making him chuckle. 

“What was that?”

“Kim Namjoon.” you corrected, pulling away from him to step into the studio properly, placing your bag on the floor as you dropped to his couch. 

Ah, yes, Kim Namjoon. 

Yoongi’s best friend, the chairman of a family run publishing company. 

Call it nepotism, but Yoongi had introduced the two of you and put in a good word for you, so that his dongsaeng would read your manuscript; the one you had been working on on that fateful day at the coffee shop. To this day, Yoongi still insisted you got a publishing contract –and now had three books out in bookstores of South Korea– all on your own. 

Namjoon took every opportunity to tease Yoongi about his obvious crush on you, which was a small price to pay for not only the friendship that blossomed between you and Joon, but for the fact you were able to kickstart your career as a writer. 

“I'm trashing my book.” you said with the jutting out of your bottom lip, folding your arms on your chest and your legs under you. 

“What–why? You were so excited to hand in the new chapters last week.” Yoongi sat down on the couch beside you, with one seat cushion still between you. His brows were knitted together as he wondered just how wrong your meeting with your editor had gone down this afternoon. 

“Yes, but your best friend changed that.” you grumbled with a tiny shrug of your shoulders, leaning sideways against the couch to lay your head on the backrest. 

With a sigh and the tilting of his head to mimic yours, Yoongi asked: “What did he do now?”

“He said my new chapters are shit.”

“He did not say that.” Yoongi reasoned. 

He was the blunt one of the two, there’s no way Namjoon would ever say something of that nature to you. If your chapters were bad, he’d give you pointers and ways of making them better. But you were resolute. 

“Not with so many words, but the sentiment was there!” you complained with a pretty pout that made Yoongi’s gaze flit to your plump lips. 

“What happened, doll?” he asked, a little softer, knowing how to work you into telling him what really happened. 

You sighed dramatically, back straightening as you looked down to your hands on your lap. Yoongi followed the movement, watching how you fiddled with the ring on your middle finger of your left hand; it had belonged to your grandma once, he knew, and you always wore it when you needed that little extra pick-me-up. 

“Apparently I can't write smut.” you told him so quietly he barely heard you. 

Your new book, the one you’ve been working on for the past three months, had adult scenes in it. Not necessary essential to the plot but not gratuitous fucking either. Just something to spice it up, to open up to a different market. You were never scared of trying something new and Yoongi admired that. 

Yoongi himself was the kind of person that never even changed his coffee order, sticking to it forever when he found the one he liked. You were brave and adventurous, while Yoongi liked his routine and comfort zone.   

“What makes you say that?” he asked you once you didn’t elaborate. 

“Joon said I got many things wrong. I believe his exact words were 'it doesn't happen like that, that's not how it tastes, or how it feels’–” you said with a roll of your eyes, which made Yoongi bite back a chuckle. But then your fire was aimed at him: “You've read the chapters! Why didn't you tell me it was shit?!”

“It wasn't shit–”

How could he tell you the reason he didn't notice some things were off was because when reading your smut, all he could do was picture you? And him. In the various situations you wrote in rich descriptions. Like a fucking creep, he got off to his friend's writing.

“Yeah, well, I'm a fraud.” 

“You're not a fraud, doll.” the pet name he had for you came out a lot more natural now than the first few times he blurted them out on slips of the tongue, but it still made his neck flush. 

“No, no, Joon is right. I know he wasn't trying to hurt me, and I don't want to publish something bad either.” you insisted, quieting the fidgeting of your hands after turning the ring on your finger a few times. “Just... he said I should write from experience.”

“Oh. Yeah, that usually helps when writing lyrics, too.”

Yoongi felt cold sweat clinging to his back as he wouldn’t want to read about your sex adventures, if you started writing about them in your new book. Some of the things you wrote about were pretty wild, Yoongi could only imagine what you were up to in your private life. You never really told him about it, but he guessed it was something you shared with your girlfriends. Or Jimin. Not with him.

“That’s the problem.” again, you spoke too quietly. “I don't have them.”

“Don’t have what?” he asked with the nervous nibbling on the inside of his bottom lip. 

“The experiences to write about.” you supplied with a small grit of your teeth, as if you were pretending you weren’t the one saying those words. 

“Sure you do. I'm sure you can change a few things to make it fit the plot–”

“No, Yoon.” you interrupted, crestfallen, rubbing your hands on your thighs in what should be a self soothing manner. “I haven't... Done anything.”

The weight of those news was shocking to him, but Yoongi tried not to let it show in his face. He watched you for a while, too, trying to decide if you were joking or trying to pull one on him, but your pink cheeks of embarrassment were too real and you weren’t that good of an actress. 

It just didn’t really make sense to him. You were a few years younger than him, but not by much, and you were so pretty and clearly attractive. Whenever he agreed to go to a night out with your group –most likely being dragged out by a lying Hoseok that told him it would be chill– guys hit on you all the time, much to his own chagrin.

“Ever?” Yoongi hushed with a frown. This whole conversation had his forehead hurting from how confused he was. 

“Ever.” you shook your head, a stray piece of hair moving out of place and Yoongi’s fingers flexed in want to fix it. “I'm not ashamed of it, okay? I'm also not saving myself for marriage or anything. I just never had a boyfriend and I didn't want to just hook up with a stranger for a night.”

“Yeah, no, that's... dangerous.” he agreed with a single nod of his own. 

“Mhm! I mean, I thought that would happen with Jungkook the night we met. He was nice enough and just my type.” you said, not meaning much by it, but damn if it didn’t feel like a punch in the gut. Ouch. “But he turned out to be gay and only chatted with me to get to Jimin.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” Yoongi was there the night Jungkook showed up in their lives and would later become part of their small group and subsequently Jimin’s boyfriend. 

“I don't know what to do, Yoon. I had so many hopes and plans for this book!” you cried, a hand running through your hair in frustration.

“I know, maybe... maybe you should read more smut? To be able to write it better?” he tried, but it only made you huff. 

“If you look at my search history you'll think I’m a sex addict that should get an intervention.” you shook your head. “I’ve read it all.” 

“Didn't Joon give you some advice? Isn't that his job as your editor?”

Yoongi might need to have a chat with his bestie, as his job was to help you out, not leave you feeling lost and defeated. Yoongi knew first hand how happy you were with your latest project, all of the twists and turns you had planned for it. And here you were, sulking on his couch, questioning whether or not you should throw it out. 

“He did, and I'm starting to think he's right.” you said, and it gave Yoongi a glimmer of hope, giving up on scolding Namjoon. At least for now. 

“There we go, what did he say?”

“He said that if I don't have any experiences to write about, then I should create some.” you avoided Yoongi's eyes as you said it, which didn’t help his choking on air. 

“He said what–”

“It makes sense.” you insisted, gathering your courage to finally look at him. 

“It does not– you can't possibly think that going out to find someone random to be your first is a good idea!” Yoongi couldn’t help how worked up he was getting over this. The mere hypothesis of you getting out there to find someone to lose your virginity to just for the sake of experiences was making his blood boil. “It's dangerous, and borderline traumatizing, and you can't expect to write well after that–”

“No, that's not what he said at all!” you waved a hand in the air, reaching for his arm with the other. Your touch was firm, but gentle at the same time. As you wanted to make sure he understood. “Joon didn’t mean I should find someone random.”

There Yoongi went, with the choking again. Because your eyes… Those eyes that were the front door to your soul. They told him so much. And Yoongi was slightly scared to read what they were trying to tell him at that moment. 

“He said I should consider talking to a friend.” you continued after Yoongi didn’t say anything, but your hand stayed in his arm. “Someone I trust, someone I know won't use me, and that won't let things get awkward after.”

Okay, Yoongi would have to have that chat with Namjoon afterall. He could just about imagine his best friend sitting in his suburban house right now, with a drink in his hand, chuckling to himself, thinking he was a mastermind. 

Of course he planned all of this. Namjoon knew of Yoongi’s feelings for you, and he knew that he’d be the one you’d come to with this. He just hadn’t decided if Namjoon was trying to play cupid or pull a prank on him. 

“You're considering it?” Yoongi asked, not wanting to believe what was happening right now. 

“I've decided. I'm either doing that or throwing the whole book away and starting something else.” you sounded so sure of yourself that Yoongi really started to worry. “Which would just be stressful, because I'm already way into the deadlines. So what's it gonna be?”

“Wha-why are you asking me?” Yoongi’s heart was going a mile a minute inside his chest, and it most definitely wasn’t the caffeine he’d been drinking all day. 

“Are you going to make me say it?” you pleaded, squeezing his bicep just once.

“Yes, because I don’t know what you want from me.” he wheezed. 

“I trust you.”

“No, you're not serious. You want me to–” 

“Teach me, yeah.” you assured him, tugging on the sleeve of the cardigan he was wearing. “Or at least have those experiences with me so that I know how things work.” 

Yoongi was about to start hyperventilating. Maybe he had drunk so much coffee all his adult life that it didn’t work on him anymore and he fell asleep on his desk and this was all a dream. Because there’s no way in hell that the girl he had a crush on for the past four years –yet wasn’t brave enough to do something about it– was asking him to–

“Are you even attracted to me?!” his voice came out more high pitched than he wanted, making him cough behind his fist.  

With a deadpan, you stated: “I have eyes, Yoongi.” 

“And also a nose and a mouth, what does that have to do with anything?”

“I think you're hot!” you specified with a giggle and Yoongi went back to the dream axiom. “Especially ever since you decided to let your hair grow long. And I like your face.”

“Thanks.” it should have come out as sarcasm, but his face was too red and the word sounded too breathy. 

“And you’re... strong and tall.” you continued, eyes obviously settling on the width of his chest. 

“Hoseok is taller, why didn't you ask him?” Yoongi didn’t mean to ask that, not one bit, not for a second. It was just one of those things that came out of his mouth when he was nervous. 

“I can. I'll go to him after I leave here, if you really say no.” you were clearly taken aback, hand finally dropping from his arm as you pulled back just a little further away from him. You blinked a few times before offering him an awkward smile. “Which you're already doing. Yeah, sorry, no, I just assumed that you'd be up for it because, after Jimin, you're my closest friend. But I guess being close to someone doesn't mean you're attracted to them? God, this is awkward, I don't know why I just assumed that.”

You were getting up and Yoongi was panicking. Because he didn’t want you to think that he wasn’t attracted to you, and he didn’t want to offend you. But, above all, he didn’t want you to bring this to Hoseok. 

Because Hoseok might say yes. 

Honestly, not many people he knows would ever say no to you. 

“Wait, that's not what I meant.” Yoongi insisted as you were already standing and on the way of going after your backpack. 

“No, Yoon, it's fine!” you waved him off, as if trying to take the burden you had dropped on him off. “Might be better to do it with someone I'm not that close to, anyway. I'll try Hobi.”

“Doll, stop, hang on.” Yoongi reached for your wrist as you walked in front of him and you stopped your stride. “Let me consider this.”

“You don't have to.” you repeated, but didn't take your wrist from his grasp and didn’t walk away. 

“What is it you want, exactly? And please be honest with me, so we both know what we're getting ourselves into here and so there's no misunderstandings.” if he was even entertaining the idea of saying yes to this crazy plan, then he needed you to be as straightforward as possible. 

“I haven't thought this far? But I guess we could do stuff.”

“I said to be specific.” Yoongi pressed. 

You huffed and, dare he say, squirmed, as you sat down on the couch again, this time closer to him. “I mean, would you fuck me? You know, so I know how it works? And, uhm. Stuff?”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, we should probably start with, like... Kissing. Handjobs? I'd like to suck you off if you're okay with that?” 

Nevermind his dreaming theory, Yoongi might have died and this was his personal version of heaven. Or maybe hell, depending how long it would take for you to start laughing in his face, saying that Namjoon was right and he would fall for it. But that wasn’t like you at all, too sweet and nice for your own good, and –despite his little hours of sleep and caffeine intake– Yoongi was pretty healthy to have died all of a sudden. 

“You can't be serious.” Yoongi was still incredulous. 

“I am! And I can ask Hobi, you don't have to feel pressured.” you told him as the wrist he was still holding on to finally slipped from his grasp, but just so you could hold his hand instead. “Even though this is all Namjoon’s fault and you're the one who introduced me to him and so this is also your fault, and I think you should fix it.”

There it was, the arguments, the innocent guilt trip, your special little way of getting Yoongi to do what you wanted, while not actually forcing him to do anything he didn’t want. And this? You? This was something he wanted. For a really long time. This might not be the way he ever thought he would get to be with you, but if anything, Yoongi was an opportunist. 

And he wasn’t about to let you walk into the studio next door to ask Hoseok to do this favor for you. He’d never forgive himself if he let you walk away now, if he handed you over to one of his closest friends. You might fall in love with each other, get married, and make Yoongi give a speech during the ceremony. You might even name your first born after Yoongi. 

“So.” you squeezed his hand, looking at the difference in size of your palms. “What do you say?”

“You're crazy. But if you're gonna do this anyway.” his shrug was supposed to be nonchalant. 

“Yes! Yoon, thank you! Okay, so what do we do? I promise I'll pay attention!” your excitement made him chuckle, despite the weight of reality slowly sinking in, and untamed butterflies going haywire in his stomach. 

“Calm down, we're not starting right now.”

He needed time to let this new reality settle and tame his anxiety and the voices in his head that were screaming at him. Besides making a list of everything that could go wrong by having agreed with this. 

“Right, I should probably shave down there.” you said with a side pout, as if you were thinking hard about what you had to do to prepare. 

“You– that's not a problem.” Yoongi wanted to make sure you understood you were perfect, just as natural as you wanted to be, but he couldn’t just say that. “Just do what you feel comfortable with, this is not about me. You shouldn't have to worry about things like that, unless you want to.”

“Okay. I should still get on the pill, right?” you asked him, too innocently for the type of conversation you were having. 

“I mean... maybe? You should talk to your doctor about it?” he had no idea really, as that question made Yoongi wonder just how much you needed help with. “There are side effects and long term commitments with that kind of stuff, that you shouldn't put yourself through just for a few experiences? And I'll get tested too, just so you're sure I'm clean.”

“I trust you, Yoon, I don't want you to go through that trouble.”

“It's no trouble, really, I've been meaning to do it anyways, just to be safe.” not that his own sex life was a particularly crazy one at that, and he always wore a condom. 

“This is exciting. Nerve-wracking but exciting.” you giggled, looking at him as your fingers gently traced his knuckles. 

This was the longest you had ever touched each other, even if it was just a simple hand holding. And his insides were already churning and he felt like he could pass out at any given moment, blood wasn’t reaching all the way to his brain apparently. He couldn’t even comprehend what it would be like to be intimate with you. 

“I'm glad you think so.” he said with a low chuckle. 

“Now we just... set up a time and place?” 

“Mhmm.” he nodded, as there wasn’t much else he could do with how mentally frozen he was. 

“Okay, but I really want to start fixing these chapters, so can you give me something today?” you asked sheepishly, fingers tightening around his. 

“What?” 

“Can you show me how to kiss?” was your request, and Yoongi’s eyes fell to your mouth on command.

“You've kissed before.” it wasn’t a question, but an affirmation. In fact, Yoongi had seen you kiss someone before. 

It was years ago, during a stupid game of truth or dare –which was Jimin’s idea– during one of Taehyung’s house parties. Namjoon had thought it would be a good idea to make the two of you play, no doubt another ploy to get something to happen between the two of you. But luck was never on Yoongi’s side and you were dared to kiss another guy; some dude named Seo-joon that Tae knew from acting class. 

“Yeah, but it was never satisfactory and I lack skills.” you told him, bringing him back to the present. “Besides, it might be good to break the ice. Make sure things don’t get awkward between us after I leave.”

“Why would things get awkward–”

“Are you saying you’re not going to overthink everything that just happened as soon as I walk out of this studio?” you challenged with a little grin and Yoongi rolled his eyes. “That’s what I thought.” 

“Alright, I’ll kiss you.” he agreed, and there’s no way he ever thought he’d be saying those words to you. 

“Gee, Yoon, thanks.” you were giggling as you got up from the couch to stand in the middle of the studio. “Try to pretend to be into it, at least.” 

If you only knew. 

Yoongi got up on wobbly legs, but pretended to stretch his back to get his body work properly. Walking the two steps it took to reach you was the most nerve wrecking course he ever had to take. But at least you looked as nervous as he felt, even if you were doing your best to mask it. 

You stood in front of each other, awkwardly staring at one another, hands on your sides. And Yoongi knew he had to move. He had to take the lead, he was the one meant to be showing you how things worked, of course you wouldn’t take the first step. And unless he wanted you to change your mind and actually go to Hoseok instead, he had to act fast. 

“Do you need a step by step guide?” he asked in a low voice, as if sharing a secret. 

“I know how it works, I’m not that inexperienced.” you giggled, hitting his chest playfully. 

Yoongi took your wrist as your hand landed on his chest in your pillowy light attempt of provoking him, bringing your hand up to rest it on the back of his neck. He didn’t miss the way your breath hitched, or your giggles replaced a soft gasp as his other arm circled your waist to bring your body flush against his, or even how your fingers softly threaded through the long hairs at his nape. 

A lot was on the line when it came to this kiss, Yoongi realized wearily. It would be your first kiss together, something he only ever daydreamed about before. And it would set the tone for your future interactions. You could just as well change your mind after it, and it would not only be a blow to his self-esteem, but also his pride. 

“It’s just me.” you said in a meek voice that did nothing to calm his nerves. 

“I know.” 

That’s the problem, he wanted to say. 

Yoongi’s free hand touched the side of your face to tilt it up towards him, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. With a teeny sigh, your eyes fluttered closed and Yoongi took that chance to study your face, as he had never seen you so up close like this before. Even if you changed your mind later, he still committed your every trace, every little detail about you that he possibly could. 

From your dark, long lashes that kissed the apples of your cheeks, to the outline of your cupid’s bow and your plump bottom lip. As you were about to open your eyes again, Yoongi pressed his lips to yours and you pulled back. Not enough for your mouths to part, but with a little surprised reaction. Thankfully, and before Yoongi’s anxieties could settle in, you moved closer to him again, pulling him towards you by the back of his neck. 

Yoongi’s lips started moving against yours, hesitantly, but his second guessing went out the non-existing windows of his studio as you followed his lead and moved yours along with his. 

Your mouths moved together slowly, his tongue sliding between his lips to lick between yours and you crooned; a small sound that Yoongi didn’t want to focus on, unless he wanted all of his blood to run south. 

“Relax your jaw for me.” Yoongi mumbled, not wanting to go too far. 

Your hand tensed on his neck as your breath grew a little heavier and you did just as he requested, lips parting wider so his tongue could finally slip into your mouth. Yoongi cradled your face by your jaw, feeling it move as your tongues brushed together. 

He could taste your peach flavored lip balm and right then he decided it was his favorite flavor in the world. Your other hand was resting on his chest and Yoongi wondered if you could feel just how fast his heart was beating as you tipped your head sideways so he could deepen the kiss. 

It made his own hand slip to the back of your neck, hold turning firm as he kept you in place to lick around your mouth, exploring it as if he wanted to map it out. 

You pulled away first, having a hard time breathing, which did wonders for Yoongi’s swelling pride, but he wasn't ready to let you go just yet, acting on instinct and taking your bottom lip between his teeth. 

It was worth it as your surprised gasp turned into a moan, making the man smirk. It eventually made him let go of your lip and he watched as your eyes opened; as blown out as his probably were. 

“That was… Good, right?” you asked in a breathy tone that Yoongi wanted to hear more of. 

“Really good, yeah.” he nodded, so close to your face, hands still holding you close. “If the rest of it is anything like this, you don’t have anything to worry about.” 

SEPTEMBER 23RD | 17:41

Yoongi’s apartment wasn’t the biggest one, but his producer salary allowed him to have enough room to fit all of his friends comfortably whenever they decided to use his place as a hang out spot. Is not that he hated to have friends over, if anything Yoongi really enjoyed hosting and cooking for everybody. But the bunch could get rowdy, and Yoongi was left cleaning up the aftermath alone most of the time. 

The group-chat had decided that their Saturday plans should include movie night at Yoongi’s place, just because of his soundproof walls and surround sound system that matched his big flat screen TV. Yoongi enjoyed few things in life, not really one to flaunt his status as one of the most sought out Korean producers of present times, but he was proud of his entertainment set up. 

A light rain was falling outside, the pitter patter of the drops of the early autumn falls being drawn out by the music video playing on the television as he and his so-called-best-friend organized the living room before the rest of the group arrived. 

“I don't know why you're mad at me.” Namjoon was saying as he pulled out the seat cushions of Yoongi’s dark gray couch to make it just a little longer and more comfortable to be laid on for the duration of the movie. 

“Really.” Yoongi deadpanned from the kitchen as he rummaged through his food cupboard in search of the kind of microwavable popcorn you liked.  “You have nooo idea?”

“I mean, yeah, sure, I might have acted with mischief, but I meant what I said–”

“In what world did you think that telling her to find someone to have sex with was a good idea?” Yoongi finally snapped, letting the popcorn packets drop to the kitchen island with a smack. “What if she went after some rando at a club?” 

“I see your point, hyung, but she didn't!” Namjoon tried to apologize by doing a better job of fluffing the cushions. “She went after you!”

“Thank fuck for that.”

Namjoon stepped away from the couch to look at his OCD-friendly set up, making sure the decorative cushions were symmetrically parted from each other and the wool blankets Yoongi always had laying around were folded in perfect squares. Yoongi liked his apartment to be a little on the colder side, and he wasn’t ready to let go of summer just yet, but he also got cold easily. 

“Shouldn't you be thankful that you got to kiss the girl of your dreams?” Namjoon turned to his older friend, walking to the kitchen to inspect the snacks that were already littering the dark marble island. “And you'll be doing a lot more than that–”

“I don’t know if I am.” Yoongi confessed with a sigh, which picked Namjoon’s curiosity. 

“Why not?”

“She– It’s been a week and nothing else happened.” Yoongi shrugged, as if trying to downplay it and mask his disappointment. 

“Haven’t you seen each other again since that day at your studio?” Namjoon leaned over the island to read the label on the honey and mustard chips, but his attentive eyes always went back to him. 

“We have. We were never alone, though, because Jimin and Jungkook were there when we had takeout, and then everyone was at Jin's on game night.” Yoongi recalled all of the times he managed to see you during this past week. 

“True, but you did look closer during game night.” Namjoon offered, but Yoongi scoffed. “I'm serious! She was always touching your arm, sitting closer to you... hugging you when you scored a point.”

“She's always like that with everyone, I'm not reading into it.” Yoongi refused to see things where there weren’t, because he knew that he would be the one broken hearted at the end of whatever this was. 

“Yeah, but she wasn't like that with you.” Namjoon pointed out. 

“Because she knows I'm not clingy like the rest of you.” Yoongi rebutted. 

“She picked you to be on her team, and you're a bad player!” 

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong?” Namjoon arched an eyebrow, dropping the bag of chips back onto the counter, which made Yoongi flinch, thinking about the broken snacks. “Didn’t think so. She usually goes for Kook because that kid is good at everything.”

“Of course, just something else I come second in.”

Yoongi didn’t mean to sound so bitter. He didn’t even intend on speaking out loud in the first place. But he did, and Namjoon raised an eyebrow at him. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” his friend prodded, and Yoongi had no choice but to turn his back and pretend to be searching for something as he replied:

“She said Jungkook is her type.”

“Really? So... gay af, pouts like a baby, dresses like a hobo most of the time?” Namjoon chuckled fondly of the maknae of their weird friend group. 

“I think it's more like muscles, piercings and tattoos.” he couldn’t sound more dejected if he tried. 

“Is that why you're wearing your hoops again?” Namjoon’s laughter grew louder, pointing at his own pierced ears as he looked at Yoongi’s. “And why are you going to the gym again?”

“No– how do you know I went to the gym?”

“Hobi told me he ran into you. It's cool though. I’m not here to judge.” 

Namjoon better not judge him, as he was the one to get Yoongi in this mess in the first place. Yeah, he had unrequited feelings for you, and yeah, he imagined plenty of what if scenarios where he grew the balls to ask you out, or make a move on you. But was this the way his friend had to help him out? By planting ideas in your head and making you offer him something like this? 

Yoongi’s heated thought process was interrupted as his phone started to buzz inside his pants pocket and his heart skipped a beat when he read the name on the notifications.

“Oof, that friendzone gotta hurt.” Namjoon said, over Yoongi’s shoulder. His height gave him an advantage that was almost as annoying as his nosy tendencies. 

“I swear to fucking god–” Yoongi rasped, shutting his phone and shoving it in his pocket. 

“Hey, at least you might get a handy today, huh?” the younger man wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, running away before Yoongi could throw a bag of chips on his head. “And clearly your kiss can't have been that bad, if she's coming to you for help again.”

“Not helping, Joonah.” 

Your text did light him up a little bit, and Namjoon wasn’t all that wrong. If you were asking him for help with whatever it was you needed, you didn’t change your mind about this, and you didn’t go to someone else for it; friend or foe. 

You didn’t specify just what you needed help with, but Yoongi took a longer shower just in case, scrubbing his body from top to bottom, brushing his teeth just a little harder, blow drying his hair just a little fluffier. Just in case. 

You might just ask him questions and not actually want to do anything, but on the off chance that you did, Yoongi wanted to be ready for you. 

He wasn’t proud to say that he spent just a little longer inside his decent sized closet deciding on what to wear. Yoongi didn’t want to try too hard, as it would make things too obvious, but he also didn’t think sweats and a white t-shirt were good enough either. But then again, if Jeon Jungkook was your ideal type, maybe he could grab oversized black clothes and call it a night. 

“Everyone is already here, hyung.” Namjoon said from the outside of his door, and that’s when Yoongi started to rush. 

He ended up picking a pair of jeans with holes on the knees, but that was nicely fitted on his hips, and a soft blue sweater with some green at the end of the sleeves. Hoping he didn’t go too hard on his favorite cologne, Yoongi left his bedroom to find the seven of you already taking over his living room and kitchen space. 

Jimin and Taehyung were being disgusting on his couch, giggling as they looked over something on the former’s phone. Jungkook and Seokjin were sitting on the floor, looking up at the TV as they clearly searched for something to watch tonight. Hoseok and Namjoon were in the kitchen, helping you make popcorn. 

Microwave popcorn shouldn’t be so hard that it took three people to make it, but you had a routine. You hated it when you took it out too early, meaning half the corn didn’t have time to pop, but it was even worse to leave it in the machine for too long so that it burned. So it took one of you sniffing for any hint of burnt popcorn, another one to pilot the STOP and ON buttons, and a third one listening in for the popping sounds. 

And, of course, it took giving you a good look over to almost stop Yoongi’s heart altogether. 

Just because you had no business looking so damn pretty all the time. 

Today you were wearing one of Yoongi’s favorite styles on you; a lilac suede overall dress that made you look like a cute gardener with a long sleeved shirt under it. Your hair was falling in soft waves, as if you had taken the time to style them before coming, which made Yoongi wonder if you had the same thought process as he had. 

“Hyung! There you are!” Hoseok announced his presence for everyone to hear, in that chirpy way of his, and Yoongi’s ears burned a little as the attention of the room landed on him. “The popcorn is almost– wait, wait, stop!” 

“Stopping!” you announced, clicking on the button to pause the microwave. “That was a close one, commander.” 

Yoongi couldn’t help the little chuckle he let out while watching you and his two best friend’s dramatics, shoulders shaking a little, gums probably out for the others to see. 

“Have you gotten from here, Joon?” you turned to the taller man, who nodded while taking the last popcorn packet from the microwave. 

You turned towards Yoongi again, who seemed frozen in place until that very moment. You grabbed the three tubs of popcorn that were already ready and took them with you to the couch, nodding your head for Yoongi to follow you. And he was a little socially awkward by nature, but he didn’t think he made a fool out of himself as the others knew he was more on the quiet side most of the time. 

“Alright, who let the maknaes choose the movie?” you were saying as you stepped on the soft black rug that took over half of the living room. 

“Who are you calling a maknae–” Seokjin threw a glare over his shoulder, one you answered with a scrunch of your nose. 

“What’s wrong with our movie taste, noona?” Jungkook asked you, about to pout. 

You handed Jungkook and Seokjin a tub of popcorn, and another one to Taehyung and Jimin, keeping the last one for yourself as you sat down in the middle of the couch, having to scoot a little awkwardly as if your overall-dress made it hard for you to move. 

“The problem is not your taste in movies, but you never agree on anything.” Yoongi supplied, making you nod in agreement. “Jungkook-ah is going to either pick a superhero movie that we’ve all seen before, or a horror movie, and hyung will be too scared to watch anything with serial killers or ghosts and shit.” 

“That’s because I live alone and have an old man's bladder and don’t like having to run from demons on the way back from the bathroom, in the middle of the night, thank you very much!” Seokjin complained in that rushed way of his, making you giggle. 

Namjoon and Hoseok joined the rest of you in the living room, with the last tub of popcorn. The packs of chips and other snacks were already on the center table, alongside glasses of soda. 

Yes, Yoongi was still standing, but that’s because he always had to be the last one to sit down. Everyone always complained that they didn’t know how to work the lighting system of his smart home, and Yoongi had to be the one to dim the lights low enough so the television was the focus point, but not dark enough that they couldn’t see anything else. 

When Yoongi finally made his way to the couch, everyone was already paired up and laying down with their snacks of choice. 

Jimin had exchanged his best friend for his boyfriend and was now sitting between Jungkook’s legs, resting against his chest. Tae was still sitting beside them, never minding the third willing. You were right in the middle of the couch, where it was your preferred spot. Hoseok was right next to you, followed by Namjoon and Seokjin. 

Before Yoongi could walk to the edge of the couch, to join the hyung, you spoke: 

“Hobi, can you scoot over a little?” you asked the man with little taps to his thigh. “Come sit next to me, Yoon.” 

The living room was silent as everyone stared at Yoongi once again, just another proof that the only person oblivious to his feelings toward you was, well, you. But at least Yoongi wasn’t completely awkward when it came to you; there was no stumbling, no hesitating, no fumbling around as space was opened on the sofa so he could sit between you and Hoseok. 

You handed him the popcorn you were about to share as you unfolded one of the wool blankets and threw it over your legs, more concerned about covering your legs and getting comfortable than actually escaping the cold. While the younger boys bickered over the final movie choice and which sound configuration was best for the settled genre, the three other guys started a heated discussion over something political they heard on the news.

When Yoongi looked at you, you were already looking at him. 

“I like your ripped pants.” you said with an easy smile, reaching to slip two fingers inside the wide holes on his knees. “Didn’t know you had things like this.” 

“That’s because hyung’s fashion sense only includes either a blazer and white shirt or dress pants and a hoodie.” Jimin teased from the other side. 

“I’m sorry I’m not into Chelsea boots and skinny jeans.” Yoongi scoffed, which wasn’t really a jab at Jimin’s fashion sense. Even Yoongi could admit the blonde man knew how to dress better than most. 

“You’re forgiven.” Jimin was grinning, which was noticeable even in the dimmed atmosphere of the room. 

Your fingers were still tracing random patterns on his knee as you said: “Don’t listen to Jiminie, I like your style.” 

“Thanks. I like yours too.” he said, which somehow made you giggle. 

“You don’t think I look like a little girl?” you asked in what must have been a moment of self doubt. 

“Nah, just cute.” 

You smiled appreciatively at him, throwing half of the blanket over Yoongi’s legs so you could share. He handed you the tub with popcorn and the movie finally started; the thumping of the bass from the intro not the only thing making his heart accelerate. 

The group ended up deciding on a new movie with a few known actors, like IU –the only woman Jungkook would ever turn straight for–, no demons to scare Seokjin, and no blood to make Taehyung queasy. 

The drama wasn’t Yoongi’s particular cup of tea, but he wouldn’t be paying attention to it anyways. Not when you felt so warm sitting so close to him, smelling so good. And not when his brain was filled with the possibilities of what was coming next, after everyone had left. 

You and Yoongi shared the popcorn, hands brushing every now and then as if you were in a teen movie. You didn’t seem to notice it, however, engrossed in the movie. You had tears in your eyes during some of the more emotionally heavy scenes, but held them in pretty well. 

While you could. 

Thirty minutes into the movie and the popcorn was over, the tub resting somewhere on the floor, and you were aggressively wiping tears from your eyes with your sleeves. 

“Just let her keep her baby.” you said under your breath, moving your arm under Yoongi’s so you could hug it like a safety blanket, cheek pressed hard against his shoulder. “They will be okay, right?” 

“Mhm, yeah. Everything is going to be fine.” 

Yoongi had no way of knowing that, especially when it came to this kind of movie. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try to soothe you. You nodded softly in response, snuggling into his arm a little harder, pressing your body to his completely. You were exactly like this, Yoongi told  himself. You’d be clinging to whoever was sitting next to you, and it just so happened to be him. 

That was okay, he told himself as he quietly sniffed your hair, because, at least right now, it was him you were clinging to. 

SEPTEMBER 23RD | 22:15

It wasn’t surprising the way Yoongi was a lot more relaxed by the end of the movie, but it was a little shameful that he grew more and more at ease as his friends started to take their leave. Yoongi dealt better with smaller groups of people at a time, even if he loved every one of his friends; yes, even Jungkook and all his piercings and tattoos. It wasn’t the maknae’s fault that you were apparently so attracted to him when you first met. 

Hell, even Yoongi caught himself gawking at Jungkook whenever he put a little more effort into looking good; like when he combed his hair off his forehead, or wore the black jeans that may or may not belong to Jimin. 

“You guys can leave it, I’ll do it.” Yoongi insisted as you and Hoseok continued to clean up the living room. 

“It’s alright, hyung, I don’t mind.” Hoseok told him as he knelt on the rug to pick up stray pieces of popcorn and chips that eventually made it to the floor. “We’ll just finish it up and go. I’ll drive you home when we’re done.” 

“Me?” you blinked, as Hoseok clearly meant you, eyes moving to Yoongi as you silently asked for help. “Thank’s, but I’m not going home yet.” 

“Oh.” Hoseok nodded. Then stopped. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second and his neck almost snapped with how fast he turned to Yoongi’s direction, sending him a sly grin. “Ohh.” 

Yoongi was shaking his head at Hoseok, with wide eyes and behind your back, telling his friend to cut it out as you picked up the empty boxes of pizza. Hobi winked in slow motion and sent Yoongi a thumbs up, which made him sigh. 

The job of tying it up the living room and kitchen was a lot easier now that he had more help, and fifteen minutes later, the dishes were washed, the couch was clear of any mess, and Yoongi was walking Hoseok out of his apartment. 

“So.” Hoseok spoke quietly, which Yoongi appreciated, but it still made him cringe a little on the inside as his friend teased: “You two, huh?” 

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Yoongi stated, holding the front door open while the younger man put his shoes on. 

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.” Hoseok squinted his eyes, but his knowing smile was enough to make Yoongi’s ears burn. 

“I can assure you.” Yoongi chuckled, as there was no way his friend would ever be able to guess why you were staying longer tonight. “Night, Hobah.” 

Hoseok waited as the elevator dinged and walked in after the automatic doors opened for him, singing: “Goodnight, hyung. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” 

And, just like that, he was gone and Yoongi could breathe a little easier. And, just like that, you were alone together after what felt like ages. 

Yoongi found you sitting on the couch, looking a little tired, eyes still a little red from when you cried at the end of the movie. He mustn’t look so hot either, social battery on its lowest setting. At least he never felt like he needed to try hard with you, surprisingly. There was never a need to be entertaining, to talk more than he wanted to, to constantly search for something to do. 

He could just sit next to you and do nothing, and it didn’t feel awkward, you were never bothered by his quieter moments. You also had a way of bringing out his other sides, too; the joker, the one with the weird noises and funky dances, and also the deep one that could talk about music for hours and had random facts to spill. 

“Movie nights are fun, but you always look a little dead after.” you giggled, and it wasn’t even an insult. Yoongi felt a little dead as he sat down next to you, relaxing into his couch cushion. 

“I know I’m not that much older than them, but sometimes I feel like I can't keep up.” he chuckled with closed eyes, basking on the quietude that was only ever broken by your giggles.

“Okay, grandpa. Do you want me to leave?” you offered, which made Yoongi open his eyes and look at you. 

By now, the mood lights in the living room had been put into a brighter setting than during the movie, but not uncomfortably so. Yoongi could still see the blush on your cheeks, the hesitation in your eyes and the way your fingers fiddled with each other. 

Yoongi didn’t want you to leave, however. No matter how tired or drained he felt, this was the first time he had a chance to be alone with you all week. And when the last memory he had of a moment like this came along with the feeling of your lips on him, he really wanted you to stay. 

“Not really.” he replied, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but he thought he saw you breathe a little easier. “You, uh, needed help, right?”

“Yeah, but I can just come back another time, I don't mind.” you assured him, always one to worry about his boundaries and need for the occasional alone time. It warmed his heart, in more ways than one. 

“I promise I'm fine, doll. You said something about your book?” Yoongi wasn’t trying to push, in case you changed your mind, but your eager nod as he mentioned it made him sit up a little straighter on the sofa. 

“Okay, so, I was reading chapter eleven again and I really agreed with Joon's notes on it.” you said as you turned a little more to the side, so you were facing him. 

“Which were?”

“It wasn't realistic, the, uh, sexy scene.” you explained with a nibble on your bottom lip, the blush was dusted on your cheeks again. “Just because there are things that I don't exactly know how they happen.”

“Okay. You wanna ask me about it?”

“Sure. But I was hoping that showing me might work better?” there it was, the hesitation again. Your words were already causing something to stir in Yoongi’s lower belly, but he kept his cool. “Maybe. If you're okay with that.”

“You need to tell me what it is first, doll, or I can't tell you that.” he chuckled, hoping it would help you relax a little more around him. 

Not that Yoongi wasn’t having a little moment of nervous anxiety himself, this was you, he didn’t think he’d ever be completely cool about any of this. But he wanted to help you, and he wanted to be good for you. Even if the only chance he ever got to do that was purely platonic. 

“Right, right, just... I feel kinda bad now that we're here.” you said with a frown, reaching out on instinct to thread your pinky through his. 

“Did you change your mind? Because that’s okay, too, we can just forget about it.” Yoongi had to swallow a lump in his throat, but he meant every word. 

“No, not at all... I just feel like I'm using you in a way.” you said, eyes downcast as you looked at your linked fingers. You let out a small laugh, but it was a bitter one. “This is ridiculous, right? I'm sitting here, about to ask you to show me how you get hard. And what do you get in return?”

Yoongi’s breath intake was a little harsh as he held back a groan, fingers flexing of their own accord. In what should be a joke to lighten the mood, but that immediately made him fluster, he said: “An orgasm, maybe?”

“Be serious.” you rolled your pretty eyes, but an even prettier smile broke on your face. 

“I am! Unless you want to see how it goes down naturally as well?” Yoongi really hoped you said no. 

“No, that's not part of it. There's something else I want, but–”

“Oh?”

“–we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” 

The possibilities were making Yoongi’s mind go a little hazy, butterflies that felt more like bats in the cave of his stomach, and his dick was already twitching in his pants. So much so that he feared  he might get hard before you even had the chance to actually see it happen. 

“Kay. How do you wanna do this?”

“Uh, I really didn't think this far.” you admitted sheepishly. 

“Do you wanna help?” Yoongi asked, wondering if you wanted him to pull it out and touch himself into full hardness, or if you wanted in on it. “I can guide you.”

“That might be better, yes.” you nodded, too cute for what was about to happen, and scooted even closer to him so your knees were pressed against his thigh.

Was he really about to do this? Was Yoongi actually going to drop his pants, show you his cock, and let you study him like a guinea pig? God, don’t let this get awkward, he was reasoning to whoever was out there listening. He didn’t want to scare you with it either, as it wouldn’t be good for your kinky-field-search, and even worse for his own pride, so he asked: 

“You don't want to start the chapter with the guy just pulling it out, right?” bringing it back to your book might be easier to set the scene for the two of you, too. “You wanna tease the reader as much as you wanna tease your character.” 

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“You might wanna start with some light making out?” he offered, words taking a turn and missing his brain filter altogether. 

Your eyes widened just a little, instantly dropping to his lips. “Should we?”

“We don't have to. I'm just telling you what might work well on a scene.” he lied. 

“What if I want to?”

Yoongi thought he might be dreaming again as you moved first, leaning closer to him to press your lips together just once, just a peck. Nervous eyes stared up at him as you pulled back but didn’t go all too far. 

“Is this okay?” you asked in a whisper.

“Mm. Shouldn't I be asking that?” Yoongi spoke as quietly as you, his hand reaching out to push your hair behind your ear. 

“I'm not sure.” you looked at his lips again, with a small nervous laugh as your hand rested on his thigh. 

“I’m okay with it.” he told you, holding back from lunging for your lips again. 

“Me too. Definitely.”

That was all Yoongi needed to slip his hand to the back of your neck and drag you into another kiss. This time it was longer, a little harder than the soft peck. He moved his mouth first and you followed suit, slightly parting your lips for his tongue to slip into yours. Your little breathy sounds, paired with the tightening of your hand on his thigh, were making Yoongi a little dizzy. 

You were melting into his kiss, following every lick and every flick of his tongue, allowing him to dictate the pace, deepen the kiss when he wanted. It wasn’t missed on Yoongi how much trust you actually put on him to have these experiences with, and he would make sure you never regretted it. 

Even if nothing ever came of this, he wouldn’t burden you with his broken heart, but continue to support you and be there for you regardless. 

As your hand started moving on his thigh, hiking up, Yoongi groaned against your lips and you swallowed the noise, replying to it with a tiny moan. Yoongi took your bottom lip into his mouth and sucked on it gently, which made your hand squeeze at his thigh and he parted his legs for you in an invitation. 

You didn’t move it to where Yoongi wanted and when he let go of your lip and studied your face, he understood why. He could see how reluctant and shy you looked, eyes pleading with him to help you just a little more. 

“It’s okay.” he assured you, voice coming out raspy. “Give me your hand.” 

You put your palm in his and when Yoongi gently tugged it closer to his ever growing bulge, there was no pulling back, no halting. Just the fear of not knowing what to do. You let out a little gasp as Yoongi placed your hand over the outline of his cock, molding your fingers around it so you could feel all of him. 

“Oh my god.” you breathed out with a little laugh. 

“Too much?” he checked, loosening the hold on your hand in case you wished to pull back. 

But now that you were let go of, you didn’t retreat, but started touching him, over his pants, at your own accord. You squeezed a little, testing the pressure, tracing the length, and Yoongi’s head fell against the back of the couch, eyes hooded and stuck on you, reading your every reaction. 

Small sighs and groans left his lips each time you did something he really liked, which made you ask:

“Does it feel nice?” your whole hand was palming at his crotch and he had to suppress the need to push his hips into your hand, only managing to nod. “You look so good like this.” 

The praise was too much, and he didn’t want to cum inside his pants, just from this, so he chose to stare into the ceiling instead. It did little to quell his worries of not lasting long as you took it as an invitation to kiss his neck. Your lips felt as soft as they did against his and the way you let your tongue lick at his heated skin made him bite back a moan. 

“Can I see you?” you asked in a whiny tone, delivered to his ear, making his cock jump. He wondered if you could feel it. 

“Yeah.” Yoongi nodded and you moved your hand back to his thigh, leaving his neck with one last kiss under his jaw. It was his turn to become a little embarrassed as he said: “Uh, you should know, dicks are pretty different from one another, so.”

“I know, I’ve seen dicks before.” you giggled. “I’ve watched porn, Yoon.” 

Right. 

Yoongi cursed at himself, because of course you knew what a dick was supposed to look like. You might be inexperienced when it came to having practice, but you weren’t sheltered, you weren’t naive, and you clearly weren’t innocent; not with the type of stuff you wrote about. At least your giggle calmed him down a little, and his own embarrassment made his impending release recede. 

He pushed his sleeves all the way up to his elbows and pulled the hem of the sweater from the inside of his pants, revealing a small strip of skin of his lower stomach for you. Yoongi didn’t know what your little gasp meant, but he chose to believe it was positive. You adjusted yourself on the couch as his fingers reached his pants’ button and fly, squeezing your thighs together as he pulled them down. 

Not trying to drag this out or make a mystery of it, Yoongi lifted his hips to push his pants and underwear to the middle of his thighs; a quick pull off of a bandaid, so to speak. His cock jumped free, resting against his lower belly. Hard, leaking pre-cum, the tip a familiar shade of darker pink. 

He really regretted not masturbating in the shower before everyone arrived, because at least the edge would be off and Yoongi wouldn’t need to fear getting off the moment you touched him for the first time. 

You didn’t do much at first, and Yoongi was almost afraid to look at you and find disappointment in your eyes. Your eyes were a little glossy as your tongue poked between your pouty lips. When you noticed his gaze was on you, the spell broke and you reacted. 

“You– Uhm. That’s a big one, right?” you asked with a flushed face and neck. “I know I said I’ve seen them, and I know what it’s supposed to be like, but. I didn’t expect it to be so long? And fat.” 

Your choice of words made Yoongi laugh, an actual belly laugh, shaking shoulders and everything. It made your eyes widen as you blinked cutely, clearly embarrassed. 

“Thanks, doll.” he grinned as his laughter subsided. “And yeah, I’m a little above average.” 

“A little?” your eyebrow arched in suspicion as your eyes followed the movement of his hand as he held his cock, squeezing a little to alleviate some of the ache. “Since when are you modest?” 

“Alright, I have a big dick.” he agreed with a shrug as he took a leap of faith and kissed your cheek with a hot smack. 

“That’s more like the Yoongi I know and love.” you giggled, clearly oblivious to the way your words affected him. 

Yoongi knew you meant in a friendly kind of love, he felt the same way towards you. But his feelings went a little beyond that, which caused his heart to clench and expand in his chest as he basked in your love, however innocent and platonic it was. 

“Can I touch you?” you asked and Yoongi really wanted to say you could do anything at all to him. 

“Go ahead.” 

This is the part Yoongi thought would be weird. In his mind, maybe he pictured you poking him in the dick, giggling like a schoolgirl, maybe frowning or looking a little disgusted. God knows that he didn’t really know what to do when he saw a pussy for the first time. 

But you were gentle with the way your fingertips touched him, following the vein on the underside of it, using your thumb to spread the leaking pre-cum around his velvety tip. You were paying attention, yes, and studying him. But it didn’t make him feel under a microscope. If anything, it made Yoongi feel appreciated. 

Your small hand wrapped around his cock and Yoongi sighed, his free hand was resting next to you on the sofa and he had to hold back the urge of touching you. Your thigh was so close to his hand that he could feel the warmth emanating from you, but you hadn’t talked about it yet and he feared you might not like that. 

For now he had to appreciate the feeling of your hand on him, which was more than he ever thought he’d get. 

When you let go of him, Yoongi feared that might be it, all you needed from him tonight, that you’d tell him you gathered all the information you needed for the chapter. He missed your touch already and having to touch himself after you left would not only be sad, but a little pathetic. 

You were full of surprises, however, as you brought your hand to your lips and sucked on your tongue, letting your spit fall on your palm. You did know what you were doing after all, as he didn’t need to instruct you when your hand got back to his cock and you spread your spit all over him. 

There were things you were trying, Yoongi noticed as he let go of his shaft in order to allow you to take over. The more you touched him, the more confident you grew, tugging him a little harder, jerking him a little faster. When you fisted at his tip, your small hand wrapping around it and squeezing as your wrist flicked, Yoongi’s moan was too loud. 

“Oh, you like that.” it wasn’t a question, but an affirmation as you repeated it one more time before dropping your hand in a tight ‘o’ all the way down to his base. 

“Yeah, it’s uhm–sensitive.” 

Yoongi was breathing heavily as you tugged and stroked his cock. You were a little messy, a bit awkward at times, not really following a steady rhythm, but Yoongi found out that he liked that. 

“I can feel you pulsing.” you commented in awe, letting out small whines that were half the cause for that very throbbing you were feeling against your palm. “Does that mean you’re close?” 

“Not always.” he shook his head, not sure if he rather look at his cock disappearing and poking out from your fist, or your pretty face as you were obviously getting hot and bothered by this. “But I am.” 

That last information seemed to light a whole new fire within you, making your movements a little more firm and determined. You teased his slit with your thumb as the rest of your hand worked on the underside of his head, making him let out raspy moans, sweat starting to cling at his skin. 

It took him completely by surprise as your free hand dipped into his hair and you stared at his lips until Yoongi took the hint and leaned in the rest of the way to capture your lips with his. He couldn’t really kiss you properly, not in the way that he wanted to, and it basically meant that he was moaning against your lips and licking around your mouth more than actually kissing, but it was tearing whines from you either way, and your movements never stopped. 

“Gonna cum, baby–” 

The term of endearment was a slip, one that Yoongi would justify by being in the throes of the moment if you ever asked him about it, and not because he dreamed about calling you baby for years now. You didn’t complain, however, as you flicked your wrist in an upstroke, in that way you already knew he liked, and you squeezed at his hair just as he couldn’t hold back anymore. 

Yoongi felt his lower stomach tense, his cock throb as it felt impossibly hard and borderline painful. He let go of what was holding him back and allowed himself to enjoy the pleasure the girl of his dreams was giving him; thick ribbons of white shooting out of his tip as he groaned what sounded a lot like your name. 

You pulled away from his lips to look as the last strings leaked out, movements slowing down, but not completely stopping. 

“That was beautiful.” you said in that breathy tone that let Yoongi know you were affected. “You’re so beautiful, Yoongi.” 

“Stop that.” he chuckled, cheeks flustered as he watched you milk his cock of the last drops. “I’m the one who had an orgasm, you’re not supposed to be the delirious one.”

“I mean it.” you assured him, not an ounce of doubt in your words. “You’re incredible.” 

"You're the one who did all the work, doll." 

You giggled softly because you agreed, letting his softening cock go as you rested it against his stomach. Clearly you didn't know what to do next, and Yoongi intended on getting up to clean himself up, grab some tissues to clean your hand, he just needed a couple of minutes to catch his breath. 

Yoongi watched as you brought your dirty hand to your face to sniff his release and then swipe your tongue, licking at his cum. It made him groan and intake a breath, wanting to laugh at your childish curiosity. Your nose scrunched a little, obviously surprised, but you weren't gaging, which was a good thing. 

"That's stronger than I thought." was your conclusion. "Not horrible, though."

Yoongi wanted to tell you that the taste and the way cum looked changed a little,  depending on how many times and how often people with dicks had sex or masturbated, but that would include telling you that his sex life was practically nonexistent and even his solo time was cut short by his long studio hours. 

"Can I wash my hands on your sink?" you asked  already up from the couch and walking a little funny as you tried to play it cool. 

"Sure."

Yoongi could only imagine why you were walking like that, wondering if your panties were so wet with your arousal that you were a little uncomfortable. Of course that would mean that you actually enjoyed yourself while jerking him off, that it wasn't purely for your research. 

And then again, didn't he already know that? He saw the way you looked at him, he heard your little mewls and moans and you didn't have to kiss him like that but you still did. 

When you got back to the couch, your hand was clean and you were offering him a paper towel so he could clean himself too, realizing then that he was just sitting there, pants still around his thighs and cock out. He felt a little silly, but took the paper and wiped himself as best as he could before tucking himself back into his underwear and buttoning his pants in place. 

"I had fun tonight." you told him, in what should be a way of saying goodbye, but it didn't match the way you settled on his couch once more, folding your legs under you  

"Yeah? You seemed to enjoy the movie." Yoongi turned toward you after bunching the paper towel in a sticky ball and throwing it at his center table. 

"I mean with you." you half whispered, tapping your bottom lip as an irrational movement, which inevitably dragged Yoongi’s eyes to them. "I'm glad I came to you with this."

"So you haven't changed your mind?" 

You shook your head, lighting up with a smile as you said: "I'm excited to try more." 

"Like what?" Yoongi had suggestions of his own, but this was about you so he didn't want to project his own wishes and wants on you. 

And, thankfully, you were pretty good at telling him what you wanted, despite how shy you got while at it. 

"Maybe you could do something to me next time?" you offered, Yoongi nodded. "Like… whatever you feel like."

"Want me to eat you out?" 

"Are you offering or asking me?" you replied, eyes a little wide, breath a little dragged. 

"Same thing, doll." 

"Okay." 

You agreed softly and it was all Yoongi needed to pull his legs up and crawl to you. Your eyes only grew as you watched him approach, hands resting on his chest as he began laying you down on his couch, gazes stuck to each other. 

“Y–you mean n–now?” you stuttered and even that sounded cute to Yoongi. 

“Is that okay?” he paused, nose an inch away from yours. 

“Yeah.” you sighed, letting your back fall against the couch, head resting on the arm of the sofa. 

“Stop me anytime you want.” Yoongi told you, leaning forward to peck your lips. “Or tell me to keep going when you like something.” 

“I’m convinced I’ll like everything coming from you.” you admitted with a shy chuckle, hands on each side of Yoongi’s neck as you kept him there to kiss his lips a little longer. 

“I sure hope so.” his laugh was easy, as was everything when it came to you. No matter how complicated his feelings were. 

Yoongi dragged his lips against your skin, from your jaw and down to your throat. Your legs parted for him to fit in between them and as your hands got lost in his long hair, making him grunt appreciatively each time you pulled, it felt like an invitation for him to touch you, to feel you. He trusted that you would stop him if you didn’t want any of it, and you never did. 

This didn’t feel like an agreement, didn’t feel like he was doing you a favor by showing you how things worked, making you feel things for the sake of gathering experience for your book. So it was easy to forget that’s all it was, and even easier to feel like you were lovers. 

Yoongi’s hands were roaming your body, touching your sides until he reached your thigh. His mouth was opening and closing against your neck, tongue licking at your skin as you squirmed under him, letting out the prettiest moans. More than anything, he wanted to bite you, leave a pretty bruise on your skin, mark you as his. 

But you weren’t. So he couldn’t. 

“Yoon, please.” you pleaded, so sweetly that it made his cock stir inside his pants. 

Yoongi could never deny you, he wasn’t about to start now. Pulling back from you to kneel between your legs, he was slow with the way he raised the skirt of your overalls, just enough to let him see your bottom half, the softness of your lower stomach and your cute belly button. He didn't want to seem too greedy and raise it up too much. 

Even though he was. 

You were wearing black panties, a little sheer, delicate fabric, with tiny lace frills around the elastic band and an even tinier bow at the front. It wasn’t the kind of underwear one wore if no one was about to see them. It made him wonder if you picked those for him. 

Did you wear them just in case? Did you worry about him liking it? 

The way you were staring at him expectantly let him know that you did. 

“I like these.” he told you and you smiled with pink cheeks. “Were you thinking of me when you chose to wear them?” 

“I bought them for you.” you admitted with a squirm, threatening to close your legs, but his body was on the way. “I didn’t really have any reasons to own lingerie before.” 

Does the top match? He wanted to ask, but refrained from it. All in due time. 

Yoongi touched your knees, thighs, feeling your smooth skin under his fingertips, all the way up your hips to hook his fingers on the elastic bands. “Is it okay if I take them off?” 

“Uh–” you hesitated, which made Yoongi worry. He started to retrieve his hands when you held onto his wrists to keep them there. “Yeah, it’s fine, just– What if you think I look weird?” 

“You could never look weird, doll.” he marveled. 

You huffed in a ‘how would you know’ way and chided: “I hope you know you’ll be the first to see me like this.” as if he didn’t know. As if he wasn’t fucking proud of that. “Well, you and the brazilian lady from the waxing place yesterday, but I don’t think she counts.” 

“I can live with that.” 

He could also live here. With you under him. On his couch. Sharing his space. Your laughs filling the silence of his home, your touches filling the empty spots of his heart. 

When you let go of his wrists and lifted your hips, Yoongi pulled your underwear down your legs, trying not to stare, but unable to look away as you were revealed for him. You were perfect, but he knew you would be. Soft lips, looking a little puffy as your arousal clinged to you, making you all shiny and delicious. 

You spread your legs a little wider, opening yourself to him, inviting him in. You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, there was no question about it. Yoongi had never been rendered speechless like this before, hands resting on your legs as he just… Breathed. 

Hard. 

Heavy. 

You reached out for his wrist, squeezing it, thumb caressing his skin in a way that was soothing, as if he was the one that needed reassurance. It was enough to make him snap out of whatever trance he was under and lean down to lay on the couch, between your legs, and start to kiss the inside of your thigh. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

He had never heard you curse like that before, and it made him greedy to hear more of that. Yoongi trailed kisses on your skin, moving closer and closer to your pussy until he reached it. Yoongi didn’t want to overwhelm you, but he couldn’t really go slow, not when he was dying to taste you. 

His tongue slipped out of his mouth and dipped between your folds, licking a stripe all the way up. Your moan was worth it, your taste was better than he could have expected. 

“How’s that?” Yoongi checked in with you, peppering kisses all over your lips before moving his tongue up and down your soaking cunt. 

“That–shit, I– my god, Yoongi!” 

“That good, huh?” he chuckled close to your pussy so you would feel the vibrations and it made you arch your back. 

“Can you just– keep going?” 

Yoongi looked at you from between your legs, noticing the lip worried between your teeth, your half lidded gaze, the hands resting on your lower stomach as you squeezed the suede fabric of your dress. 

His hands slipped under your thighs and he pulled you down with strong arms, making you squeal and cry out as his mouth latched onto your pussy and he ate you like a man starved. Yoongi was good at it, if he said so himself, and he was about to prove it to you. 

His tongue was quick and purposeful as he explored your pussy, teasing your hole with little circles, only to drag all the way up to your clit. He was drinking from you, swallowing hard, using his lips and tongue to make you feel good. You weren’t able to stay quiet, it seemed, hips starting to rock at their own accord. 

“You taste so fucking good.” he told you, and it was true. 

“You feel really good, too.” you admitted with a long, dragged moan. 

His lips formed a pout around your clit and Yoongi held it there, sucking softly with rhythmic movements of his tongue around it. That’s when your hand grabbed onto his hair and you held on for dear life, keeping him there. Not that he would dare move as your moans and the clenching of your cunt under him were telling him you were close. 

It was more than a little exciting, to know he was the first to taste you, the first to make you unravel like this, the first person to make you cum. In a way, even if nothing serious came out of this, Yoongi would still forever be your first. He hoped you’d always remember him like this, with his face shoved between your legs. A more selfish part of him hoped no one would ever be this good to you, no one would make you moan and cry so loud that the neighbors might hear. 

Yoongi could worry about those implications later, for now he would focus on making you cum on his tongue. 

“Oh fuck, I’m so close, please don’t stop, please–” 

Your pleas and moans were desperate, making Yoongi almost start to hump his own couch just to find relief for his bulge that was already swollen and begging for attention. The sting on his scalp was painful, but he loved it, especially because it meant you were enjoying yourself. 

Yoongi’s sole focus was on your clit, drawing quick circles with the flat of his tongue, until a cry of his name made his ears buzz and his eyes roll to the back of his head as you started trembling underneath him, your orgasm washing over you. Your thighs closed around his head, keeping him there, and he continued to lick you through your climax, a little gentler this time, so that you could enjoy that feeling for as long as possible. 

Only when your hand dropped from his hair and your legs fell open, did he stop. 

You were both breathless when Yoongi pulled away to lay down next to you. He was so drunk on you and your taste on his lips that he didn’t let his overthinking get the best of him. Yoongi simply pulled you into his chest, and you willingly clung to him, laying on your side, as you tried to regulate your breathing. 

“If that’s how it always feels, I’m really fucking mad at myself for not doing this before.” you giggled, but it was muffled by his chest. 

“That’s how it always feels with me.” Yoongi pointed out, letting himself brag. “Unfortunately, most guys out there don’t know where anything is.”

“Oh.” you looked up at him with somewhat wet eyes and red bitten lips. “Well. I might just keep coming back to you, then.” 

“That’s fine with me, doll.” 

OCTOBER 11TH | 16:05

If one wanted to find Min Yoongi, chances were, he’d be in his studio. His workspace, located in a tall building in Yeongsan, was where he spent most of his days, including weekends. The studio, affectionately named Genius Lab, had everything Yoongi needed; his desk filled with the best equipment for recording and producing, a couch where he could nap whenever he was too tired to function properly, a mini fridge where he kept a few drinks and quick snacks, and dark decor and lighting that made the space entertaining and homey enough. 

On a good day, he’d be in the zone. So focused on whatever he was working on that day that the world could be falling to pieces outside of his soundproof walls, there could be a zombie outbreak, and Yoongi wouldn’t even notice it. 

But then there were days like today. 

Yoongi had been going over the same verse for what felt like the thousandth time and he simply did not like how it sounded, his metaphors weren’t good enough, the flow was weak. And the producer, lyricist and rapper wasn’t the kind to just easily move on to the next project, come back to this later with a clearer mind. No, Yoongi would obsess over something and only actually move forward once he fixed what needed fixing. 

His back was killing him from being hunched over his keyboard for the last however many minutes, his neck felt stiff, and he was stressed. Grabbing for his phone on his desk, Yoongi noticed two things. 

Firstly, it was the middle of the afternoon already, when he thought it was just after lunch, so maybe he was stuck on this one song for longer than he hoped. 

And, secondly, Yoongi missed you. 

Now, he didn’t have it that bad for you that simply looking at the time reminded him of you, no. But your face was the image that greeted him when he awoke his sleeping phone, staring back at him, right on his screen background. Again, he was that obsessed to have made you his wallpaper, you had done it yourself, just five days ago, in what he was sure was supposed to be a joke, a lesson to not leave his phone unattended next to you. 

Yoongi just didn’t have the time to change it back to the picture of his family dog just yet. 

Things between the two of you had been going steady for the past few weeks now, almost a whole month ever since you walked into this very room and asked him to help you learn things for your book. You saw each other a few times every week, either with your friends or just you and him, but something always happened. 

Either hidden kisses and stolen moments behind the boys’ backs, or you’d go to his apartment over the weekend and stay the night. Your sessions usually involved a lot of making out, some heavy groping, handjobs, fingering or he’d eat you out. You always had lots of questions for him, which he did his best to answer with examples and practicing time. 

Yoongi wondered if you were as affected by it as he was. Sometimes he asked himself if your yearning eyes, long lasting touches and sweet kisses even after you were done meant something to you as much as they meant to him. He didn’t think you were a cruel person to pretend not to notice how infatuated he was with you, but there were only so many times one could call another person baby or fall asleep holding each other, before one starts to wonder if there’s something more there. 

As Yoongi’s phone turned dark again, he wondered if you were busy. You lived fairly close to his work, everyone in the building pretty much already knew you, so he wouldn’t get in trouble if you came over. He could use a distraction, maybe you could have something to drink at the coffee shop downstairs, it’s been a while since you met there for an afternoon snack. 

To say that escalated would be an understatement. Yoongi didn’t message you with those intentions in mind, but after reading the text conversation again, he could understand how he sounded. The man was slightly awkward when it came to texting, much preferring calls or talking in person. You were always full of emojis and funny ways of communicating, which he thought was cute. 

But then again, Yoongi thought everything you did was cute. 

And he had exactly twenty minutes to get his shit together and stop acting like such a simp, as that was the time that it took for you to walk from your apartment to his studio. A little more than that if you were in your pajamas and had to change before leaving the house. 

At the knock on his door, Yoongi got up to unlock his studio and let you in, but before he could even say hello, you were throwing your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his. Just a smack of your lips, but still enough to surprise Yoongi. 

“Hi.” you whispered with a little smile. You had never greeted him like this before, especially not in the middle of the hallway, where anyone could see. 

“Hey–” Yoongi finally snapped out of it as you slipped your shoes off and walked into the room, going straight to the couch. “I swear this isn’t a booty call.” 

He didn’t really know why he felt the need to reiterate his pure intentions, lest you think that’s the only reason he had to want you over. 

“I know, I was just messing with you.” you giggled as you folded your legs under yourself and Yoongi took a breath of relief. “I just guessed you either wanted to show me something new or a distraction from your genius creations.” 

Yoongi scoffed lightly as he walked back to his chair, dropping down onto it with a squeak. “Got nothing genius to share today, I’m afraid.” 

“New project giving you a hard time?” you asked, leaning forward and tilting your head as you watched him. 

“You could say that.” Yoongi nodded, bringing a thumb to his mouth to bite and pull at the little piece of skin that had been bothering him for the past hour. 

“Is it for the important meeting you have next week?” you asked as you pulled his hand away from his mouth and brought it to your own lips to kiss at the corner of his finger as you noticed how red it looked. 

And this shit right here, this is exactly what he meant. There’s no way you didn’t feel something for him, when you did things like these, right? Wishful thinking or not, it made Yoongi’s heart swoon and his cheeks feel hot. 

“Not at all, so I guess I have two reasons to be worried.” his laugh was void of amusement and filled with self-deprecation. 

“Oh, no.” you scrunched your nose, only now letting go of his hand. “Honestly, Yoon, you have no reason to worry at all. Not about the meeting, not about whatever project is being annoying. You’re great. You’re more than great, you’re the best producer I know.”

“Do you know many producers?” Yoongi challenged you with a cocked eyebrow, and this time his laugh was a little more real. 

“At least two.” you pointed out in a matter of factly way. “And don’t tell Hobi, but you’re my favorite one.”

“How can I be sure you don’t tell him the same thing?”

“I guess you’ll never know.” you grinned, white teeth behind a dark lipstick smile. Now that autumn was in full swing, your wardrobe and seasonal makeup were changing, it seemed. “Is that for Agust D or someone else?”

You were nodding at his computer screen behind him, which was still opened in the latest mixing program he used to add his vocals to the melody he already had.  

“That’s mine, yeah.”

“What’s the problem with it?” you got up from the couch, walking to the desk and leaning over it with your hands flat on the wood top. Yoongi turned his chair to face you, smiling at the lines on your forehead as you tried to figure out what all of the lines, splits and soundwaves meant. 

“Not sure I like it.” he told you with a long, dragged out sigh. 

“Can I hear what you have so far?” you asked as you turned to him instead of the monitor. 

And, the thing was, Yoongi never let anybody hear his songs before he was 100% happy with it. Not Hoseok. Not Pdogg. Not even Bang PD and that was his boss. But you were looking at him so expectantly, and you were always so excited to be one of the firsts to hear his music that he couldn’t say no to you. Ever. 

Yoongi nodded and your sweet smile was already enough to calm his nerves and ill intended feelings towards his music. 

Yoongi rolled his chair a little closer to you, so he could reach for his mouse and move the song back to the start so he could play it for you, but you took it as an invitation to sit on his lap. Not that he wouldn’t actually invite you if he thought it was an option. Which he didn’t. But he was glad that it was. 

The producer was also glad for the way that you so naturally fit there, sitting on his leg, one arm naturally circling his shoulders as his wrapped around your waist to make sure you were balanced. 

“What is it called?” you were asking, looking at him from so close that he could see the little freckle on your eye. 

“People.” 

Yoongi pressed the right button with the mouse and adjusted the volume of the song so you could hear everything as one and not be deafened by the bass that he was working on previously. The song sounded a little different from what he was used to putting out, like ‘Agust D’, ‘Give it to me’ or ‘The last’, which was probably the reason he was feeling so weird about it in the first place. 

It’s not that he didn’t like the song itself, but he was worried that it was not what people expected of him. 

You were nodding your head as you both listened to it playing, trying to school your features in an attempt to not let it show how you felt about it. But when it got to the chorus, you couldn’t hold back the smile that was pushed onto your lips as you heard him sing. 

Yoongi avoided looking at you after that, as his own smile was difficult to contain. 

When the song came to an end, you turned to him with the biggest grin, and Yoongi’s cheeks were puffed as she smiled at your reactions; internally rolling his eyes at himself and his inability of keeping a straight face when it came to you and his music. 

“So, what’s wrong with it?” you asked as the hand that was around his shoulders touched the back of his neck, nails scratching at his nape. 

“I–” Yoongi sighed, almost purred, relaxing into your touch, forehead resting on your cheek as he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t remember.” 

“That sounds more like it.” you giggled, wrapping the other arm around him as he did the same to your middle. “All you needed was to get out of your head a little, huh?” 

“I guess.” 

And you. He definitely needed you. To wordlessly assure him his song was good, to enjoy listening to it, making him laugh and breathe and stop overthinking. You barely did anything at all and yet it felt like so much. 

“Glad I could help.” you were smiling. Yoongi could feel it even if he couldn’t see it. 

“You always do.” 

“I can… You know?” you started softly, almost hesitantly, and Yoongi pulled back enough to look at you. Explaining, you said: “Help you.” 

“You just did.” he insisted, but Yoongi could read it in your eyes that there was something more. 

“No, I mean… This arrangement doesn’t have to be just for me.” your eyes dropped to his lips and Yoongi licked at his bottom lip on instinct, something inside him stirring into life. “I’m here if you need me. For whatever.” 

“Doll.” 

It was a warning, but Yoongi wasn’t sure of what. Was he warning you that he might say yes? That he might be falling for you? At this point it felt like it was too late to warn you about that last one. 

“Would you let me?” you asked, a little more steadily, hand touching the side of his face, thumb running across his cheek. “Let me take care of you.” 

“Okay.” 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Yoongi nodded, even if you didn’t even have to ask. This was dangerous, at least for the man, as kissing you was easily becoming one of his favorite things to do. He hugged you a little tighter as you started placing tiny kisses against his lips, just because. And then your mouth pressed against his, properly this time, and it stayed there for a while longer. 

You were dictating the pace and the intensity of the kiss, and Yoongi let you. He wanted to see how far you would take this, how you intended on taking care of him, so he followed your lead, moving his lips against yours only when you did so. Your tongue slipped past your lips to lick at his and Yoongi parted his mouth and chased yours.

Only for you to pull back with a teasing little smile and playful eyes. 

“What a greedy boy.” you whispered, the hand on his nape slipping into his hair. 

“Baby, please.” Yoongi heard himself saying, avoiding your eyes. 

“Hm. I like that.” with a stronger hold of his hair, you made his neck bend backwards. 

Yoongi gasped in surprise and asked: “When I say please?” 

“When you call me baby.” 

You were smiling against his neck as you kissed just under his jaw, teeth nipping at his skin and Yoongi wanted you to claim him just as much as he wished he could claim you. 

Yoongi’s hands were around you, squeezing you, pressing his fingertips as he tried to feel more of you. Your sweet smile was the last thing he saw when his eyes fluttered closed and you kissed his lips. Really kissed, squeezing his long hair between your fingers once more, slipping your tongue past his lips to lick at his. 

Your lips moved in sync, dragging over each other’s, with so much more familiarity than the first time you kissed, but the bat-like butterflies were still there. Yoongi knew the taste of your lips, and he knew you liked it when he sucked on your bottom lip or pushed his tongue deeper into your mouth to take control back.

Your little, breathy moan was swallowed by Yoongi as his hand dropped to your ass and he squeezed. 

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you, babe.” you said with a little whine and Yoongi’s body twitched with the new pet name. 

“How are you planning on doing that?” he challenged, staring at your swollen bottom lip, taking it into his mouth before you had the chance to reply. 

With a new moan, eyes closing shut, your hand slid down Yoongi’s body, between his legs, to palm his growing bulge. Yoongi hissed and let go of your lip, spreading his legs wider and shamelessly so you’d have more space to work with. 

“Let me show you.” 

With one last press of your mouths, you left his lap and sunk down to the floor, sitting on your feet between his legs, thighs pressed together as your small hands rested atop his. Yoongi’s breath got caught up in his throat as this was a sight he longed to see for longer than he’d ever openly admit. 

Up until this point in your arrangement, you hadn’t yet done what you were so clearly hinting at. You hadn’t reached that part of your book just yet, but it was just another proof that today wasn’t about your book, but about Yoongi. As long as you wanted it too, so he checked:

“You know you don’t have to, right?” his hand landed softly on top of yours as he caressed your smooth skin. 

“I want you, Yoongi.” 

The way you said those words made Yoongi believe in much more than what you were about to do right now. It gave him hope that, maybe, one day they would be true the way he wanted them to be. 

You scooted just a little closer to his legs, cheek rubbing on the inside of his thigh as you laid your head there, staring up at him with uncertain eyes that told him you weren’t quite sure what to do. But Yoongi didn’t hurry you, more than okay with following your pace, letting you explore and experiment. 

Just as long as he could keep looking at you like this. 

A gentle hand touched your face, tracing the curve of your nose, down to the shape of your cupid's bow, pulling gently on your bottom lip to see it part. You closed your eyes as you basked in his caresses, mouth opening to lick at the pad of Yoongi’s thumb making not only his breath grow heavy, but his dick twitch in his pants. 

“My pretty girl.” Yoongi’s words left him without much thought. 

“Yeah?” you sighed, eyes fluttering as your face pulled away from his legs and your hands reached for the waistband of his pants. “Are you claiming me?” 

Yoongi felt hot all over, in his cheeks, in his chest, toes curling inside his studio slippers. You had no idea just how badly he wanted to claim you, in every sense of the word. 

He lifted his hips higher as you pulled his trousers down his legs; not sure if this was the best day to not wear anything else under his soft cotton pants. It made your job easier and it cut back on the teasing, but when his cock sprung free, already hard and ready, your eyes widened slightly with overwhelming. 

You tried not to let it show, or maybe you were just a little more eager to see him bare, letting the pants fall around his ankles as he spread his legs just a little wider. Yoongi was past the point of feeling self conscious about showing himself to you like this, letting your curious eyes roam all of him, but this was a new angle for you, and he wondered what you were thinking. 

You held his cock from the base, raising a little on your knees to reach his tip. Your hand wrapping around him was familiar, he knew your grip, the feel of your smooth fingers. But the feeling of your lips dragging up his shaft was brand new, as was the wetness of your tongue as you licked at the tip. 

Yoongi pushed the backrest of his chair a little further back to recline it, hands holding tightly onto the arm rests on each side of him. Suddenly his shirt felt too hot as it started clinging to his chest, but removing it felt like too much for right now, even for him. 

You teased the slit of his cock with the tip of your tongue, swirling it around the crown, hand moving up and down slowly, as if you had done this a million times before, as if you knew what Yoongi liked. The slide of your hand was a little dry, so you pulled away from him to spit on your palm and make it better. 

Yoongi’s breath hitched and came out as a slow moan as you wrapped your lips around his tip once you returned to what you were doing, looking up at him as if asking if it was okay. 

“You’re doing so well, baby.” he told you in a raspy voice that made your eyes flutter. “Keep going.” 

You nodded, seemingly forgetting you had a cock in your mouth, which made it slide just a little deeper into your mouth. It made Yoongi moan a little louder as he felt more of the warmth of your mouth, and you liked that, sinking down just a little further until you both felt the moment he hit the back of your throat. 

You sputtered with surprise, pulling off of him as you held back a cough with a hand over your lips. 

“Easy, baby. Don’t want to hurt you.” he assured you with a fond smile. “You’ll learn to deepthroat with time.” 

“Wanna make you feel good, Yoon.” you pouted, bringing your lips to his cock again. 

“You are.” he nodded through half lidded eyes, fingers twitching on the arm rests as he controlled the urge to hold you by the hair or back of your head. “Just put it in your mouth. Suck a little.” 

You did exactly that, wrapping pouty lips around the tip, moving your tongue around it inside your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you gave it experimental sucks. You hummed as his pre-cum dribbled out of him and onto your tongue, and Yoongi’s eyes rolled as he heard you audibly swallow. 

“Fuck, that’s it.” he cursed low and heavy. 

A little more confident, your lips dragged down his cock, pushing a little more of him inside, sliding on the flat of your tongue. Whatever you couldn’t fit inside –which was a lot–, you worked with your hand in tugs and strokes. You looked so perfect like this, spit coming out of the corners of your mouth, tears brimming your eyes, jaw probably aching to accommodate his girth. 

When you pulled out again it was in search of air, breathing as hard as he was. Your hand stroked Yoongi’s cock in that way you already knew he liked, closing a fist around the head as you twisted your wrist and pumped up and down. You were mouthing on his shaft, licking and sucking on his skin, tracing the engorged vein. 

Instead of making it up to the top again, your lips dragged down and down and Yoongi’s heart was in his throat. Your mouth was hot and wet as you took one of his heavy balls into your mouth, eyes on his face as if to ask if that was okay. 

“Shit, that’s nice–” he made sure to tell you, no longer able to control his hands on his sides. 

He held you by the back of your neck with a firm hold, squeezing  your nape to encourage you to suck a little harder, which he instantly regretted as it made his lower stomach tense. Yoongi tugged gently on your hair to pull you off his sac and it should be illegal how innocent and wide eyes you looked during such an act. 

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” you asked with a scratchy voice, which made you frown and Yoongi chuckle. 

“No, doll, that was too good.” he sighed a breathy gasp. 

“Oh.” you smiled, a little shy, hand never stopping the long tugs of his cock. With a giggle, you admitted: “I think I like sucking you off.” 

“Yeah?” Yoongi’s smile was still fond, despite the tension on his limbs and the sweat covering his body. “Think you can make me cum like this, hm?”

You nodded with vigor, not an ounce of doubt in your stance. Yoongi chuckled, but it would hardly be a challenge when you were getting him so close to his end already. 

A jolt of hot, white pleasure coursed through him as you mouth was on him again, fingers tightening on your hair as you covered your teeth with your lips as you sunk down and sucked harder as you pulled off. You started bobbing on his cock, pumping his shaft, fist connected to your lips to give Yoongi the feeling of being buried deep into your wet mouth. 

You started sinking lower and lower, not taking him all the way, but Yoongi felt your throat open and contract around him as you tried and tried to push him as deep as you could. Yoongi was a mindless mess, nothing else existed outside of his studio, nothing else mattered but the pure bliss you were inflicting on him. 

With droopy eyes, Yoongi watched you make a mess out of him, spit leaking from your mouth and covering your fingers and his cock. His cock was throbbing, painfully hard, twitching in time with his untamed moans that only made you keep going. 

Your free hand cradled his balls gently, squeezing as they felt heavier, drawing up as his lower stomach tensed. He wanted to hold your pretty face in place and fuck his cook deep down your throat, but it was much too soon for that. Instead, he just sat there, about to go insane with how good you were making him feel. 

Yoongi had no warning words for you, but you didn’t need them as you read the familiar signs of when he was about to cum; the pulsing of the fat vein on the underside, the twitches of his muscles, the groans and rough moans he wasn’t trying to contain anymore. 

Your lips stayed around his crown, tongue swirling and twirling around it with little sucks of your mouth as your fist twisted just under the tip. That and the harder squeeze of his balls was too much for him to hold back from. Yoongi felt his whole body flush, jolting with pure ecstasy that pushed him a little deeper, just as his orgasm hit him like a truck. 

He spilled inside your mouth with thick ribbons of white and you closed your eyes as you let him use your mouth. You were humming, he thought he heard it through his ringing ears, as you swallowed his load like a good girl. 

Some of it escaped from the corner of your mouth and you licked it clean after you pulled off of him once you milked the last drop of his release. Yoongi was breathing hard, with a stupidly proud grin on his face as you gave his softening cock little kisses. 

“Was that acceptable?” you asked with those innocent eyes again. 

“It was great, doll.” he nodded with a gummy smile, eyes closed as his hand dropped from the back of your head. “More than great. It was perfect.”

You were giggling as you stood up on wobbly legs, pulling Yoongi’s pants along. “I’ll believe you once you're not drunk on your orgasm.” 

“Ask me again in ten minutes then.” he laughed, settling his pants around his hips and reaching for you. 

“Does that mean I get to stay a little more?” you beamed, sitting on his lap, resting your red cheek against his shoulder. 

“You can stay all day if you want.” You could stay forever.

OCTOBER 19TH | 17:26

Yoongi avoided leaving his studio in the middle of his workday. Not only did he have deadlines he had to match, but it was his safe space. A place that more often than not felt like his home more than his own apartment. But he didn’t mind leaving Genius Lab if it meant he got to see you for an hour, share a cup of coffee in the place that meant so much for the two of you. 

The coffee shop across the street from the music company he worked for was the very place the two of you had met all those years ago. In an afternoon much like this one, where the autumn leaves were stuck to the wet pavement, a light rain was falling over central Seoul and the weather made you dress a little warmer. 

That day you had been searching for a change of scenery as you wrote what would soon become your first published book, and Yoongi was looking for a different background after staring at his computer screen all day. 

As he crossed the street, hands deep in his military-green jacket, hair partially hidden by a black beanie, Yoongi could already see you sitting at your preferred spot, by the big glass wall. Yoongi much rather sit deep into the shop, as the busy passers-by always posed a distraction to him whenever he tried to write lyrics outside of his usual set up. 

You, however, always said that you liked to watch people walking by, often getting lost in watching the life outside the café. You were both writers, he supposed. But while he wrote songs to sing or rap, you built worlds for people to get lost in. 

Yoongi could never do what you did. 

He was about to knock on the glass, wave at you to show he arrived and was coming in, but as a guy approached you and took your attention completely, Yoongi froze. He knew who the guy was, having been served by the man many times during his visits to the coffee shop. And he also knew that Kai had a not so secret and very obvious crush on you. 

Yoongi couldn’t blame the guy, he was in the same boat afterall, and you seemed oblivious to both of their infatuations with you. But it always rubbed Yoongi the wrong way, especially now. Even if he knew that this agreement you had going on gave him absolutely no claim over you whatsoever. 

In fact, it made Yoongi’s throat feel a little dry as he realized that he wasn’t just teaching you things you could use in your book, but you could also use in real life. With other guys. With guys like Kai. 

Not that hooking up with him –if he could even really call it that– would mean any great changes in your life. You were naturally flirty, but not obnoxiously so. And you were already confident, never afraid of speaking your mind, a social butterfly that made friends with anyone, anywhere. 

All Yoongi was doing was taking the pressure off. 

By sharing these experiences with you, all he did was make sure that your “firsts” were with someone you trusted, someone you wouldn’t regret down the line. Even if virginity was just a concept created by society to control and overpower women over the centuries and dictate their values, it was still kind of a big deal. 

But once you were done with that unnecessary pressure, you’d be free to have all of the one night stands and adventures that your heart desired. You said so yourself, you never had them before because that’s not how you envisioned your first time. 

Yoongi didn’t think that’s what you had in mind when you asked for his help, and he was positive you were focused on writing your book and that was it. But it didn’t mean that you wouldn’t realize this once you were done with the novel. Once you were done with him. 

“Hey!” the knocking on the glass, coming from the inside, made Yoongi jump. You were looking at him expectantly with that sweet smile of yours, a little wave as you called him in. "Aren't you coming?"

"Yeah, yeah." 

By the time Yoongi walked into the neutral colored coffee shop, Kai was already gone and you were closing the lid of your laptop, waiting for him to walk to you. 

The smell of coffee and fresh pastries attacked Yoongi’s stomach, reminding him he had skipped lunch; a fact you’d definitely scold him for if you found out. He’d order something to eat in a bit, Kai never spent too long without an excuse to go back to your table anyway, at least he could do some work while blatantly flirting with you. 

“What were you doing out there?” you asked him with an amused smile, looking cute in your mustard-yellow knitted sweater. 

“Thought I forgot my phone for a sec.” he lied, patting the device on his pocket just to make sure he hadn’t actually. 

“I highly doubt you would, that’s like an appendage to you at this point.” you joked, pushing the plate with an orange muffin towards Yoongi. “Here. Eat.”

“How–”

“How did I know you didn’t eat? Call it an educated guess.” you jutted out your chin, resting back against your chair and taking a sip of your drink. You were having a hot chocolate today, which wasn't surprising as it was your drink of choice whenever the weather started to turn cold. “I like to think I know you pretty well, Yoon.” 

“If you really knew me, you’d have coffee waiting too.” Yoongi grumbled, using it to cover the fact that the knowledge you had of him and his habits made him a little giddy. 

“Nope, not until you eat. I don’t want you developing stomach problems with the amount of caffeine you already drink.”

You shook your head, blowing on your hot chocolate before taking another sip. Yoongi listened to you, as he always did, and plucked pieces of the muffin to take into his mouth. This was his favorite baked good from this coffee shop, something he had never tried before you showed up in his life. 

Now it was his usual order, his guilty pleasure to indulge in whenever he had a craving for something sweet. It didn’t have anything to do with you, he always tried to convince himself, it was just another one of his habits. 

“Were you writing?” Yoongi asked as you seemed distracted watching a woman walk a small dog outside. The dog was wearing even smaller rain boots, which was no doubt the reason for your delighted smile. 

“Mhm, I’m making progress, thankfully.” you nodded, attention moving back to him. “Thanks to you.”

“You’re the writer, I’m not doing anything.” he shrugged noncommittally, swallowing the last piece of his muffin.  

“We both know that’s not true.” after noticing he was done eating, you looked at the counter of the shop, lifting your hand in a thumbs up that made Kai nod in the distance. “You’re helping me in an unconventional way, but you are.”

“As long as it’s really helping.” 

Not even a minute later, Kai was back at your table, greeting Yoongi with an ‘afternoon, hyung’ and placing a coffee in front of him. One Yoongi hadn’t ordered or paid for. You had a proud little smile pulling on your berry-lipstick-lips, raising an eyebrow as if challenging Yoongi to say you didn’t know him again. 

“I think I managed to fix most scenes.” you got back on the subject, leaning forward on the table with your elbows, holding the hot chocolate mug between your hands. 

“Already?” Yoongi was surprised to say the least, but he knew what it was like to be under pressure to make through deadlines. 

“Yes, but the first chapters are pretty tame, so.” you justified. “Nothing I really need to delete and start over.”

“Good.” 

Yoongi got a little lost on the way you brought your drink to your lips, watching as your lipstick left a stain on the rim of the mug. He wondered how good that color would look staining his skin instead; his lips, his neck, his chest. 

“What about you? How did that meeting go yesterday?” you asked him earnestly, reaching out to hold his hand on top of the table and Yoongi felt little shocks where your hands met. 

“Ah, it went well, yeah. Pretty well, actually.” a tight lipped smile turned into a gummy one as he said: “I’m going to be working with Jae-sang sunbaenim.”

Your scoff was pained as you frowned: “I’m sorry, am I so out of the loop that I don’t know who that is?”

“You know him as PSY.”

The squeal that escaped your lips was high pitched enough to catch the attention of the table next to yours, but you never minded that and this time Yoongi didn’t mind the looks from strangers either. 

“What?!” you hissed, a lot more contained this time. “No way!”

“I’m pretty excited about it, actually.” Yoongi let out a small sound of his own; one that sounded like a squeak as he wanted to get up and do a little dance. But he didn’t. 

“You should be! That’s huge!” your hold on his hand was a little firmer, smile a little brighter. 

Yoongi had worked with famous musicians many times before. The main part of his job was writing and producing for other artists, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his own mixtapes, and his own collaborations with stars that be admired; like IU –much for Jungkook’s delight and Jimin’s panic–, Suran, MAX and Lee Sora. But none of those had the potential of really making it internationally as this collab with PSY had. 

“He wants me to feature on it, too.” he told you, and your jaw dropped. 

“Yoongi! That’s amazing!” your other hand reached for his and you held it between yours. “You deserve it so much. I’m so proud of you, I hope you know that.”

“Thanks, doll.”

“We should do something to celebrate.” you stated before he had the chance to deflect. 

With a shrug, and the desire to hold onto your hands for the next three hours, he said: “We’re having coffee at our spot, that’s good enough.”

“Not for a collab with PSY it’s not.” you sounded almost offended. “I’d say we should go to Serendipity, but you hate clubs.” 

“Please don’t make me go there again.” his laugh was one of suffering and despair, which made you giggle. 

“Oh! I know!” you chirped, letting go of his hands in order to clap excitedly, just once. “I’m going to cook for you!”

“I thought you wanted to do something nice–”

“Hajimaaaa!” you complained with another laugh, one so contagious Yoongi found himself mimicking. “Maybe I’ll order something from Jin’s restaurant then, and put it in pans and dishes, so you think I cooked.”

“Sounds good, doll.” Yoongi agreed, which was the easiest thing to do. 

“Perfect! It’s a date then.”

OCTOBER 21ST | 18:03

By the time Yoongi made it to his car, he had already opened and buttoned up his shirt all of five times. He did trust Jimin when it came to fashion choices, but not when it came to mischief. And that group chat screamed ‘dongsaengs up to no good’. But the two boys did make Yoongi feel good about his choice of clothing, how he did his hair and the little bit of makeup he added to his lids just to make them pop. 

He could only hope you didn’t think he was trying too hard. 

Even though he was. 

Even if this wasn’t a date. 

Yoongi’s routine each time he sat in his car was always the same: Sit down, make sure the mirrors were all in the right position, start the car, connect his phone to the bluetooth sound system, pick a playlist he was in the mood for, seatbelt, drive. But this afternoon as he drove out of the parking lot of his not-so-modest-building in Hannam, the soundtrack for Yoongi’s drive was the beep of a connecting call. 

“Hyung!” Namjoon’s voice was the one fill his car as the call was connected. “You know you’re the only person who even makes calls these days, right? A text would have been fine.” 

“I’m driving, can’t text.” Yoongi provided as he leaned a little further front to see that his road was free and he could go. 

“Oh. Ohhh, are you going to see our favorite writer for your celebratory date?” Namjoon’s all knowing tone made a tiny smudge of heat taint his cheeks, but at least he wasn’t there to see it and tease him about it. 

More to himself than to his best friend, Yoongi felt the need to clarify: “Not a date, but yeah, I’m on my way.”

“And you called me to get tips on her latest chapters?” on the other line of the call, Yoongi could hear Namjoon’s voice turning a little clearer, as if he’d closed the door of his office. “I just read the edited ones and damn, hyung! Who knew you had that dirty mouth–”

“That’s not– She doesn’t write what we do word by word.” Yoongi panicked for a second, thinking about not only Namjoon, but the rest of the world reading what the two of you had been doing. With a whisper, he hissed: “Right?”

“Don’t worry, I’m just messing with you.” Namjoon laughed and Yoongi shook his head, fingers relaxing on the steering wheel. “But she’s been doing well, I don’t have any new pointers for the chapters. She’s a lot happier too, it seems, and I don’t think the book is the only reason why.”

“You know, that right there is the reason I’m calling you.” Yoongi scoffed for no one to see as he drove out of his neighborhood and into the busy roads of Seoul. So much for avoiding rush hour when the capital was hustling 24/7. 

“What did I do this time?” Namjoon sighed on the other side. 

“Not this time, still the same thing.” he said. “Why did you put this crazy idea into her head?”

“Hyung. It's been weeks.” his best friend sounded tired, as if they went over this time and time again. And they had. 

“Over a month and I already regret this–”

“Do you regret accepting it? Or do you wish she never asked you?” Namjoon had a way of using hard phrases and poetic analogies sometimes, the perks of being an editor and a published poet, no doubt. 

“What's the difference?”

“Well, in one scenario you realize you work better as friends, and in the other it means you got it bad.”

“I got it so fucking bad is not even funny.”

Admitting that to his best friend was easier over the phone. Even if Yoongi knew Namjoon and all of their other friends also knew about it. It was a miracle that you didn’t, at this point. Unless you did, but had been ignoring it in order to not make things awkward. 

If that was the case, Yoongi wasn’t sure if he should be thankful or worried.

“Ahh, I see. So your feelings are growing impossibly fast and you're starting to feel bad because you don't think this means the same for her as it means for you?” Namjoon summed it up as Yoongi stopped his car at a red light. 

The trees were in full autumn colors, all shades of red, yellow and orange. If Yoongi rolled his windows down, he was sure he could smell the pumpkin spice and cinnamon in the air, which always brought him a nice, warm feeling inside.  

“Was this part of a master plan to get back at me for senior year?” Yoongi asked after a lightbulb moment.

“What?”

“You know, Jiheun?”

Jiheun was a girl Namjoon had a massive crush on, back when they were both in High School. And Yoongi might have read the signs wrong and told his best friend that the girl liked him back. Only for poor, string bean, bowl cut, awkward Namjoon to ask her out and get rejected in the middle of the school cafeteria. 

“Wha- hyung! Of course not, it's been years I’m not that petty.”

“Okay, okay.” not that Yoongi thought Namjoon would do something like this as they were both adults now, but his anxiety-filled-brain still asked stupid stuff sometimes. 

“Besides, I have a simple solution to your problem.” Namjoon stated.

“Do tell, because I'm almost at her place.” not completely true, he still had one more stop on the way to your apartment. 

“Have you thought about confessing?”

Yoongi’s answer was the love child between a wheeze and a snicker. 

“If you're not happy about this agreement, but you still wanna help her, and be with her for real,” Namjoon continued, seeing as Yoongi was too gobsmacked to reply. “Then tell her how you're feeling.”

“What part of that solution is simple?” Yoongi asked with a glare directed to the panel of his car, hoping Namjoon could feel its heat. 

“It’s simple because it’s telling the truth.”

“The truth that could ruin everything. Her book, our friendship–” Yoongi argued, being interrupted by his best friend:

“Are you so afraid of rejection that you would rather keep hurting yourself? You know this arrangement won't last forever.”

“I know.”

“And maybe she feels the same way.”

Yoongi’s fingers tightened against the steering wheel just a little harder as he said: “That’s a big fucking maybe.”

“Didn’t you say she’s been calling you babe and shit? And you like… cuddle now?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Those are good signs, hyung!”

He knew that, it’s been plaguing his mind for the past couple of weeks. But to hear someone else say it, someone as rational as he was, made him feel like maybe it wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part. 

As if the universe was on his side for once in his life, Yoongi found a parking spot right in front of Maybell Bakery. You had promised to cook for Yoongi tonight, but he said he’d bring dessert. And you really liked the double layered, pumpkin pie that was only sold during the month of october and was extremely overpriced, so he placed an order and paid a little extra for it to be done by the time he was able to pick it up. 

“Alright, I’m here. Gotta go.” 

“Okay. Call me if something happens, I’m invested in this.” Namjoon said and Yoongi could picture his little grin that would most likely poke a dimple in his cheeks. 

“You better be, you’re the one who threw me into this mess.” Yoongi took his seatbelt off, but didn’t move, waiting for his friend to hang up. 

“You fail to remember that she’s the one who asked you, I didn’t tell her to go after you.” Namjoon pointed out in that know-it-all tone that fit him so well. “If I’m being honest, I thought she’d go for Hoseok hyung and not you.”

“What?!” Yoongi frowned at that new piece of information, hand freezing on the way to his key to turn off the car. 

“He’s more… Dom, you know? That seems to be more like her type.”

“Great–”

Yoongi did take control with you, and he had his moments in bed before, where he had girls and guys begging for him to let them cum, but he wouldn’t define himself as a Dom. Not the way Hoseok was, Namjoon was right about that. 

“But she still went after you, hyung! That counts for a lot.” Namjoon tried to backtrack but the damage was done. 

“I know, okay.” Yoongi took a deep, calming breath that didn’t do much to quell his nerves; of seeing you, of considering the ideas Namjoon was planting in his mind. “Nice going on telling the kids about this, by the way. Jiminie and Jungkook were teasing me about this date.”

“First of all, stop stalling and get out of your car already.” Namjoon laughed on the other side and Yoongi nodded to himself. “And second of all, I didn’t tell anybody.”

“Then how did they know–”

“Well, hyung. Have you ever thought that maybe she told them? And she’s thinking of this as a date?”

Yoongi had not, in fact, thought about that possibility. Not only were you a lot closer to the three younglings –who were closer to you in age– than Namjoon, you usually told each other everything, seeing as Jimin had been your best friend since way before he even met you. 

So to say it gave Yoongi all kinds of butterflies, the simple chance of you telling your best friend and his boyfriend that you were having a date tonight, officially, would be an understatement. 

“Go get your girl.” 

Namjoon’s encouragement was the last thing he heard before leaving his car to pick up your pie in the bakery. 

On the drive to your place, Yoongi’s nose was being attacked by the fresh baked goods resting on the passenger’s seat of his car, as his mind was plagued with the thoughts of you and him. 

You, who had walked into his life by mere chance, and stayed in it from your own insistence, as Yoongi hardly made new friends. You, who had the most expressive eyes Yoongi had ever seen. You, who owned his heart in a tight grip and you didn’t even know. 

You, who were already waiting for him at the front door of your apartment as the elevator dropped him off on your floor. 

“You don’t have to call me to buzz you in everytime, Yoon, you know the code to the gate.” was the first thing out of your pretty mouth as you walked him into your apartment. 

“So, what, am I supposed to just let myself in?” Yoongi’s smile was easy as he slipped out of his shoes. “Why don’t you give me the key to your apartment while you’re at it?” 

You giggled as you said: “Because then you might come in and steal all of my tangerines.”

Yoongi was rolling his eyes at your words, pink cheeks as you called him out on his small addiction to the fruit. You reached for him after you locked the door of your apartment, raising on your toes to kiss his lips in that way that made Yoongi feel like you were something more. 

“You look so handsome tonight.” you told him so, a hand smoothing the black silk shirt he was wearing.

“Thanks. You’re always looking pretty.” Yoongi told you in an unbribed moment of boldness, making you smile sweetly, hand still on his chest. 

You were wearing a black sundress with a tiny red cherries pattern that was too light for the weather outside, but perfect for the toasty ambiance you kept your apartment in. 

“Thank you.” you beamed, walking deeper into your apartment and leading him inside. “What’s that you got there?”

“Can’t you take a guess?”

Yoongi saw you eyeing the cardboard box with the pretty fall themed design when he walked in, and there was no way you couldn’t smell the festive pie. But you were still playing coy, as you usually did whenever anyone gave you gifts or did something nice for you; never one who liked to assume. 

You and him were pretty alike in that sense. 

“I know what I want it to be, but that would be impossible, because I’ve been calling Maybell and they keep telling me they are booked for the double layer pumpkin pie until next year.” you told him with a pretty pout. Yoongi had just felt your lips, but he wanted more. 

Focusing on the matter at hand, he placed the box on top of your small kitchen counter and pushed it closer to you as he said: “Why don’t you open it, then?”

You did so, pulling apart the dark orange bow to open the box, letting out a high pitched squeal as you saw the pie. Yoongi’s mouth watered at the sight, he could only imagine your excitement. 

“Yoongi!” you gushed with a small jump. “How the hell did you do this?!”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” he said, not really calculating his words and offering you a tight lipped smile as he realized how he sounded. 

“Cheesy.” you giggled, but reached out to squeeze his arm. “Thank you.”

“What smells so good?” Yoongi deflected. 

“That would be the bulgogi!” you chirped, pointing to the pan in the oven. “We can eat in a bit, and I hope it tastes as good as it smells.” 

“Well, you’re making it, so I’m sure it probably won’t–”

“Than–hey!” you laughed at his joke, huffing as you pretended to be mad, which made Yoongi laugh along. 

You shook your head and walked to the fridge, opening it to grab a wine bottle that Yoongi could recognize the label of. It was the brand and kind that he used to have at home, alongside his many bottles of whiskey. 

“Should we open this? It’s supposed to go well with the food, according to Naver.” you offered, and your eyes were pleading. 

“I’m driving, doll. If you had told me you wanted to drink, I would have taken a lift.” it hurt him to say that, and Yoongi didn’t like the way it made you bite your lip, uncertain. 

“You can spend the night.” you told him, avoiding his eyes as you placed the bottle on the counter. Not moving to open it, but not putting it away either. “Or you can leave your car here and I’ll drive it back to you tomorrow.” 

You didn’t like driving in Seoul, Yoongi knew that. You did have a license, and you drove whenever you absolutely had to, but it wasn’t something you’d offer lightly. Not only wouldn’t he put you through that, but the option of sleeping over at your place tonight was an inviting one. 

You had spent the night at his place before, shared a bed, so it wasn’t the end of the world and wouldn’t make Yoongi spiral. But this was the first time that you’d share your bed. And somehow that felt like a new step you were taking in whatever this was. 

Yoongi moved around you to take the bottle opener resting on the counter behind you and you smiled at his acceptance grabbing the two wine glasses you had already left out. 

Once the drink was poured into the glasses, you made the move to sit on the small couch of your modest apartment and Yoongi followed you closely. 

Your apartment was a small one bedroom unit, with a tiny kitchen and small living room. Enough for a single woman living alone in Seoul. It was filled with creams, whites and a few pops of color here and there. Yoongi could already notice the pumpkin shaped candle holder on top of your center table, and the cookie jar that looked like a ghost on your kitchen counter. 

“I see you’re getting ready for halloween.” Yoongi pointed out.

“Oh, those have been out since October first.” you smiled, following his line of vision. You pulled a maple leaf printed cushion and rested it over your legs to sit comfortably.  “You have to see my room, it’s really cute.”

Yoongi chuckled, because he could imagine the sheets that must be in autumn colors, maybe some bunting and pumpkin shaped fairy lights. 

“I’m thinking I want to do Halloween differently this year.” you started again, softly swirling the wine in your glass.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Jiminie wants to go to Serendipity for costume night.” you were nodding as you told Yoongi of the plans. 

“Of course he does.” he mused. “What are you thinking about dressing as? Sexy Anne Rice again?”

“Oh my god, that wasn’t supposed to be sexy!” you giggled with a cute blush on your cheeks, hiding your eyes behind a hand. 

“The fang marks on your neck made it sexy.” Yoongi hadn’t seen you dressed in the costume that was supposed to represent your favorite writer, that would mean he actually went to the halloween party last year, but he got many selcas and pictures of the night. 

“Well, it was an homage to her Interview With a Vampire world.” you explained and he smiled, because that was just so you. 

“What are you thinking of changing this year?” he asked and you moved a little on your seat. 

“I’m thinking about a couple's costume.” you said, not looking at him, and Yoongi’s blood ran cold. “Maybe I’ll dress up as Agatha Christie. Now I just need to find my Poirot.”

“That’s, uhm–” Yoongi nodded, gaining time to drink a few long sips of his wine. 

How was he supposed to answer that? You were thinking of going to a club with someone else? Wearing a couple’s costume? You knew Yoongi didn’t go to clubs or parties, so you obviously didn’t mean you thought you and him should go together. It was easy to wonder if you were talking to someone on the side. 

On the side of what? Yoongi asked himself bitterly. It’s not like you two were dating in the first place. It was easy for him to forget about it, but you clearly didn’t. 

“Are you thinking of doing anything?” you pushed as the silence grew too thick. 

“Nah. My building might have trick or treaters again, so I’ll just give out candy.” he shrugged, bringing the glass to his lips. 

“I can help you with that!” 

“I’m sure you’ll find your Poirot by then and will be too busy for your friends.” 

That was a jab at himself, a way for him to get it through his head that that’s what the two of you were. You were just offering him help to be nice, because you were really nice. So nice you’d have anyone wishing to go to a club with you as your date. 

Yoongi included. If you asked him. 

“Yeah, we’ll see.” you sounded a little disappointed as you sipped quietly on your wine, but that could have been his own projecting. “So how’s the collab with PSY coming along?”

As you both sipped on your wine, Yoongi told you all of what he knew so far about That That. He’d have a meeting with the artist again this following week, to talk about their expectations and schedules, but he was staying positive. 

You were so excited for him, hanging off to his every word, asking questions and being so supportive of him and everything he did that his hunched shoulders turned a little straighter and his breathing got a little easier. 

There was no need to be worried right now, Yoongi decided, the more wine he drank, the further away the lump in his throat got. No matter what happened tomorrow, he still had tonight. 

“I really hope he makes you dance.” you were saying as you brought the dinner to the small table, making Yoongi scoff. 

“There’s no fucking way I’m dancing.” he told you with a squint, following you with the last of the banchans. 

“Oh, come on, you’d be so good at it!” you told him without an ounce of doubt, giggling as you turned to face him. “I’m sure you can move those hips!” 

Yoongi had a bowl of kimchi in one hand and another of fresh cabbage slaw in the other, so he had no way of protecting himself when you held him by the hips, making him turn this way and that as if you were proving he could dance. 

“Hajimaaaa.” he warned you with closed eyes and a laugh on his lips. 

“Admit it, you’d be great at shaking that ass!” you continued to sway him, both of your laughs mixing together as he was just trying to put the food down. 

“I will do no such thing.” 

With each step forward Yoongi took, you took one backwards, until you both reached the table and he could place the banchans down. His hands were now free, so he could take yours away from his hips and pin them to his chest. 

“Hajima.” he repeated, a little lower this time, as he could smell the wine on your breath from close to each other you were. 

“Or what?” you challenged with a pretty, innocent smile. 

“Or I’ll have to stop you myself.” 

“I think Min Yoongi is the greatest dancer this country has ever–”

Yoongi felt your smile against his as his lips pressed against yours, softly, but determined. He let go of your hands in order to hold both sides of your face as his lips moved against yours, tongue licking between your lips for you to part them for him. You were holding onto his shirt, little gasps leaving you as his tongue swiped at yours. 

Yeah. At least he had tonight. 

OCTOBER 21ST | 21:17

As it turns out, Yoongi did not have tonight. 

Towards the end of the dinner –which was delicious, by the way–, you started to grow a little restless. Too stuck in your mind at times, not really answering Yoongi’s questions as if there was something worrying you. And Yoongi knew not to push you, you’d tell him whatever was bothering you whenever you felt comfortable to do so. 

He knew something was really wrong when he got up to take the empty dishes to the sink and you didn’t try to stop him, nor did you move to help. You stayed in your spot, looking at the top of the table as if you were reading something really important there. 

And then it came, the three words that made Yoongi’s stomach drop: “Can we talk?” 

Yoongi left the dishes where they were, too nervous and hands too trembling for him to attempt to wash any of them. When he turned to you, you weren’t sitting at the table anymore, but standing in the living room, looking over at the city lights outside your window, arms around yourself as if you were trying to self soothe. 

“What’s up?” he asked you, voice wavering. 

“I’m not sure how I feel about this agreement anymore.” you were blunt and straight to the point. The dinner and the wine were trying to make a comeback, but Yoongi held himself together. 

“Oh.”

“I mean, I did learn a lot–I am learning a lot. Each time we… do something, it’s fun and nice and I really enjoy myself.” this is when you turned around to face him and it wasn’t fucking fair that you looked this good while you were about to break his heart. 

“Okay.” 

“Maybe you were expecting to have sex tonight–”

Hearing this made Yoongi take a couple steps to close the distance between you, but stopped short of touching you. “No, doll. Stop, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, you know I’d never push you.”

“I know.” you nodded softly, avoiding his eyes, twirling the ring on your finger. 

“We can just drop everything, I told you from the start.” he assured you once more, having to stick his hands into his pocket to stop himself from reaching out to touch you. He’d never get to touch you again. Pretending this wasn’t hurting him, that his hands wouldn’t shake if they were out of his pockets, that the lump in his throat wasn’t back. “There’s no pressure. You’re free to walk away whenever you want.”

“Yeah, okay.” you sniffed, as if you were about to cry. Yoongi’s heart broke for a whole different reason. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” he shrugged, even if he was positive nothing would ever be right again. 

“It’s not. I really didn’t mean for this to happen… God, I’m so silly.” you chuckled, but it was a heavy one. You took a step back, both hands on your waist as you shook your head. 

“You’re not silly, you wanted to make your book better.” Yoongi supplied. 

He wondered if he should just count his losses and leave, walk away with the little bit of dignity he still had left, make this easier for you as well. And he couldn’t even drive home, not with how much wine he had. He could take a cab and ask one of his friends to come back for his car tomorrow; what annoyed him was that he couldn’t even have Namjoon do that as payback when the man didn’t drive. 

“Yeah, and what do I do?” you asked, obviously a rhetorical question as you laughed at yourself.  “I ask the guy I have a crush on to help me.”

“What–”

“As if that crush wouldn’t turn into feelings!” you continued, waving a hand in the air. 

Yoongi’s mind was a mess as he tried to make sense of your words. His voice came out as a high pitched sound as he asked: “Feelings?”

“I know I made this awkward. I’ll understand if you need me to step away for a little while.” you said, still not looking at him, still talking to yourself as you started walking from one side to the other, hands and arms making random gestures. “You know what, if anything, Namjoon made this awkward.”

“Doll.”

“He knows how I’ve always felt about you, and you know what he told me just this afternoon?” you looked at him then, but it was fleeting. “That I should just confess! As if that was so damn easy.”

Yoongi’s lips split into a grin and suddenly the weight was lifted. His stomach stopped turning, but the butterflies were still there. His cold sweat wasn’t of anxiety anymore and the trembling in his body was from excitement, not dread. 

“Doll.”

“Well, this is the last time I’m ever listening to that giant fool–”

“Baby.”

At the term of endearment your mouth closed and you looked at Yoongi with wide, sparkling eyes. He walked to you then, hesitance flying out the window. When his hand touched your face, you didn’t flinch or pull away from him, leaning into his touch. 

“Why are you doing this?” you asked softly, eyes closing, bottom lip pushing out. “Shouldn’t you be running?” 

“I should be doing exactly this.” Yoongi pressed his lips to your forehead and you let out a shuddering breath. 

“Yoon, it will only hurt more when you leave.” you pouted, and the producer guessed it was a good time to let you in on a little detail you seemed to still be missing. 

“What if I don’t leave, hm?” he lifted your face when you avoided looking at him. “What if I have feelings for you too?” 

“Well, that would be great, but–” you were about to start spinning again when you gasped. “Do you?” 

“Thought it was obvious.” he chuckled, gums out and everything. 

“Nuh-uh!” 

Your jaw dropped and you blinked slowly, kinda like a cat, letting his words sink in, the small brushing of his thumb on your cheek that dragged down to touch your bottom lip. Then your lips kissed the pad of Yoongi’s digit, he looked at your eyes to find nothing but joy. 

“Will you take me out on a date, then?” you asked, hands circling his torso in a hug. 

“I think we just had our first date.” Yoongi looked over his shoulder to the table where your dinner had been perfectly pleasant until the moment you got in your head. 

But Yoongi understood now why you were so restless, why you sunk in on yourself and barely touched your food towards the end of the dinner. He could imagine exactly all that had been plaguing your mind, as the same thing was running through his. 

“But I’ll take you on a second one.” he said, kissing your cheek. “And on a third one. And fourth one.” 

You were giggling and squeezing him as he kissed all over your face, just to hear more of your sweet noises. “Does that mean you’re my boyfriend now?” 

“If you want me to be.” Yoongi nodded, pulling his face away from yours so he could look into your eyes as he asked: “Do you want to be mine?” 

“I’ve been yours, babe.” your arms unwrapped from his middle so you could hug his shoulders. “You have no idea for how long.” 

“Let’s keep it that way, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You were smiling as Yoongi held your face a little firmer, pressed his lips to yours a little harder. It was just supposed to be a celebratory kiss, really, one that marked the end of your arrangement and the start of your relationship. Until he swiped his tongue between your lips and you parted them with a moan. Your hands slipped into his hair, his dropped to your waist. 

The wet sounds of your mouths sliding together were turning Yoongi’s happiness and elation into pure desire, greed and desperation. You were his now. Properly. Truly. You were with him because you had feelings for each other, not because of a silly book.

With the way you were pressing yourself to him, as if trying to melt and mold the two of you into one being, he could guess you were feeling the same way. When you pulled your lips from his, they were red and slightly swollen, and your eyes were like a kaleidoscope, pulling him in, making him dizzy with all of your colors and shapes. 

“You wanna see my room?” you invited, making Yoongi’s stomach do a flip. 

“I do wanna see your Halloween decor.” he nodded with a grin. 

You smiled and took his hand with yours, palms and fingers slotting together as if they belonged just like that. You dragged him out of the living room, through the short hallway and into your bedroom, turning the lights on to let him see the space. 

Your bedroom followed the same color patterns as the rest of the apartment, lots of whites and creams, but the apricot orange bed sheets complimented the halloween decorations sprinkled here and there. Your double bed was pressed against the furthest wall, right under a high window. Your dresser was cluttered with makeup, an opened jewelry box, a few papers and your laptop. On the headboard of your bed, a string light with little white ghosts was hanging, which you turned on as soon as you walked into the room. 

Next to your bed, on top of the white nightstand, was a book, a case of wireless earbuds Yoongi had gifted you on your last birthday, and a printed picture of you and him. It had been taken months ago, by Hoseok and one of his many disposable cameras, but Yoongi didn’t know you had kept it. 

“Ah.” you said with a small laugh, wrapping your arms around Yoongi’s middle as you noticed what he was looking at. “I was hoping you might see that and realize I’m in love with you.” 

“You could have my face as a blanket and I still wouldn’t have realized that.” Yoongi chuckled, pulling you to his front and bending down to pick you up. “It’s nice to hear it, though.” 

You squealed as he lifted you with strong arms, biceps bulging in his tight shirt as you wrapped your legs around his waist and held on. Your gasp made him feel really good about himself. 

“Bed?” you offered with a smile and an eyebrow wiggle. 

“Bed.” 

Yoongi was nodding as he took the two steps to reach your bed, holding you with a tight grip until he sat down against your headboard. The little plastic ghosts clinked and poked him in the back of the neck as he settled with you on his lap, making you giggle. 

“Come here.” Yoongi urged and you complied. 

Your small hands were on his chest, sliding on the silk fabric until your fingers came in contact with the triangle of skin created by the three buttons he left open –per Jimin’s advice–. Each of your legs were on one side of Yoongi’s hips, straddling him as you sat right on top of him. 

“Did I tell you that you look pretty tonight?” you asked him as you dragged your nails on his skin, nose touching his, lips brushing together. 

“Did I tell you that you look pretty every night?” he countered, eyes closing as he took your bottom lip between his teeth. 

You mewled softly, chasing Yoongi’s mouth once he let go of your lip. Your kiss was heated, deep, full of tongue and little moans that grew louder and louder as you started to rock your hips back and forward, dragging your core on Yoongi’s erection, making it feel harder and harder with every slow sway of your hips. 

Yoongi’s hands were moving up and down your legs, slipping under your dress and growing bolder as you pushed into his hands when they settled on your ass. He squeezed the flesh, fingertips dragging on the tiny material that felt like lace under his touch. 

His hips flexed up at the same time that you pressed down and the pressure on your core must have felt good, for you to throw your head back with closed eyes and parted lips. Yoongi took that as an invitation to kiss down your jaw, covering your throat in kisses, choosing a spot at the side of your neck to latch on. 

“Yes, babe–” you breathed out, a hand slipping into his hair as if you were trying to keep him there. 

“Mine.” he growled against your skin. 

Yoongi licked your neck, as if preparing the skin to take his mark, sucking on the soft patch once he deemed it warm enough. Yoongi suckled hard enough to hurt, but you were lighting up with the sting, skin blooming with a red and purple bruise. 

“All yours.” you nodded breathlessly, moaning as your hips never settled. 

With one arm around your waist, Yoongi trailed kisses on the length of your shoulder, knocking the tiny strap of your sundress down. Your movement made Yoongi pull back a little to watch you push the other strap of your dress down, looking at him with an inviting bite on your bottom lip. 

He was looking at you, gaze boring into yours, as his hands moved from under your dress to climb up your ribs to touch your breasts. They felt so full and soft and perfect as he squeezed both on each palm, your lips falling open with a sigh as he pulled the top of your dress down. 

Your breasts spilled free and Yoongi groaned, looking at your pretty, perky and pebbled nipples, shade a little darker than your own skin. 

“My eyes are up here.” you giggled, but you weren’t able to mask your nervousness. 

“Mhm, and I love them too.” Yoongi nodded, but his gaze stayed where they were, watching the mounds of your breasts move as he cupped them both, rolling your nipples with his thumbs. You gasped and whined, which prompted the question: “Sensitive?” 

“Guess so.” you nodded shyly, nails scraping at his scalp. “My own hands never really did much, but guess your fingers–ooh.” 

You gasped, closing your eyes as Yoongi watched your face contort in pleasure as he pinched your nipples between his pointer fingers and thumbs. 

“My fingers?” he probed, just to hear more of your shaky tone. 

“I love them.” you mewled. “You have really sexy hands, did you know?” 

Yoongi chuckled, not thinking much as he said: “Yeah, I’ve been told.”

Your grasp on his hair tightened as you stared at him right in the eye, lines between your eyebrows as you frowned. 

“Only I can have them now.” you stated with a hint of possessiveness that made Yoongi shiver. “Just so you know.” 

“I know, doll.” he told you so with a little chuckle that didn’t last long as his mouth met the heated skin of your collar bones. 

“Yeah?” you whined, squeezing his hair between your fingers. 

“Mhm, I’m all yours.” he told you in hopes of quelling your worries, even though your jealousy was hot. “And you’re all mine.” 

You whispered a tiny ‘okay’ that turned into a moan as Yoongi kissed his way to your breasts, choosing a nipple to latch on. His lips wrapped around the bud and he sucked it into his mouth, dragging his tongue around it to hear you make more of those delicious sounds, just for him. 

Pushing your chest harder against his face, you resumed the rocking of your hips, making him groan around your nipple, pulling off of it with a pop. As Yoongi switched to repeat the same treatment with your other nipple, you started to unbutton his shirt, button by button, getting a little worked up when your trembling fingers took longer to pop one open. 

“Can you lay down for me?” Yoongi asked as his kisses changed direction and his hands squeezed your hips. 

“Are we really doing this?” you asked with a nibble on your bottom lip, which made Yoongi pause. 

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” 

“No, no, I do, just… Don’t want you to think I asked to be your girlfriend so I could get in your pants.” you reasoned, making him laugh. 

“Shouldn’t I be telling you that?” he mused. “You’ve been in my pants, baby.”

“Ahh, yeah, okay.” you giggled sweetly, moving off of his lap to keel on your bed. 

“Cute.” 

Yoongi was smiling like a fool in love as he moved to give you space to lay on your pillows, in the middle of your bed. While he pushed his shirt off his arms and let it fall on the floor, you pulled your sundress off the rest of the way. Yoongi’s breath got caught as he looked at you like that, for the first time, only a flimsy pair of panties on, which you removed even before you laid down for him. 

He wanted to tell you that you were absolutely perfect, gorgeous all over, but the way you spread your legs for him, as your hands rested on your lower stomach, lip worried between your teeth, Yoongi didn’t know any words anymore. 

Except maybe ‘want’ and ‘now’. 

Yoongi was lowering himself between your legs, laying on his stomach as he kissed your inner thighs, sucking on the signs of your arousal that he found there. You smelled so good and looked so wet that he couldn’t resist bringing two of his fingers to your pussy, spreading your lips so he could see all of you. 

You mewled as your back arched off the mattress, spreading your legs even wider for him. 

“You’re so tight, baby.” he teased as the tips of his fingers circled your little entrance, watching as it clenched at his words. “How am I ever going to fit here, hm?” 

“Been wondering the same thing, if I’m honest–” you chuckled breathlessly, hands falling to grab onto the comforter under you. 

“I’ll be gentle.” Yoongi told you as his middle finger pushed deeper inside you, just the tip, pulling it out to bring it to your clit. “Stretch you nice and slow at first.” 

“Yoongi–” you moaned as he flicked your bundle of nerves. 

“Gonna have to fuck you over and over again, so your body understands you’re mine.” he told you so, fingers touching you all over as his lips met your lower ones. “That okay with you, doll?” 

“Mhmm, so okay.” 

Yoongi’s fingers dragged down to your clenching hole again and stayed there, teasing your entrance, collecting more of your wetness, pushing in slowly but retrieving whenever your moaning became pained. Yoongi didn’t want to hurt you, he wanted you to feel nothing but pleasure and love. 

The flat of his tongue met your clit, lapping slowly and repetitively, until your moans became those of enjoyment. Once he was sure you were relaxed and content, Yoongi pushed the fingers into you again. He could feel your walls stretch to accommodate the digits, cock complaining inside his pants for being so constricted as all he wanted was to be buried inside you. 

The more he sucked on your clit, the more you moaned and moved your hips in little circles, pushing his fingers deeper and deeper inside you. You were growing wetter and wetter and Yoongi was swallowing every sweet drop you gave him. 

“How do you feel?” he asked quietly, between rubs of your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

“Doesn’t hurt as much anymore… Better than I thought.” you told him with a little whine. “Want more, babe.” 

“Yeah? Think you’re ready for me?”

“Born ready!” you chirped with a little drunk giggle and the nodding of your head. “Please fuck me.” 

Yoongi hummed and left one last kiss against your clit, which made you squirm and squeal. He pulled his fingers out of you slowly, scissoring them apart for good measure, to stretch you around them so you could take his cock. 

You moved up a little on your pillows, from where you had slipped down with all your squirming, attentive eyes watching all of him, making him grow a little shy. Yoongi could read the desire in your eyes, you wanted him as bad as he wanted you and it was making him fluster a little, neck and chest feeling a little hot. 

As he pulled his wallet from his back pocket you asked: “Are you buying anything right now?” 

“I’m getting a condom, doll.” Yoongi laughed at your wide eyes as you understood. 

“We don’t need one.” you told him while sitting up to touch his stomach and chest, kissing his lower belly as your hands got to work on his belt and button. “I’ve been on the pill since we started this.” 

“A–are you sure?” his stammering was what made you giggle no doubt. 

With your little nod, Yoongi let his wallet drop to the floor where his shirt lay discarded and helped you push his pants and underwear off in one go, baring himself to you just as you were to him. You smiled sweetly and playfully licked at his tip, sending a rocking shiver all over his body. 

“Jesus–” he hissed, taking a finger under your chin to make you look at him. “Lay down.” 

“Be gentle.” you begged with a pout, which Yoongi kissed. “Go slow.” another kiss, one that became a dragged moan as your hand wrapped around his shaft. “And make me cum all over your big cock–”

“Okay, lay down, now.” 

Your giggle was high pitched as Yoongi pinched your sides and had you squirming away from him to lay down on the bed. The man pushed your knees apart so he could lay on top of you, between your legs, heavy, painfully hard cock resting between your warm and slippery folds, making you both moan. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, nails and fingertips dragging up and down his back as he pulled you into a kiss. Yoongi kissed you slowly, deeply, full of passion and want and need. Your lips moved together as your tongues clashed with one another, breaths fanning each other’s faces. 

When you started to move your hips back and forth, rubbing yourself on his cock, Yoongi moaned into your lips and you took his bottom one into your mouth to suck on and drag between your teeth. 

His hand ventured between your bodies to stroke his cock a few times, teasing himself, pumping him to make him drip beads of pre-cum on your lips. He brushed the tip between your folds to open you up to him, leading his cock to your entrance. You started breathing harshly, so Yoongi kissed your cheek and jaw to relax you, whispering praises that made you calm down. 

“I promise it won’t hurt as much as you expect it to.” he told you and you hit him with a snort that screamed ‘how would you know?’ which made him bite back a little smile. “I’ll be careful. You’ll be begging me to fuck you harder in no time.” 

“Fuck, okay, I like that.” you writhed under him as he pressed his thumb to your clit to distract you from the sting as he pushed his cock into you, just the tip, breaching you for the very first time. “Shit, that’s– a lot.” 

“Just breathe, you’re doing so well…”

Yoongi was holding himself up with an arm, chest pressed against yours, your body so small in comparison to his. Your small hands were on each side of his neck, your lips pressed against the side of his face as you let out the prettiest little sounds. 

He was gentle with you, just as he promised, allowing you to get used to him, while holding back from taking you as he wanted. You felt so warm and so fucking tight, wet as slippery as he pushed in little by little, listening to your moans and stopping whenever you showed any signs of discomfort. 

Yoongi could feel you clenching around him as his cock throbbed inside you and he made the mistake to look down, where your bodies met, and he saw the way your cunt was swallowing him, swollen clit and puffy lips. 

“You’re amazing.” he told you as an afterthought. 

“Pretty sure you’re doing all the work–” you managed to croak out. 

“I’m sorry it hurts, baby.” he leaned down to kiss the frown between your brows, the pout on your lips. 

“It feels good.” you whispered against his lips as they found yours. “Just feel so full, but it’s nice.” 

“Yeah? Can I move a little?” 

“Mhmm, you can.” 

With desperation, you parted your mouth to take Yoongi’s lips and he kissed you back, the hand between the two of you easily finding your clit to rub it in small circles as his hips pulled out and then fucked him back in, making you cry out. The more you moaned, the more he rolled your clit to distract you and little by little you opened up to him, making the slide in and out a little easier. 

Soon he couldn’t see any traces of pain in your pretty face, and that’s when he started to let go of his own restraints, starting to fuck you in a quicker pace that would catapult him into a different dimension with how hard you were squeezing him and how deep your nails were sinking in on his skin. 

Your body was rocking with each fuller thrust and harsher pace, little cries of yes, yes, yes! letting him know that it was okay and you could take it. 

“You feel so good, baby–” his voice was broken as his hips snapped back and forward. “I didn’t think anything could be better than your mouth, but–” 

“Good to know you liked my blowjob so much.” you bantered, a dopey smile on your lips. “I can suck you off anytime you–fuck, Yoongi!” 

Instead of fucking in and out of you, Yoongi tentatively rolled his hips, pressing deeper and harder, and you seemed to like that, wrapping your legs around him to keep him close to you. 

“Like this?” he gruffed next to your ear. 

“Yeah, right there–oh my god, the fuck is that–” 

Yoongi couldn’t help but laugh as his cock started to repetitively hit your g-spot with each new shallow thrust that was still enough to make you bounce under him, some so strong that it made the little ghosts on the headboard shake. 

“I’m gonna cum, babe, please–!” 

You warned but he already knew it. Could feel you squeeze him impossibly tight, walls milking him for his own release, but he wouldn’t get there before you did. His thumb rolled your clit in quick figure eight movements, despite the tight fit for his arm between the two of you, as his hips pulled almost all the way out, only to snap back in and roll against yours. 

The noises of the creaking bed under your combined weights and the skin slapping against skin only lost to your loud yelp as you let go and your orgasm washed over you. Yoongi’s mouth latched onto your nipple to suck and you trembled all over, twitching with the aftershocks as your climax lasted and lasted. 

Your cunt was clamping so tight, sucking him in so strongly that Yoongi couldn’t even pull out of you, he just stayed there, letting your pussy milk his orgasm out of him. You both moaned together, bodies sticking with sweat, hugging each other for dear life as Yoongi filled you up. 

As your breathing calmed down, Yoongi stayed close to you, peppering kisses all over your face. 

“I love you.” he finally told you, hearing your tiny chuckle of bliss. 

“I know.” 

“Do you, now?” he laughed, pulling out of you slowly to fall onto the bed next to you, trying not to crush you with his weight. 

“Mhm. You wouldn’t fuck me this good if you didn’t.” you grinned, trying to mask a wince as you were empty again, legs closing shut to keep his mess inside.

“You’d be surprised.” Yoongi joked, which earned him a slap to the chest. 

“Stop making me jealous!” you whined, but couldn’t hold onto your pout as you laughed. 

“I didn’t know you were so jealous, doll.” 

Yoongi got up from your bed, not bothering to put his clothes back on as he left your room to walk into your bathroom. There he found more makeup bits, perfumes he knew well, and a vampire soap dispenser that made him laugh. 

“You have no idea how many times I had to tell Kai you were straight.” you were saying as Yoongi looked through your cabinet to grab a clean towel, almost hitting his head on the marble top as he heard you. 

“Wait, what?” 

Once the small tower was wet, and his dick was properly clean, he made it back to your room to find your abashed little smile. 

“You know Kai, the guy from our coffee shop?” you said as if it should be obvious. “He keeps hitting on you, but you’re always clueless. So he keeps asking me what’s your deal and I always tell him you don’t like boys.” 

“You’re kinda right, I just like you.” 

Yoongi couldn’t help but be amused about this new development, but as long as Kai was into him, Yoongi wouldn’t have to worry he might be into you. And it offered many opportunities for him to make you a little jealous, maybe a little more possessive over him. 

Not that you ever had anything to worry about, as far as Yoongi was concerned, he’d belong to you for as long as you wanted him. 

He got back to the bed and helped you pry your legs open, just so he could clean the mess the two of you had made together, both choosing to stay naked as you pulled him back to lay down next to you. 

You were laying on his chest as you said:

“That was so good, Yoon.” 

“Yeah?” he squeezed you a little tighter against his chest, lips pressing to the crown of your head. “Better than the pie?” 

“The pie!”

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When Jeonghan’s arousal finally wakes him up from his pre-rut nap, he wastes no time in discarding both your clothes and pulling you close to him. You ready yourself to take his cock when he rolls on top of you, but you’re frozen in shock when instead, he slides down your body until his face is level with your cunt.

“Wh-what are you doing?” You feel your heartbeat pick up as he noses at the crease where your leg meets your hip. You’ve never been scented on the glands there. It’s a gooey sensation that sends tingles running down your spine.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I like my omegas sopping wet.” He whispers, just before his lips are closing over your clit to give it a long, hard suck.

You cry out as your back arches high off the bed at the sudden stimulation. Jeonghan’s hands close over your inner thighs to keep you open despite your body writhing all over the place, anchoring you on the bed as his tongue peeks out to run over your sensitive bud. He kitten-licks down your slit until he’s tonguing at your rapidly clenching and unclenching hole. Then, he flattens his tongue over you to lick a long, thick stripe all the way up to your clit.

His strength surprises you, considering how wily his build is. He holds you down no problem, sucking and licking all over your tingling pussy until you’re shaking and crying under him. Your leg kicks out when he hits more sensitive areas, and he immediately takes note, adjusting to stimulate you to the maximum. You’ve never been eaten out like this. Embarrassingly, you’ve never been eaten out period. Ruts and heats have never been for your pleasure. They’re just bodily functions you need to perform and get over with. The first time you connected ruts with something that could feel oh-so-good was Wonwoo’s rut two weeks ago.

But now Jeonghan is lapping over you like he’s starved for your taste, like you’re water at the end of a long desert journey. He moans into your cunt, sending vibrations through it that have you crying out again. You tug the sheets so hard that they come loose, but neither of you could care less.

“I’m gonna cum.” You gasp.

Jeonghan only keeps up his rhythm, not faltering at all. He squeezes the meat of your thighs harder, as if in encouragement, tongue moving back and forth over your clit so rapidly that it makes your head spin. You cum harder than you ever have in your entire life.

It punches the air out of your lungs. Your eyes roll so far back that your vision blackens. You can feel, and hear, how wet the noises get, Jeonghan slurping over your core as you gush over him.

“Fuck, that was gorgeous.” He says, finally pulling away with one last sloppy suck. His pupils are so dilated that his irises are just a rim around them, and his face is flushed a deeper pink. A vein in his temple is engorged. You can see it under his skin. His jaw and chin are covered with your slick, and your poor pussy clenches pathetically at the sight. He’s in full rut, ignoring his own cock and instead focusing on sucking the soul out of your cunt.

You ache for him. And you let him know it by tugging a handful of his hair until he is sliding up your body. He wastes no time in slotting his lips over yours. Your taste mixed with his invades your tongue. In the air, your pheromones mix the same way.

“Fuck me, alpha. Please.”

Jeonghan pulls away to level you with a heated stare. He looks pleased that you’re asking for it, but there’s a glint in his eye that you can’t place.

“Turn around and present for me.”

You blink, processing his words. Once again, he’s managed to catch you off guard. Two times within the first hour of his rut. You can’t even imagine what else he will do to you over the next few days.

You’ve never presented before. Presenting to an alpha is a vulnerable position to be in. On all fours, arched deep so he can see how much you want him. It essentially shows how badly an omega wants to be bred. Of course, it drives alphas crazy, but it comes from a place of real, intense, raw need.

Jeonghan hums as he observes your hesitation. “Okay, I will get you there.”

It sounds like a promise, one that has a chill running up your spine. His fingers prod at your entrance, and it makes you jerk. Your mouth drops open in a moan as he sinks his middle finger inside you with no preamble, and he uses that moment to kiss you again. Slower this time, with more purpose. It feels even better than the lustful tongue fucking from earlier, and you let your eyes close, basking in it.

When his finger starts moving, you whine. It’s just one finger, but it’s long enough to reach far into you. He rubs the pad of his finger over the gummy walls, exploring until it hits a spongy patch inside you that has you gasping and bucking into him. He chuckles lightly into your mouth, pulling out only to squeeze another finger inside, this time aiming straight for your g spot. You quiver, unable to process how good it feels. But your body doesn’t wait for your mind to catch up. You don’t have time to warn him before you’re sobbing and cumming again, wetting his hand until it runs down his wrist. Your heart is kicking painfully against your ribs, breaths coming so hard that your lungs scream. Your vision swims.

“How bad do you want it?” Jeonghan’s lips press to your ear once he feels you come down from your high. His scent has thickened even more, so dense that it presses on your skin, all encompassing and insistent. His cock is twitching, leaking, flushed an angry dark pink. It looks painful, but he doesn’t seem to mind, running his now wet hand over your stomach, up to your chest. Your own slick smears over your skin. It’s filthy, but it makes you feel dizzy. Your omega howls inside you, high pitched and needy. You need him so much it makes tears spring up in your eyes.

“So bad.”

You contemplate presenting again. Your omega is rearing, kicking, ready, but you still hold back. Presenting for Jeonghan….. your lust addled mind can’t even imagine the consequences of that. For you and your future. And if anyone in the pack finds out….

Jihoon might actually kill you.

“Where’d you go, pretty?” Jeonghan nudges your cheek with his nose, breaking your train of thought.

“I can’t do it.” You mumble, looking at him through teary eyes, hoping he knows what you mean. “I want to, Alpha. So badly. But I can’t.”

Jeonghan shushes you, kissing you gently. He runs soothing hands down your sides.

“I’m sorry for asking, angel.” He sighs. “I think I got carried away with my rut.”

A small chuckle, then Jeonghan shakes his head, as if ridding it from the thoughts inside. He presses his weight down on you, his cock sliding through your slit. His skin is somehow cooler than yours, despite him being in rut. Arousal simmers inside you once again.

“You’ll be a good omega and take my knot, though. Won’t you?”

You’re nodding before he even finishes speaking, and this time, Jeonghan immediately pulls back enough to line himself up and sink into you down to the base. You can hear his broken sigh of relief, the first sign that even he can lose his composure. You can see where his hands fist the sheets next to your head, how his long eyelashes flutter over his cheekbones. He looks gorgeous like this, in the throes of pleasure, and your heart skips at the sight.

You feel, for the first time, that you might want Jeonghan in more ways than you thought.

He starts slow, dragging himself out of you inch by painful inch, before sinking back in. It should be torturous, this sluggish pace, but you revel in it. You wrap your arms around him, splay your hands on his back so you can feel the muscles move under his skin. You breathe in his raw scent, tinged with pleasure and arousal, all because of you, and you pretend, for just this moment, that Jeonghan is your Alpha.

You cum twice more before his cock even starts to swell with his knot.

He seems to love it, encouraging you to keep going, stimulating you to the point of near unconsciousness, picking up the pace and slowing, over and over until you’re begging him to knot you, to just give it to you, and when he groans, shoving it snugly inside you, finally filling you with ropes and ropes of his cum, your face crumples, fat tears rolling down the sides and disappearing into your hairline. Jeonghan licks at them, consoling you, but once the dam breaks, it’s like it won’t stop.

“Alpha,” you weep as Jeonghan crowds around you, gathering your arms tight to your side, pressing your body under his to try and give you comfort. “Please don’t leave me.”

If you weren’t so out of it, so lost in the needs of your own omega, you would see how his face twists at your words, pained by the fear in your voice.

“I won’t leave you, omega.” He whispers, brushing your damp hair off your forehead. “I’ll never leave. I’m right here.”

“You promise?” You sniffle. Jeonghan notices the dilation of your own pupils. You aren’t entirely cognitive, he can tell.

“I promise.”

His licks over your neck, bathing your scent glands to calm you down. It takes a while for his knot to settle. In the silence of the room, you manage to calm down more, your body winding down and cooling despite Jeonghan being on top of you. Once Jeonghan finally pulls out, he sighs and drops on the bed next to you, groaning.

“I’m getting old.” He mutters.

You giggle and roll your eyes. “Shut up. You just put me through a blender.”

That makes him let out a breathy laugh. He sighs and stretches as you reach for your phone on the bedside table.

[joshua]: i put the food outside your door. didn’t really want to come inside with all the screaming and crying going on

You flush and groan in embarrassment, slowly sitting up. Jeonghan cackles loudly when he leans forward to read the text over your shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it, princess. He’s heard way worse sounds. He’s made way worse sounds.“

You sigh painfully, standing up on shaky legs. Jeonghan’s cum runs down your thighs, and you wince at the feeling. “Please don’t tell me about your sex life.”

That makes him laugh more, so you leave him on the bed to get everything you need, including the food outside. Jeonghan sits up tiredly once you fix a plate for him, and you eye him curiously.

“I’m surprised by how in control of your senses you are.” You comment as he shovels large bites into his mouth.

“If I edge myself long enough before cumming, it gives me a longer break later.”

You purse your lips. That makes sense. Most alphas don’t have enough self control to edge themselves during a rut, looking for instant gratification instead. It’s impressive that Jeonghan can do that.

“Who helps you through your ruts usually?” You ask as you dig into the food yourself as well.

“Seungkwan. Rarely one of the others. Sometimes Joshua.”

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Betas can help?”

Jeonghan nods. “If the knots aren’t too frequent, then yes. Or if the knots are too frequent, like with Seungcheol. He almost always has two omegas, or a beta and an omega. They tap out after two days.”

You gulp, feeling your stomach stir uncomfortably. “That’s…. a little terrifying.”

Jeonghan gives you a teasing smile. “What did you expect? He’s a pack leader. He’s built way different than the rest of us.”

You hum, contemplating. “I figured. When that whole thing with Jihoon happened, Seungcheol scared him straight.”

“He has that presence.”

Once the food is gone, Jeonghan claims he wants a nap, so you let him. You take that time to clean up the room and take a shower. It feels like a luxury, having a break mid-rut. That’s never happened to you before. Once you’re clean and feeling a bit lighter, you slip back under the covers, curling into Jeonghan’s sleeping form.

You can’t help but think about everything that has happened in the last few hours. From wanting to present to Jeonghan, to feeling like you want him to be your alpha, to him promising he won’t leave you… You know it was in the heat of the moment. None of it means anything. Emotions during heats and ruts are higher, more charged, void of inhibitions. So it doesn’t count. Jeonghan is smart enough to understand that, which is why he didn’t bring it up or make a big deal of it afterwards.

But even now, when you think of it with a clear mind, you realise that you feel the same way. For the last two weeks, you’ve spent a lot of time with Jeonghan. He’s like your antithesis. He knows exactly what to say to calm you down, to ground you to reality. He takes care of your meals, he protects you, he is considerate of your needs. No omega in the world would be able to resist all that. No wonder he makes you melt.

You don’t know what to do with all these emotions. You’re so tired. You’re nowhere near even halfway through this contract. And you’ve already felt more than you ever bargained for or wanted to. You know you promised yourself you wouldn’t worry during this rut, but it’s hard not to. All these emotions hurt you, but you keep wanting to feel them, like a drug you can’t walk away from. You keep coming back for another fix.

Jeonghan starts stirring before you can get even a wink of sleep, but you’re ready for him, now more accepting of what your omega might feel as he pulls you on top of him. You give in, letting yourself have this moment. It won’t change the outcome anyway. You will go back to your life when this contract ends, back to your small but cozy apartment, to your commissions and your services, meeting with your friends over the weekends, talking and laughing with them, thinking you are fulfilled. Only this time, you will know exactly what you are missing.

You try not to dwell on that right now.

……………………………

Seungkwan is uncomfortably in-tune with your emotions. It’s scary, having his eyes trained on you. As you put away your things, you know he is watching. He was like this after Wonwoo’s rut too, and now after Jeonghan’s, something is clicking in his head again. And you don’t like it.

“Will you cuddle with me?” He asks.

“In a while, Kwannie. Let me just shower first.”

He pouts. “Can we cuddle before you shower? You smell like Jeonghan. It’s comforting.”

You smile at how endearing the sentiment is. You can’t possibly refuse his request. So you wordlessly climb onto the bed with him, arms wrapping around each other as he noses your neck, the place where he smells Jeonghan the strongest.

“Was the rut okay?”

You nod. “It was way different than what I was expecting.”

“Yeah. Jeonghan is a whole different experience.”

You hesitate before speaking, lowering your voice so it’s softer. “You’re okay with me spending his rut with him, right?”

Seungkwan pulls away from your neck just enough to give you an indignant look. “Of course I am!”

“I was just asking because you’re his preferred partner.” You justify. “So I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Seungkwan’s expression melts at that. He smiles and pulls you closer, his nose bumping against yours. “It’s not your job to worry about me.”

His words make you feel a bit sad. “I know it’s not my job. But I do care about you.”

Seungkwan’s eyes shift between your own a few times. You expect him to smile, thank you, cuddle into you again. In no universe do you expect him to kiss you.

His lips are soft but urgent against your own, and he cups your cheeks between his hands so tenderly, like he’s holding something precious. You are frozen solid, scrambling to catch up to what is happening, but he smells so good up close, the scent of tangerines, comforting and gentle, and he nibbles so shyly at your bottom lip, that you can feel your muscles melt under his hold. Tentatively, you kiss him back.

Seungkwan all but keens when you do, and your own omega purrs, feeling warm joy lap at your heart. You cup the back of his neck, letting him deepen the kiss. He licks over your bottom lip, but before you can open your mouth, you hear a throat clearing.

You gasp as you pull away from Seungkwan, wide eyes shooting to the foot of the bed, where Chan is standing, arms crossed.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

“Channie-” Seungkwan is already scrambling to push himself off the bed and away from you. Your heart is pounding, now with fear and uncertainty.

“Calm down, both of you.” Chan frowns. “I can smell your fear all the way here. You’d think I caught you burying a dead body.”

He’s not wrong. Seungkwan’s panic is coming off him in waves, and you’re sure yours is too. In fact, you’ve completely frozen because of it, still wrapped in the blanket. You pull it up further, as if it can protect you from whatever the consequences of this will be.

Feeling something for Wonwoo or Jeonghan in the middle of their ruts can still be justified. No one will know that it’s unprofessional, because it's disguised under feelings of lust. But this, this is way past anything in your job description. There should be nothing between you and the pack’s betas and omegas. You’re there to service their alphas only.

Seungkwan steps closer to Chan, placing his hands on the beta’s shoulders. “Please don’t tell anyone.“

Chan sighs, almost in apology. “I have to tell someone-”

“No.” Seungkwan’s bottom lip trembles. You eye him closely. “It was a moment of weakness. I’m sorry.”

You close your eyes as your heart twinges painfully. A moment of weakness.

Chan sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He seems to think about it for a few moments before he’s speaking again, this time to Seungkwan. “Come with me.”

He looks at you, gives you a placating smile. “We’ll be back in a little bit, okay?”

You don’t have time to nod before Chan is leading Seungkwan out of the room. Seungkwan looks back at you just before they leave, giving you a pleading look that says ‘please understand’.

But you don’t understand. You don’t understand any of this. When the door closes behind them, you sit up, putting your head in your hands. You’re so tired. You’re exhausted. You’re confused and agitated. For the whole past month, all you’ve done is fought and questioned every single one of your instincts. You can’t take it anymore.

Your face twists as tears gather rapidly in your eyes before spilling down your cheeks. You breathe shakily, weeping quietly into your hands. Your omega flattens itself to the ground, quiet, and you feel all the emotions you have been suppressing the hell out of for the past few weeks. You wipe your eyes every few seconds, but it’s moot as more tears roll down your face.

You don’t know how long you cry. All you know is that your head is pounding now, and your sinuses are clogged. Your eyes burn as you blink, and you close them to give yourself some relief. You don’t move from where you sit. The thought of even the slightest movements sounds exhausting to you now.

You miss your home. You miss your life before all this. You wish you could go back and never agree to this job.

For a brief moment, you contemplate once again if you can leave. Maybe you can ask Minji what will happen if you break the contract. Will the Service have to pay a fee? You can tell her to take it out of whatever clients you take next until you’ve paid it off. You know you made a promise to Jeonghan that you would stick this out for the sake of the pack alphas, but nothing- nothing- can be worth all this doubt and pain.

Before you can pick up your phone to call Minji, the door is opening. You watch Seungkwan and Chan walk in. Your body stiffens when you see Joshua right behind them. Did they tell him?

Your omega bristles. You don’t like this. This feels like being cornered. You watch them cautiously. They must sense what you’re feeling, because Joshua gives you an easy smile, bright and warm. He closes and locks the door before walking further into the room. He takes the lead, sitting down in front of you and gesturing for the other two to sit as well. You pointedly don’t look at Seungkwan, but you can hear him sniffling. You feel the need to check up on him, but you’re wounded too. You don’t have the strength to care for anyone else right now.

“Seungkwan and Chan told me what happened.” Joshua begins, voice low and appeasing. You bite the inside of your cheek, silent. You stare down at your hands.

“I’m sorry.” You say automatically. “It shouldn’t have happened. As Seungkwan said, it was a moment of weakness-”

“It wasn’t for him.” Joshua interrupts you. You look up at him, and before you can help it, your eyes travel to Seungkwan. His eyelids are rimmed with red, and so is the tip of his nose. He’s been crying.

“Seungkwan likes you a lot, Y/N.”

You stare at Joshua for a long time. He doesn’t speak, neither does anyone else. Chan is running a hand up and down Seungkwan’s back. It’s the only sound in the room apart from Seungkwan’s sniffles.

“Why are you telling me this?” You can hear how hollow your own voice is. “What’s the point of it?”

“I just don’t want you to think that this was some silly mistake-”

“Why?” You want to cry again, but no tears come. You’re just empty. Both Seungkwan and Chan are staring at you, apprehensive. Joshua’s face is blank.

“There’s more here than what either of you think.” Joshua says. “Where do you think me and Chan fit into this pack, Y/N? We’re the glue. We observe, we understand. We know what this pack needs, and what it doesn’t. You omegas and alphas get clogged with emotion and instinct. We don’t. And I’ve been watching everyone this last month. As has Chan.”

You don't reply. You don’t know if you can. Frankly, you don’t know what to say. You hardly understand any of what he is trying to tell you. Joshua doesn’t speak again, like he’s expecting you to question him more. All you feel is despair.

Slowly, you move, standing up from the bed. All three men watch you as you slide your feet into your slippers, picking up your phone and your wallet.

“I think it’s best if I get another room for the night.” You state. “We’re leaving tomorrow anyway. Wherever we go next, I’ll get a separate room. Your manager can take it out of my salary.”

You can smell Seungkwan’s distress as it thickens in the room. When Joshua sighs, his shoulders slump in resignation.

“Okay.” He says, simply. You pack your stray clothing quickly. Behind you, you can hear Seungkwan, even if he’s trying to cry quieter. You have no more tears left to spill.

The door shuts quietly behind you.

………………………………

You’re not quite sure if everyone knows exactly what happened between you and Seungkwan, but everyone is well aware that something is amiss. Conversation is more muted the next morning as you board the bus. Seungkwan is all but attached to Seungcheol’s side, and Seungcheol wraps his arm around the omega for comfort. Your heart aches, yearns for someone to care for you the same way. But you settle for popping headphones over your ears and blasting them so loud that you drown out the voices in your head.

You sit at the very front, alone. You close your eyes and pretend to sleep. They still burn from all the crying you did last night. No one bothers you, but you can practically feel Jeonghan’s eyes carve holes into the back of your skull. It seems they’ve decided to give you space though, and you’re grateful for that.

Everyone disembarks from the bus at a rest stop about halfway through your journey, scattering around to find something to eat, stretch their legs or use the bathroom. You don’t feel like leaving. Winter is well underway at this point, and you’re cuddled into a blanket where you sit. Between the exhaustion of Jeonghan’s rut and everything that happened last night, you feel like you need to sleep for maybe a week straight. You take advantage of how quiet the bus is, dozing a little.

Someone nudges your arm, making your eyes pop open. You blink rapidly to focus, and when you see Jun in front of you, it relieves you a bit. You really didn’t want to see anyone else there. Like Joshua, or Seungkwan, or, god forbid, Seungcheol.

Jun sits down in the seat next to you. He’s holding a cardboard bucket which smells very nice. You see that it’s filled with fries and an assortment of toppings. You can feel your mouth water.

“Come on. Eat.” Jun says, taking the tiny plastic fork and stabbing it into the food.

“You got it for me?” You’re surprised. You aren’t very close to Jun. But maybe that’s why he’s the one here.

“Myungho did.” He replies, which catches you even more off guard. Since when did Minghao care even in the slightest? Sure, he thanked you before Jeonghan’s rut, but that’s hardly an acknowledgment of good will.

Jun holds the fork up, and you feel your cheeks warm a little as he feeds you himself. You’re hesitant, but you’re also hungry, so you let him. Truthfully, you want this. To be cared for and coddled. Last night was your first time sleeping alone since this trip started. It was more lonely than you ever imagined it being.

You miss Seungkwan.

“Everyone’s worried.” Jun mumbles, but it’s loud enough to hear. You don’t say anything, so he continues.

“I can’t imagine any of this is easy. And I know you think this is a job that you’re obligated to do, but you should know that we’re all very grateful that you’re here.”

You sigh, chewing slowly. “Glad I can help.”

It sounds hollow, even to your ear, and Jun must hear it, because he gives you a sympathetic look.

“I don’t mean just the ruts. Your presence is calming.”

You frown. “What?”

Jun shrugs, poking the fork into the fries. “I don’t know how to explain it. Everything’s brighter with you around. Seungkwan is happier. Well, he was. Until today.”

You shift uncomfortably.

“Hansol likes you. He thinks you’re witty. Joshua and Jeonghan think you’re caring and considerate and great to be around.”

You don’t know where he’s going with this. But you let his words wash over you and calm you down. It feels like a small win after the horrific last day you’ve had.

“I’m not very good at expressing myself.” Jun admits. “But what I’m saying is, it might feel like hell to be here with us right now, but it’s not hell for us. Not all of us, anyway. I would go as far as saying that everyone would rather you be here than for you to leave.”

He shakes his head and chuckles a bit. “Sorry. Does that make sense?”

You nod slowly, and even manage to give Jun a tiny smile. “It does. Thank you, Jun.”

Jun feeds you a few more forkfuls silently. You appreciate his company. His presence isn’t loud, but he feels reliable is his own right. Your eyes snap to the bus door when you hear footsteps, only to see Minghao climb up with two large cups.

“Drink this.” He says, handing you one of them. You raise an eyebrow but oblige. It’s a milkshake. Strawberry. He settles himself in the seat across the aisle.

“You feeling better?” He asks. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are trained on his own cup.

You nod. “I do. Thank you for the food.”

He shrugs it off. “You have two weeks to recuperate before Jun’s rut. Take it easy until then.”

He doesn’t say anything more, getting up to walk back to his own seat further behind on the bus. You turn to Jun to give him a startled look. He grins.

“He’s really trying.” Jun whispers. You nod, feeling relieved.

Since your stomach is now full, you sleep for the rest of the trip. You didn’t realise how badly your body needed the calories until you were full. You sleep better than you have in days, even though you’re on a bus. You’re still a bit disoriented when you finally get off the bus, body stiff from sitting in one position for so long. As you wait in the hotel lobby, Joshua steps closer to you.

“Do you still want that separate room?” He asks.

His question wakes you up a little. You stare at him, biting the inside of your cheek, contemplating.

“If it helps,” he leans closer, “Seungkwan doesn’t want you to.”

Subconsciously, your eyes find Seungkwan in the crowd of people in the lobby. He looks away immediately, and you feel a twinge of amusement. You sigh. You can’t be mad at him. He’s too cute.

But you still hesitate, looking back at Joshua.

“Is there any way I could room with you?”

He’s a little surprised, but he seems to recover quickly. “Of course. I’ll have Hansol room with Seungkwan.”

You nod in finality, and Joshua moves to the front desk where Seungcheol and their coach are going over room arrangements. Before long, things are settled, and you’re shuffling into the elevators to make it up to your rooms.

You feel a little awkward sharing a space with Joshua, but you think it’s for the best that you roomed with him. If you had requested a separate room, you feared it would cause a rift that would be hard to reverse, especially considering you still have many months to go on this whole deal. But you also don’t think you could go back to rooming with Seungkwan like nothing happened. Joshua and Chan are safe bets, since they’re both betas. They’re reliable and grounding, so you chose Joshua. You’re relieved that he is willing to room with you. You say as much to him. He only smiles.

“I think it’s a good idea. Besides, it’ll be good for Seungkwan to have Hansol around right now.”

You hesitate before asking. “How is he?”

Joshua sighs. “Not great. He thinks you hate him.”

You give him an incredulous look. “No, I don’t! I could never.”

Joshua laughs, going through his suitcase. “I know. He’s just emotional right now. His heat is coming soon.”

You briefly remember the schedule Seungkwan gave you at the very beginning. “Right. I forgot.”

You lay back on the bed as you watch Joshua hang his clothes in the wardrobe. You admire that he has the willpower to do that right now. You feel sleepy as hell.

“How come the omegas don’t take suppressants and just hold off on the heat until after the season is over?” You mumble, watching him.

“Six months without a heat isn’t ideal for the body.” Joshua answers, straightening out a blue, button down shirt. “Especially for an athlete. Also, don’t those suppressants mess you up?”

You hum in realisation. “You’re right. My stomach wasn’t right for weeks.”

“Imagine doing extreme physical activity like that.”

You nod. “Yup. Makes sense.”

Once Joshua clicks his empty luggage shut, he turns to you. “Do you want me to hang yours up as well?”

You’re surprised and touched at the offer. “It’s okay. Thank you, Josh.”

“I don’t mind.” He urges. “Really.”

You sigh and sit up. “Okay. Let’s do it together.”

Joshua has an uncanny ability to take care of people. If you had been alone or with anyone else, you would’ve dumped your luggage and flopped on the bed immediately. But with him around, you hang all your clothes, put away all your stuff, and even manage to shower and brush your teeth before both of you are sliding under the blankets. Joshua takes such good care of himself that it makes you want to care for yourself as well. It feels infinitely nicer to lay down after washing all the grime of travel off you, so you’re grateful for him. Joshua says good night and turns off the bedside lamp. He gives you respectful distance. You curl deep into the sheets, feeling much better than how you did the night before.

A new city means you can keep yourself busy for a while, walking around and wasting time while the team plays games and practices in between. The cool air feels surprisingly good on your skin. You even manage to finish a commission, which makes you feel better and more productive. You catch up with your friends, and you even get a call from Minji, asking how everything is going. You give everyone vague answers, saying everything is going well, and you miss them. Minji doesn’t catch on at all, but you know Yeji, your closest friend, isn’t entirely convinced. You send her some pictures of the sights and your food, and it seems to calm her down that at least you’re taking care of yourself.

You don’t miss any of the team’s games. When Seungkwan’s heat hits, Chan replaces him as the libero, and Jun replaces Hansol as a pinch server. You finally get the chance to see both of them play in a match. They’re just as good as the regulars, and even more passionate, if that’s even possible. You realise that it doesn’t matter if a player is on the bench and doesn’t play a lot of regular games. Whatever opportunities they get, they go all out. And everyone brings something different to the table that improves their plays by a lot.

It’s easy to feed off their energy post-games. You lave them in compliments about how awesome the game was, how cool they are, and how they will go so far this season. The pack alphas love it, because of course they do. Who doesn’t like a fawning omega? It’s entertaining to watch them get a bit bashful about your praises.

Two weeks go by fairly quickly, and before you know it, Minghao and you are preparing for Jun’s rut. He’s more involved this time, making sure you have everything he will need. He comes with you to the convenience store, counting everything multiple times.

“Sorry for micromanaging.” He mumbles as he straightens the blankets in Jun’s room. You shake your head.

“I understand. You’re his usual heat partner.” You brace yourself before speaking again. “Thank you for trusting me enough to help.”

He laughs a little, but it’s mirthless and dry. “I always knew professional teams used Service Omegas and Alphas. But all professional teams aren’t packs. I thought I would be okay with it when we started our first season, but I guess I’m a bit more territorial than I thought I would be.”

You nod slowly, sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. “I know I don’t have a pack, so I don’t really understand, but if I did have one, I can’t imagine sharing.”

Minghao watches you a bit. You try not to fidget under his stare.

“I don’t know if this will mean anything, but I think you would be a great pack omega.”

You’re shocked at his words. You absolutely didn’t expect this out of him.

“Thank you.” You manage to say, feeling warmth in your chest. Minghao gives you a smile in return.

Jun’s rut is barely three days, but it’s intense. He’s adamant that you cum with him every time, and he’s really good at getting you there. It’s a good distraction from the storms in your mind for the last few weeks, so you sink into it completely. Jun has a knack for isolating both of you from everything else, keeping your focus on him only without being too overbearing, so you two strike the perfect balance.

You laugh when he tries to feed you instead of the other way around.

“This is my job!” You say, trying to take the bowl from his hand. Minghao has been sending a steady stream of food to the room, and you’re relieved at the help. Because like Wonwoo, Jun isn’t a fan of you leaving the bed either.

“I can’t help it.” Jun says, holding the spoon to your lips. You have no choice but to open your mouth. “Food is a great way to show people that you care.”

You smile as you swallow. “You care about me?”

You can see his ears turn pink, and you have to bite your lip to stop your grin. He doesn’t say it outright, because he’s shy that way. Instead, he holds up another spoonful.

“Just eat.” So you do.

You don’t feel dead tired even after the rut ends. Jun is though, because he’s fast asleep by the time Minghao is stepping into the room to air it out with you. You’re stacking dirty plates on top of each other when you feel arms wrap around you from behind, and the scent of waterlily hits your nose.

“Thank you.” He says into your hair.

You stare at the wall, shocked and stationary. Your heart squeezes, and you feel a sense of home that you’ve lacked for a while now. Finally, your limbs move, so you turn around in Minghao’s embrace, burying your face in his shoulder. He hugs you tightly.

“I was the last person to join the pack.” He confesses after a few moments of silence. “When I joined the team and learned everyone else was a part of the pack, I was convinced I would be an outsider. I never thought they would want me.”

You let his words sink into your brain. Minghao didn’t give you that vibe at all. He fit in with all of them so well that you never imagined he would feel like he didn’t belong.

“The first person I got along with was Joshua.” He continues. “And you would think I would get along great with Jun since we were both from China, and that would maybe come with some kinship, but we used to fight every day.”

His chest shakes as he laughs. You can’t help your own smile.

“But now, he’s one of the alphas I’m closest to. Him and Hansol. It was so hard for me to imagine being part of them, but now, the thought of being apart hurts even more.”

You squeeze his middle tightly, reassuring him. “They won’t ever leave you.”

“I know.” He mumbles. “I’m just saying. This feeling of being othered, I've been there.”

You blink. “What do you-”

“Don’t.” He pulls away enough to give you a stern look. “Don’t spiral. That’s your problem. You think too much.”

“But I-”

“Shut up.” His words are harsh, but you know he doesn’t mean them that way. “Stop thinking for once.”

You sigh, nodding reluctantly. To be honest, you don’t have the brain capacity for it anyway. You just really want a nap. Minghao must sense your thoughts, because he’s pulling away, taking your hand and tugging you towards the bed where Jun is still fast asleep.

You don’t even protest, you just take his lead and lie down on the sheets, Minghao between you and the sleeping alpha. You curl into his side. You like the way he smells. It’s fresh too, and it reminds you of how Seungkwan smells of citrus and sea salt. It calms you down.

You’re asleep within minutes.

………………………….

You bump into Seungcheol in the corridor as you’re leaving Jun’s room the next morning. You smile politely at him, putting your head down so you can walk past him quickly, but he says something that stops you in your tracks.

“I’m about to go out for breakfast. Come join me.”

You aren’t expecting that, and you know you look stupid when your mouth opens and closes like a fish a few times. Truthfully, Seungcheol intimidates the crap out of you. In your head, he is high up in the food chain, even though you know he gets along great with everyone and never thinks of himself as above anyone else. To you, he just has that presence. You have no excuse to refuse him though, so you just nod jerkily.

“I’ll just change really quick.” You mumble and he nods.

“Meet me in the lobby in half an hour.” He states before sauntering back to his room. You sigh deeply, pinching the bridge of your nose. You really aren’t sure what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Seungcheol is standing right outside the hotel when you show up exactly half an hour later on the dot, phone in hand. He’s wearing a loose hoodie and a wool cap to keep warm.

“Okay, I found a café. It has good reviews. And it’s only a walking distance from here.”

You nod. “Lead the way.”

The walk is mostly silent, but surprisingly not awkward. Seungcheol is preoccupied with following the map closely, so he doesn’t speak. You let the cool air infiltrate your lungs, enjoying it after being holed up in a room for three days.

“How are you finding this job?” Seungcheol asks when you’re finally seated.

“It’s fine. I can’t complain.” Actually you can, for hours if asked, but you won’t. Not to him, anyway. He’s the pack leader. It’s a good chance he will be very protective of them.

“From what I’ve heard, it hasn’t been too pleasant lately.” Seungcheol’s eyes are on the menu, but you know his full attention is on you. You hesitate before answering.

“I think it’s natural to have some tension between a pack and an outsider.” You say.

“That’s not a very good thing to call yourself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What? An outsider?”

He nods, eyes finally meeting yours.

“But that’s what I am.”

Seungcheol doesn’t reply, but he also doesn’t look away. You stay resolutely staring at him.

“I don’t think you are. Or Jeonghan wouldn’t have stood up for you in front of Jihoon. Seungkwan wouldn’t have kissed you. Minghao wouldn’t have slept next to you.”

Your mouth drops. Seungcheol chuckles a little at your expression, and a small dimple indents his cheek. It undercuts his intimidating aura a little bit, but you’re still on guard.

“You know.” You state.

“I find it insulting that you think I wouldn’t.” Seungcheol sips the glass of water set down by the waiter. “You couldn’t have thought that so much would happen in my pack without me knowing?”

You sigh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that-”

“It’s fine.” He says, waving his hand dismissively. “Truthfully, I try not to interfere in little squabbles or small disagreements. I don’t think this pack is a dictatorship. While I’m the leader, I think everyone needs space to explore their own feelings.”

You nod. It’s a good quality to have. You’re happy he thinks that way.

“At the same time,” he continues, “if something becomes too big a problem, I have to step in.”

You feel your nerves kick in again. You fiddle with your fingers under the table. You can feel your heart rate pick up at his words. Will he ream you out for your actions? Will he break the contract?

“Seungkwan thinks you should join our pack.”

Silence.

You watch Seungcheol, eyes wide and jaw dropped open. He doesn’t look away. In fact, he studies you even more closely than before.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know this is a lot to process. But I think it’s better to be up front about the desires some of the members have instead of beating around the bush-”

“Seungkwan is confused.” You say. Shockingly, you can feel anger boil up inside you. “He doesn’t know what he wants.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re gaslighting him?”

“I’m not-” You take a deep breath. You reach a hand up to run down your face, trying to compose yourself and calm down. “Seungkwan hasn’t spoken to me in weeks. But suddenly he wants me to join the pack?”

“It’s not sudden at all.” He responds. “Seungkwan has been feeling this way long before he kissed you. He says you two had an instant connection. You don’t agree?”

Of course you agree. You and Seungkwan clicked immediately.

“If it was just Seungkwan, I wouldn’t interfere at all. Whatever happens between you two isn’t my business, and if it was isolated, it would die down. But Jeonghan, Wonwoo and Joshua very strongly vouched for his suggestion. After I heard about you, Minghao and Jun, I’m sure both of them would agree as well.”

He smiles a bit, a little twinkle in his eye. “It seems you’re winning all of us over one by one.”

You can’t believe this. It’s making you a little dizzy. You’re still lost in your own head when the waiter sets down your food. Seungcheol picks up his fork and knife, and gestures towards your meal too.

“Eat.”

“I feel nauseous.”

Seungcheol eyes you for a second. Then, he picks up the slices of fresh apple on his plate, setting them down on yours instead.

“Eat. It’s healthy.”

You shakily pick your fork up, giving in to his order. The apple is juicy under your teeth as you bite into it. You chew slowly.

“The reason I want you to know all this is because I understand there is a lot of confusion and mixed signals here.” Seungcheol states in between bites. “I know Joshua tried to talk to you about it, but it didn’t end well. I don’t think it’s right to keep something like this from you. You deserve to know everything so you can act accordingly.”

“I can’t join your pack.”

“Okay. That’s your decision.”

“Jihoon hates me.”

That makes him smile. “Hate is a strong word, but I don’t disagree.”

“Why-” You swallow hard when you feel your voice crack. Seungcheol watches you. “Why would you want me?”

Your voice reflects your hurt and vulnerability. Seungcheol sighs and sets his fork down. He rests his elbows on the table, leaning closer to you.

“Sweetheart, I can only tell you what my members have told me. The reasons behind these intentions, you will have to ask them yourself. Even if I do know them, I think it’s unfair if it comes from me and not them.”

You bite your lip. “What about everyone else?”

“Everyone else doesn’t know you enough to have an opinion.”

“Then why do you want me in your pack?” Anger rises up inside you again.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?” Your voice rises. Seungcheol eyes you for a brief second. You take deep breaths to calm down.

“I’m saying,” he speaks calmly, “that I do not want you feeling inadequate or like an outsider any longer. You are neither. There are people in my pack who want you here. Even if it’s not all of them, and even if it doesn’t lead anywhere, I want you to be satisfied with the fact that you’re doing a good job.”

He gives you a hard look that strangely grounds you. “You are anxious and emotional. You have been for weeks. My members are the reason why. And I don’t appreciate having a distressed omega under my watch. You’re my responsibility as long as you’re with us.”

You take a deep breath. “And you telling me all this is supposed to make me feel better?”

“Does it not?”

You mull over everything he has told you since the minute you two sat down. He is right, you have been distressed, obviously. And he’s noticed. But more than anything, your distress comes from how conflicting everyone’s actions and words have been. On one hand, Jihoon is at your throat, convinced that you are a threat. At the same time, Seungkwan is kissing you and Minghao is cuddling you. You’re all over the place. You don’t know what you want, and no one around you is helping.

Seungcheol is, maybe. At least now you know where you stand. At least now you don’t have to fret and spiral about why some of them are behaving so weirdly around you.

“If you want my advice, don’t make any decisions yet.” Seungcheol states. “Being in a pack is a lifetime commitment. So take everything I’ve told you and just think about it. Spend time with us. Get to know us. If you still think you don’t want to join, then everyone will respect it and leave you alone. I’ll make sure of it. But I think you owe it to yourself to give it a fair shot.”

He’s right. He’s being sensible and logical about this. You nod slowly, and Seungcheol gives you another smile. You feel a sense of resolution here, like something has clicked into place after paining you for a long time. Finally, Seungcheol turns back to his plate.

“Now eat. I’m not paying for you to waste food.”

The team’s trainer had made you a list of what to look for, which calories to maximize. You’re sticking to it religiously. You don’t want to be the person who messes Wonwoo’s game up, especially considering the fact that you missed their opening match. From what Joshua very gently explained to you, you had dropped into omega subspace. You don’t remember too much of it, but you recall very distinctly that your head hurt a lot and your chest burned. Even when you woke up the next day, your limbs felt tired, and all you wanted to do was rest.

You feel guilty, and absolutely mortified, that this happened to you. You’ve heard of subspace in passing, but you don’t even have a friend you can call for advice because you know for a fact that none of them had ever experienced something like this. Seungkwan was the only person who could talk about it, saying he’s experienced it a few times, but he always had an alpha there when it happened. It’s apparently supposed to be this beautiful, intimate thing, the ultimate form of submission, but yours just…. didn’t end up that way.

Embarrassment plagued you. You felt their eyes on you the next day, half doubt, half judgement, especially Wonwoo’s, who was now keeping a distance. You taunt yourself in your own head. What a loser. At the first sign of affection, your omega lost itself. You can’t even explain yourself to them. There’s nothing you can say. What happened, happened. You can’t change it. You can’t justify it without making things weird. You can’t leave, as badly as you want to. You signed a contract. So now, maybe you are overcompensating a little by trying to be a great rut partner. To show that you can be appropriate and professional. You feel like you have a lot to prove.

You can smell Wonwoo even outside the room, his scent potent and heavy in the air of the corridor. You find his sleeping form sprawled over Minghao on the bed, who is running a hand through the alpha’s hair, reading a book. He eyes you closely as you set the bags down.

“Minghao,” you speak up, “would you please look at everything I got and tell me if it’s right? You know about Wonwoo’s needs way better than I do.”

It’s transparent flattery, but it works. Minghao sets his book down and gestures for the bags, which you pick up and place carefully on the bed next to him. Minghao rummages through them, reading some labels, counting some bottles. He nods a bit reluctantly, as if he didn’t expect you to do well, and you gather all the food up to deposit it on the desk you had set up for it. Minghao watches you prep some water bottles, filling them with electrolyte powder and shaking.

“You got the lemon flavor?”

“Yeah.”

Wonwoo shifts a little, making both of you turn your heads to him. He groans, uncomfortable, and even from across the room you can see sweat building up over the nape of his neck. Minghao sighs.

“Time to go.” He mumbles, peeling himself off Wonwoo so he can get up. He stops at the foot of the bed, staring at you. You fidget.

“Make sure you don’t get too attached this time.”

You feel your face burn hot in embarrassment, staring at the floor as Minghao shuffles out of the room. You don’t have time to dwell on it, because Wonwoo groans again, more urgent this time, before he is sitting up on the bed. When his eyes meet yours, you give him a placating smile.

“How are you feeling?” You ask.

His skin is flushed a deep pink, and sweat beads over his hairline. His chest is rising and falling more rapidly than normal, and he runs his heated eyes over you from top to bottom. His pupils are dilated already. You shiver at the attention.

“Come here.” He grunts. “Need to knot you, omega.”