the door to my magic shop

When the fateful day finally came, Seungkwan arrived at your apartment early to genuinely offer his help, much to your gratitude. He was even gracious enough to bring your favorite yangnyeom fried chicken.

“I knew you’d like it. It’s your favorite,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug when you questioned him with his offering.

In return, you claimed, “Just don’t go expecting me to give you your gift right away. I’m saving it for the end of the night because it’s special.”

He kept saying that “you don’t have to do this, they were just poking fun.” But you were never one to back down from a promise—especially if it involved Seungkwan.

Dinner went by easily. The weather allowed for a window propped open to let in some of the cool breeze that added to what you believe was a nice atmosphere. Your plates had long been empty when Seungkwan made his way to the fridge to get a refill of water. Instead, he let out a cry of disbelief.

“Ya! You have five bottles of soju and you didn’t bother bringing them out?”

You stayed silent. There was a reason why you didn’t bring those out on purpose. It was to avoid incidents like this, because you and Seungkwan—alone—and alcohol was a combination that had never happened before and an equation that you tried to avoid solving for as long as possible.

Fate had other plans today, apparently.

In his usual way, whenever there was alcohol in his system, he turned into the clingy kind of drunk that he was. This time, however, you noticed that he was different somehow. He was braver, louder, clingier. He was never like this when you two were drinking with friends.

As the late afternoon turned to evening, you two found yourselves inching closer to each other with every story and joke exchanged. This time, a particularly effective punchline you delivered had him in a laughing mess, with his hands instantly reaching for you. He just failed to notice the two very full glasses in your hands at that moment.

This was when chaos ensued.

In the aftermath, he looked at you and your obliviousness. “It’s just soju and water. Nothing a quick wash can’t do.”

He let out an audible sigh of defeat. Without thinking, he proceeded to peel off the ruined piece of clothing, revealing a thin white shirt that was barely there—riding up along with the sweater and revealing his torso. The sight got worse as he completely removed the sweater, the shirt clinging to his chest and still wet from the spilled liquid. You tried to avert your eyes as quickly as you could, but Seungkwan had already caught you staring.

“I, uh…” He pulled down his shirt and held the wet sweater in his hand. You cleared your throat and tried to gather your wits.

“I’m a terrible host. Give me that, I can chuck it in the laundry. I’ll get you a new shirt.” You stood to do as you said. You ignored the fact that he followed you all the way to your room, stopping to lean at your doorway as you rummaged through your drawers for a spare shirt.

You ignored how you could feel his eyes on you, probably spurred on with bravery because you had your back turned toward him. If only you could see how intense his gaze was, looking you up and down while weighing the two options in his head carefully.

He broke the silence first with a question you least expected. “You can talk to me honestly, right?”

“Of course, Seungkwan.” You busied yourself with looking for any shirt, trying to buy time to avoid meeting the piercing gaze you knew would meet.

“Were you…staring at me earlier?”

How dare— “Uh…”

“Okay, I’ll start with an easier question. Are you sober?”

“Yes.” You stand to face him, but not quite meeting his eyes yet. “I mean, I am now. Who wouldn’t be after you spill two glasses on your—friend?”

He laughs. “That’s true.” He pretends to not notice that slight hitch in your voice earlier.

“Here’s your shirt.” You hold up the oversized piece of clothing.

He pushes himself from your doorway and walks—in your perspective—at a painstakingly slow pace. His shirt is still a bit wet and still clinging just a bit in all the right places.

He stops right in front of you, a few steps too close to excuse it for a friendly distance. It absolutely was not.

He gingerly takes the shirt from your hand. To your utter surprise, he replaces it by taking your hand in his. You mask your nerves with an equally nervous laugh as you ask him, “Are you sober?”

“Yeah. Well, I can tell you that I’m sober enough to clearly know what I’m doing.” He continues even as he slowly intertwines his fingers in yours. “When we were in Italy, they said something during our wine tasting. ‘In vino veritas.’”

You were familiar with this saying. “‘In wine—’”

“‘There is truth.’” He completes the saying, taking yet another step closer. “We didn’t exactly drink wine, but can you still tell me the truth?”

You debate with light speed in your head where and how you want this conversation to end. It seemed there was only one answer the moment he decided to close the distance by settling his one hand on your waist and the other brushing your cheek—the clean shirt long forgotten on the floor.

Your heart was racing, and you knew this wasn’t because of the alcohol any longer. The air was thick with unresolved tension. You both knew what this was. This only happened when the two of you were alone, where awkward smiles and silences helped fill in the undeniable attraction that you both kept denying.

So you swallow your pride and nod in reply, and he smiles at your response before continuing, “So, were you staring?”

“I’m still staring now,” you say as you travel across his torso still wrapped in his wet shirt.

His chuckle turned into a laugh, his beautifully musical and infectious laugh, tinged with a hint of embarrassment. “Stop it! I’m losing focus. God, I really didn’t think this through, did I?”

You were nothing if honest, even more so when it came to Seungkwan. He had no problem asking you this question because that’s what he liked about you the most. You weren’t like other people—like him even—who beat around the bush and never mean what they actually say.

“Maybe not,” you say while holding back a laugh of your own.

The smile drops from his face in an instant, his smiling lips closing together in the blink of an eye. When his eyes open, they contain an unspoken depth, his expression changing into something more serious than you’ve ever seen from him before.

“Help me take this off, will you?”

“Why don’t you kiss me first before you demand such things?”

He smirks and claims your chin between his fingers. “Thought you’d never ask.”

You two always had that “will they, won’t they” dynamic for the longest time. It seems that tonight, they will. And they did.

The room smelled of sex. It was undeniable at this point to not acknowledge what had just happened between you and Seungkwan. In the heat of the moment and the throes of passion, you had both done things once unspeakable between the two of you.

If only you both knew what constantly went on in your heads the moment you two were separated from each other.

“So, is this the gift?” Seungkwan asks breathlessly, his chest heaving with exertion and his heart still racing at a million beats per minute.

“What?” Your mind was still swimming in stars, still coming down from your high as you curled yourself in his arms and folded against his warm skin.

”This.” He pulls you in closer and tangles your legs with his, endlessly craving for the touch of your skin on his.

You lightly jab his forehead jokingly. “You forget that you initiated all this with your hand-holding and sweet-talking about being honest.”

“Hey, I just wanted a kiss. You gave me so much more.” He nuzzled his nose against yours and, god, you couldn’t get enough of this Seungkwan. If only you knew that this is how he’d be with you, it would’ve been so worth it to tell him how you felt way earlier.

Wait. You haven’t told him how you felt. Not exactly.

But instead, you land your lips chastely on his. “There’s your kiss. Are you happy now?” He nods, but you could see his eyes and his smile being weighed down by impending sleep. He yawns, and you catch it as well and mirror his actions.

“Good night, sleepyhead.” With a final kiss from Seungkwan to your forehead, you both settle into an easy slumber, with both of you feeling lighter in your minds and hearts.

“Seungkwan.”

He stirs, sleep still overtaking his senses. “Hmm?”

“Seungkwan-ah.” You reach up to move his bed hair from his forehead.

“Mhmm?”

And for a moment, you forget what you were supposed to say because you were struck by the beauty of this unguarded version of Seungkwan. You trail your hand from his forehead to the apple of his cheeks, where you feel them move as he smiles.

“Could you turn on the heat? It’s getting a bit cold.”

He opens his eyes to the most beautiful sight of you in the near break of dawn, the first light filtering through the sheer curtains and starting to illuminate your room.

In response, as if by instinct, he leaned down to kiss you, much to your surprise. When he broke away, he could still feel the curve of the smile of your lips against his. “Why don’t I keep you warm, instead?”

He pulled you closer, the heat from his hand traveling across and over your body. Just as he predicted, you feel the heat rising on your cheeks as you recall the intensity and fervor of last night. But you could care less.

Wordlessly, you take him up on his offer, wrapping your arms around his neck and meeting him in another kiss. Wordlessly, he accepts this as your response and he parts your lips open with his to allow entrance to go in deeper, tasting you for all you are against the ecstasy of your tongue.

While his mouth plays with yours, his hands continue to roam the ebbs and flows of your body, from your neck, your breasts, your waist, and finally tracing the curve of your ass with his hands. He buries himself in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he raises your one leg, allowing it to wrap around his waist.

In this position, your heated core was wide open for his evident arousal. It was as if the events of last night were not enough to satiate your wants, your needs, and deeper down, your true feelings. Your bodies stay flush against each other, skin to skin as if you could not come any closer. You move in sync, accompanied by the gasps and moans, the hitches in both your breaths, as you feel his fingers working their way down there dictating the rhythm that you two would move to while your own fingers clench to fist his hair.

If last night was desperate, needy, almost making up for lost time, this morning was deliberate, languid, almost lazy with the way his lips never left yours to swallow all the delicious sounds coming from your mouth. When he finally filled your awaiting entrance, your bodies felt like a natural fit with one another. Each thrust between your slick bodies felt like a resounding mantra in the stillness of the daybreak—a mantra of unsaid promises and unresolved thoughts spoken through actions with every moment that his lips latch, tug, bite at yours.

The light of the dawn filtered through your room, casting an ethereal glow on your bodies. Yet this morning, you both see nothing but stars. When you both come down from the heavens, you take the time to go to the bathroom, while he takes the time to turn on the heat despite your complaints.

“You’ll thank me later,” Seungkwan said as you returned to his welcoming arms. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, you tangled your limbs in his and let sleep take over your senses once more.

By the time you come to again, it’s 9 am. The sun was fully shining through your curtains to the point of almost blinding you. The urge to pee was overwhelming, so you disentangled yourself from the sheets in your sluggish state. Sitting on the toilet, you rub your eyes and feel the aches of your body settle in—along with other realizations.

Like the fact that you were butt naked. In your bed. With Seungkwan.

And you two did not just fuck last night. You made love with him in the wee hours of the morning.

Holy shit.

As you splash water on your tired face, you look in the mirror and see…an unexpected glow. You touch your lips, trailing your hand down your neck and your chest, recalling all the other places where Seungkwan’s hands caressed you. You start to smile, yet it is gone as quickly as it came.

Now what?

With resolve, you step out of the bathroom to face the reality of the morning. What greets you is the sight of Seungkwan propped up against the headboard, checking his phone, with his bed hair and bare chest turning to look at you. He smiles, one that reaches his eyes.

He is so beautiful.

His eyes travel across your naked body, and you suddenly feel shy. You look across the floor for the discarded shirt from last night, pulling it over you and grabbing a clean pair of panties from your drawer.

He just watches you throughout this charade.

“I…uh, went through some of your clothes. Borrowed a pair of shorts. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that's okay.”

“For a moment, I thought you left me. I woke up to an empty bed.”

You stop, fully turning to see the amusement in his expression. “You may have forgotten that this is my room. If anyone should have left, it would be you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you want me to? Leave?”

You don’t answer, afraid that whatever comes out of your mouth will betray your sensibilities. Instead, you sit down on the empty space of bed beside him.

“Are we still telling the truth?”

One side of his mouth quirks up. “Always, I hope.”

“You should know that there’s a reason why I never wanted you to come over here in the first place.”

He physically winces, anticipating the worst from that statement. “And that is?”

“Because I don’t think I’d ever let you leave. That’s the truth.”

A sigh of relief. “Come here.” He closes the gap between you by clasping your hand and pulling you back into bed, encircling you in his arms.

You lay there together, your head on his chest as he mindlessly plays with your hair. He’d always been a handsy person—all his friends knew that—but most especially to the people he had taken a particular liking to. His fixation was always different with each person. With you, it was your hair.

“Would you like to hear my truth?” He asks.

You wordlessly nod.

“I’ve always wanted to do that with you.”

“Do what?”

“You know…last night, this morning,” Seungkwan trails off.

“No way.”

“Yes, way.”

Your eyes were as wide as a doe’s. “You…never made it obvious or anything.”

“That’s because I’m a decent person who doesn’t act on my primal impulses out of nowhere. Please, you’re too damn pretty and sexy for me to ignore you from the moment we met.”

You slap his chest. “You’re playing. Stop it.”

“I’m serious! It didn’t help at all when I found out that you listened to all the same girl groups that I did. You think I don’t see you when you dance? When you move your damn hips? I have eyes, you know. I’m a simple man.”

“Okay, okay. I see you, girl group enthusiast.” You smiled up at him. “I guess I’ll shake my ass at you more often, then.”

“Oh, please, you will ruin me.” He bites back a grin. “No, but honestly—beyond that,” he said as he looked at you pointedly, “you unlocked this little kid inside me again whenever I was with you, and…I realized I wanted to do more with you. And be more with you. It just grew and grew until it hit me that I just I always wanted you around.”

As if to prove his next point, he meets your eyes and doesn’t let go of your gaze. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”

You purse your lips to hold back the smile growing on your lips. Your heart was pounding, pondering the consequences of the next few words you were about to say. 

“Well, if you say that then another truth I have is that I’ve always held back from you. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed that.”

“I did.”

“Well, I guess I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding it.”

“Why though?”

“I couldn’t trust myself around you.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Have I not made you comfortable enough around me? Have I not been the definition of a poster boy best friend?”

“Exactly. You think I could let you go if I mess up and start kissing you on a whim? Seungkwan, your friends can be full of shit sometimes. Believe me when I say that a lot of times, you’re definitely the hottest guy in the room.”

“Wow, you must love me a whole lot for you to say something like that.”

“What if I do?”

He stills. “Do you really?”

You give him a reassuring smile. “We’re still telling the truth, aren’t we?” But the truth also gives you away. You look down as your smile falters. “Friendship is always such a fragile thing to break. And I don’t think I ever want to lose you.”

“Like I said,” he says while lifting your chin up to meet his eyes. They were glowing, and you realize it reminded you of your own eyes when you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror. It was as if you two were reflections of one another—the way you two always were without realizing it. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”

You could do nothing but smile.

And you hear both of your stomachs growl at the same time. You both laugh, loud, full, and deep-bellied, the only way you two do when you’re with each other. There were never any fake laughs if you were together.

You land a quick peck on his lips. “I’ll make you breakfast. Consider it a gift.”

You stood up to leave the bed, and you wait until it clicks in his head. “So you never got me a gift?” The disbelief on his face was almost enough to move you to guilt. But you had another ace up your sleeve.

“Why don’t you get your ass out of bed first and help me make breakfast so I can give you the real gift?”

He huffs. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Oh, to be Seventeen's little free use doll, whom they treat like their own sex doll and comfort plushie at the same time. Minding your own business, writing or scrolling or reading? Not anymore :333 you're always getting swept off your feet— literally— because there is someone's strong arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you off the floor to be carried off to cuddle and touch. You can count on one hand the number of times you've been left alone without someone's hands on your skin. They pass you around, not just to be fucked dumb, but because everyone wants their turn to squeeze and play with their little dorm doll.

Movie nights would always end up with you stretched over multiple member's laps like a cat. Gentle hands draw up your arms above your head, half pinned down, half entwined with theirs. Your head is on one lap, your torso stretched over the next, legs in another's. In the darkness only lit up by the glow of the TV, it's hard to make out whose hand is petting your tit, pressing thumbs into the arch of your foot, or stroking the flat of your tummy. It's also hard to make out who's sliding fingers down your throat to keep your little whines muffled. Can't have you distracting them from the movie, right?

Seungcheol would be forever breaking up petty little fights that started from bickering over whose turn it was to have you (looking straight at bss) and taking it as an excuse to neatly pluck you from their arms and set you on his lap and wrap his arms around you. No amount of struggling will get you out of his grip, even though he finds it sooo adorable that you have to try so hard against a fraction of his strength. The squirming inadvertently makes him hard, so he flips you over so you're sideways on his lap, held up by one arm banding around your ribs, while he strokes along the curve of your back and gropes the flesh of your ass. Cheol is content with the softness of you on him, more than any completion.

Jeonghan thinks it's cute to ambush you. A midday nap is often interrupted by Hannie flopping on top of you and pressing his face into your back, sliding the point of his nose up the divot of your spine. Any and all activity is interrupted by him sliding behind you, hands sneaking under your shirt (if you're wearing one in the first place), squeezing your waist. He firmly believes there's no better place for his hands than the dip of your waist. That's where they end up even at night, sliding behind you on whomever's bed you're sleeping on for the night, his cock pushing into your warm, still wet heat. Fucking into you while wondering how many of his brothers had used you before he did.

Joshua, our resident sweetheart. He scoops you up like a child, both of you giggling, and sets off on little "adventures", as he was so fond of calling them. He affectionately pulls pretty clothes over you, dressing you how he pleases, then takes you shopping for more. Each outfit you try on earns you a little kiss. Shua thinks you're adorable in soft sweaters cropped too high, swishy floofy skirts that barely cover anything, cute stockings that hugged your thighs. He parades you around svt, forcing you to show off your new clothes, ignoring the blush high on your cheeks. No, his focus was completely on his teammates, watching their eyes darken at the glimpses of skin where delicate fabric rode up, where the pudge of your thigh stuck out over the lacy edge of the stocking. Later, he sets you on his lap— in front of everyone's hungry gazes— and knocks your knees open over his legs. Warm fingers soon find their place on your clit, further down to your hole. It's utter filth, the way his large hand stretches the fabric of your panties. Vulgar, really, when it's so obvious it doesn't belong there, but nothing feels more right when you fall apart around two of his fingers, his brothers' hands aching along his with the ghost of your release.

Junhui treats you more like a house cat than a sex doll. Always picking you up at random times of the day and carrying you to the couch, petting your hair, rubbing your back. He pokes your ribs and sides, just to see you twist away and push his hand down. Once, inexplicably, he grabbed your entire face as you would a cat you wanted to bother. The resulting cat fight (hehe) led to you straddling his face, your hands pinning his wrists down above his head. It was all a show really; he could push you off, flip you over, pin you down and have his wicked way with his dear kitty, all in the span of a breath, and you both know that. Yet, he let it happen because he loved the weight of you on his face, your pretty, breathy sighs and whimpers, your mewling when he didn't, wouldn't stop licking at your cunt. Jun loved when you initiated anything, cupping your pussy and affectionately calling you his "little cat in heat", scratching behind the cat ears he bought for you. He loved putting you face down ass up on the living room rug, where anyone could walk in on Jun slamming into you, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other pinning your wrists behind your back. If anyone walks in? Well, it's so commonplace they barely take note of it anymore, but sometimes—after a long day, or a hard practice— they push your teary face between their legs, cooing at how you rub your cheek against the bulge in their pants. Nothing relieves their stress and frustration like pushing your head down, large hand between your cat ears, seeing drool and cum and tears mix on your pretty face, but you curling up on Jun’s lap like a content cat comes in as a strong second.

Hoshi . Is bitey. Half man, half tiger, half toddler is really the only way you could even somewhat adequately describe him. He's forever teething against the soft inside of your thigh, licking at you until you cry, fucking into you like a rabid animal, pinching your cheeks and cooing over you, before burying his face in your neck and mouthing at the skin there. The other members teased you about the marks he left, pressing gently down on bruises new and faded. There was no embarassing Hoshi, not when he proudly showed them off when he could, yanking your head back by the hair, exposing the delicate arch of your throat. His tongue laved over the bites, tasting the salt of your skin, and he paid no heed to your incessant squirming. Your shoulders are always adorned with perfectly circular bitemarks, to the point where the others were concerned by them. What they didn't know, not until Hoshi walked out smug and shirtless after a shower, was how much you marked him up as well (to Mingyu's scandalized gasp). You were usually so pliant underneath them, your hands always pinned out of the way and held down, but Soonyoung adored when your small hands tried to grasp onto him, when your pretty, sharp nails clawed at his back and shoulders, struggling to withstand the onslaught of pleasure. The result? Long, fine scratches adorning his spine, shifting under the toned muscles of his back and biceps. He wears them proudly like his own tiger stripes.

Wonwoo is a cat maid enjoyer trustttt. He is also a little shit. Even without the frills of the costume, the cat ears and his hand are permanently on your head. Number 1 headpat giver. Reading? His hands are stroking your hair. Sleeping together? His thumb is brushing over the arch of your ear. You do something mildly cute (breathe)? Pat pat pat. Loves cuddling you like a plushie against his chest, both while lying down and sitting up. The cuteness aggression is unreal. At least, it is until the sadist in him takes over. He loves nothing more than locking a remote controlled vibe against you and making you do menial household chores like dusting and scrubbing in your pretty, too-short outfit that did nothing to hide whatever lacy thing you had on underneath. His favourite is when you are on your hands and knees, pretending to scrub the floor, the ridiculously frilly uniform soaked through with water, skin slippery with suds, smelling like soap and desperation, all because he turned the vibe up too high, too quickly. He makes you come like that, shaking and crying on the floor. Once. Twice. You were well on the way to the third when he gathers you up in his arms and sets you on his lap, uncaring of the water soaking through his clothes. He presses a firm hand over your pussy, forcing the toy against your clit, and lets you sob your way through your climax. Wonwoo is gentle when he cleans you up after, undoing the ties of your dress with nimble, long-fingered hands, lowering your spent body into a hot bath, cradling you until you fall fast asleep against his chest. Of course, not without innumerous headpats.

Woozi has 3 loves in his life: music, working out, and you. According to him, there was no reason not to combine any of the three, which found you in his studio, curled up on his lap. His hands absentmindedly kneaded at your flesh, sliding from your chest down to the curve of your waist, palming at your ass, then up and over your thigh, to the round of your calf. Even the delicate swell of your ankles and the arch of your foot was not untouched, pale, elegant fingers stroking the skin and squeezing the entirety of your foot. Between the quiet of the studio and his warm hands, you barely notice the haze of dreamland drawing its veil over your eyes, or soft cushions meeting your back. You wake up to the soft click-clack of the keyboard. stretching, you watch your lover work.

One moment, you had been lounging on the studio couch— the next, plucked from it by a Jihoon that seemed to stomp in from thin air. His face, bright like the full moon, hovered directly over you, eyes meeting yours, glinting with quiet mischief. You blinked, and then you were weightless, rising, and your usually reserved Jihoon? Doing barbell curls of all things, using you as exceptionally surprised piece of gym equipment. Usually, gym equipment did not stare at him with wide eyes and a mildly confused expression. Usually, gym equipment did not fist his shirt and cling to him. Usually, gym equipment was not this fucking adorable. What was Woozi to do with you, other than to set you on his cock and show you his new hip thrust PR?

Dokyeom gave Seungcheol and Hoshi a run for their money when it came to sheer clinginess, what with how you're folded into his side all the damn time. He's forever squishing you into his broad chest, arms and legs thrown around you, head buried in the crook of your neck. Rarely would you get to cuddle him back, because he seemed to have made it his life mission to bring any straying limbs back to your body and make you as compact as possible. Slender, long fingers wrap around your delicate wrists and pin them down, with seemingly little effort, but you can't move an inch. Forget being a plushie— you act as his living, breathing body pillow, always warm to the touch. Your skin? Free real estate. His hands are always roaming, cupping the curve of your tit, pinching your nipples and tugging until you arch against him. Further down, squeezing the softness of your stomach and pinching the narrowest part of your waist. Further, and he's stroking your thighs almost reverently, higher and higher until his palm is flush against your cunt, and he pets that too. It seemed like sacrilege to call it dirty, sexual; the slow drag of his finger against your clit was worship, your whimpers hymnal, your pleasure his offering. The scrunch of your face when you come is enlightenment to him. When he flips you over and pins you underneath him, Dokyeom can't help but think you're his own miniature goddess stolen straight from altar, come to life and flushed and demanding under his reverant hands. When he's through with you, after carefully shaping your body into his, pressing you down into the mattress, bouncing you on his hips, drinking and eating from you until he can finally call himself somewhat sated, he cleans you like a devotee, presses his forehead against your sweat-damp stomach, and breathes you in, more fragrant than any incense.

You are Seventeen's doll, and Mingyu is their housewife. That's why he's always setting you on the counter next to him while he cooks, lovingly feeding you the first bite by hand. You looked so fragile to him like this, his oversized shirt falling off your shoulder, riding up your thighs, exposing impossibly soft skin. While dinner cooks, he spreads you on the counter as his appetizer, licking at you until you're begging him to let up, to give you a break. He finds your thrashing impossibly cute, how your thighs can't close around his shoulders, your helpless crying because it's too much for your little body to handle. It's so easy to manhandle you into whatever position he wanted, to hold you up and against him while he fucks into you. Some days, when he has too much energy, when practice and working out and taking care of others weren't enough, he would lift you up into the air and take you like that, your feet dangling off the floor. Out of everyone, you were the most doll-like with him, limp in his muscled arms while he uses you to his heart's desire. It had taken you so long to take him fully, needing days of prep before the first time. Days of him holding you down while he fingers you open, the pads of his fingers flush and rubbing against the soft, sensitive spot in you that your fingers could never reach by themselves. Days of Seventeen surprising you in the middle of the day by pushing a toy into you and forcing you to warm it. Days of Mingyu easing in inch by inch, making you come with each one, until you could finally, finally take his cock, flushed with pleasure and fullness and the endless praise spilling from his lips.

Minghao loves aesthetics. He asks you sit with him during his tea ceremonies, noting your perfect posture and neatly folded legs with an approving gaze. Everyone else is always bending you in half, but Minghao appreciates the neatness of your movement, the straight, elegant lines of your body, even in the mundane everyday— writing at your desk, molding the shape of your figure against one of his brothers', the swish of your skirt around your legs when you walked. It was in the smallest details to him— the tendons shifting under your hand, the stretch of an affectionate arm, the gentle arc of hipbone, the arch of your back off the bed when you come undone underneath his lips, his fingers, his cock. As far as Hao was concerned, this beauty was all the more perfect bound in cherry red rope, crisscrossing the narrow of your wrists and waist, digging into the fat of your hips and thighs. He spends hours with you in his studio, entwined together under warm afternoon sunlight, testing different patterns across your torso while your head leans against his chest. Every day was something different— arms tied to your ankles one day, calves and thighs bound together, forcing you to kneel, once tied to him while straddling him on a chair. The boundaries between his own touch and the bite of rope blurs, until the pinch of rope and the nip of teeth are one and the same.

You often called Seungkwan your "adorable boo bear", complete with holding up strands of his hair into fluffy bear ears. And indeed, he looked like a cartoon baby bear with his big eyes and clingy, soft tendencies. Evenings with him was always spent with you straddling him on the couch, your face buried in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped around each other, breathing the other in. He cared for you in a way that was softer, warmer, care which seeped in through your pores until you glowed from the inside out. Beyond nagging you to eat and drink water 2982139 times a day, he fetched you meals himself, held bottles to your lips, and scolded your ear off. When you were on his lap, however, the praise was endless. He didn't fuck— he rolled his hips into yours slowly, hands grasping yours, pinning both of you down, kissing the planes of your face slack from pleasure. It wasn't a powerplay like with the others, either. His hands are exceedlingly gentle on your skin, holding you close, and closer, trying to merge the two of you together. Your own hand stroked his round cheek, resting soft against your palm. You were his doll and he was your boo bear, and that's all that mattered sometimes.

Vernon is the most peaceful of them all, never given to throwing you around like the others (or gnawing at you like Hoshi). It's simply enough to share company, and occassionally, cat reels. He holds you as casually as he does his phone, manspreading on the couch and setting you on his lap, wide hand palming the fat of your ass. The unspoken order—grind—hangs in the air, and you obediently oblige, pushing your hips against the seam of his pants, head falling into the perfect curve of his neck. He captures your lips with his, a soft, slick meeting. Unhurried, calm, like everything else was with him. He wasn't particularly inclined to pin you down and fuck you senseless (not that it didn't happen), but enjoyed the pressure of you on him, the gentle press of your hands against his chest. Afterwards, the two of you fall asleep together, hand in hand, space between your bodies like open fields ready for sowing.

Chan thinks you're the cutest ever, especially when snuggled up on his chest. He also thinks you're the cutest ever when you're overwhelmed and half dazed, making adorable little faces of pleasure and unable to speak from overstimulation. He likes making you whine into his neck and chest when his wandering hands squeeze a little too hard at your waist, ass and tits. Chan was always using his strength to his advantage, knowing it drove you insane, grining cheekily when it did. Your pleasure was his, and he carved that knowledge in your mind until you knew it better than you knew yourself. Eye contact is a must for him, to the point where he stops moving if your eyes fall shut from the pleasure. His favourite actvity? Placing you on one strong thigh, supported only by your entwined hands, and forcing you to grind and look at him until you're sobbing into his shoulder from exhaustion and frustration. His pants are soaked through, but you still couldn't find completion, needing more from him. Chan loved the desperate tears tracking down your face. Once he takes over, you wish you did it yourself— he's relentless, bouncing you on his thick thigh until you're cross-eyed and stupid from how good it feels. He keeps going, long after you've turned completely limp, using your body to vent his energy out. Afterwards, he collapses next you, and spoons you until you both fall asleep and wake up again, though you are significantly worse for wear. It's hard to stay mad when he flashes that boyish smile at you, with sweet kisses and promises of food.

a/n pt 2: if you see me post more fics with the same themes no you don't

feel free to ask if you want to see more from this universe (ot13 or member specific) because I have MULTIPLE scenarios that I haven't included here. Both fluff and smut reqs are accepted!

The second he steps on stage, he wrecks you.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen him perform—he always leaves you breathless. Ruthless. A storm in human form. The second the lights hit him, the crowd erupts, and suddenly, you're nothing but need in a sea of screams.

You’re not backstage tonight. You’re in the VIP section—closer to him, somehow further from him. The Hope on Tour shirt clings to your body, damp with sweat, your ARMY bomb held in a death grip. No one around you knows the truth. No one knows that the man they’re screaming for—aching for—is yours. You think of those TikToks, smug and stupid: They don’t know I’m his girlfriend. But you do. You know it in the way your body thrums just watching him. You know it in the ache pooling low in your belly. You know it in the fact that you’ve kept him a secret, selfishly, fiercely. Because he’s not a fantasy. He’s real. And he’s yours.

And tonight, he’s out for blood.

You can’t take your eyes off him. Every move is designed to destroy. He dances like he’s fucking the beat into the floor. He raps like he wants to bite. And every time he gets near your section, it’s like he’s looking straight through the noise—straight at you.

Then he smiles.

Not just any smile. That one. The one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. The one that makes your knees buckle.

And then—forty minutes in—it happens.

Hangsang.

Your pulse spikes. You love this song. At least, you did. Right up until he decides to ruin your life with it.

He makes his way to your section. Slow. Measured. A predator in perfect control.

And then?

He fucking does it.

A casual gesture, at first. One he could get away with. Until he doesn’t. Until his gaze locks on yours like a sniper scope, until he bites his lip and drags his fingers across it like he's testing your patience on purpose.

And then—God help you—he slips those fingers into his mouth. Slow. Deep. Tongue flicking against the tips like he’s tasting you instead.

Your stomach drops. Your thighs clench. You swear you see a thread of spit glisten in the lights.

And then—

Oh, no.

His hand lifts. Fingers curl into the air, sin made physical. A motion you know intimately, one he’s used on you in the dark, against the wall, under the sheets. One that never fails to make you unravel.

Two seconds. That’s all it takes.

The crowd loses its mind—screams, gasps, cries of disbelief. You can already see the fancams being clipped, slowed down, dissected frame by frame.

And he’s still watching you.

Smirking.

Like he knows you’re already soaked through your panties. Like he knows exactly how you’ll fall apart the second he gets you alone. And fuck—he does.

Because Hoseok isn’t just a performer. He’s a menace. A devil in glitter and sweat.

And you know—know—what’s coming later. The teasing. The cocky little tilt of his head. The filthy whisper, hot against your skin:

Couldn’t handle that, baby? You looked so pretty about to cry.

You hate him for it.

But not nearly as much as you love him for it.

When the show ends, and he gives his closing speech, the switch flips. Suddenly he’s not the sin-dripping demon who just mimed fucking the air with his fingers.

He’s just Hoseok.

Hair damp with sweat, eyes glassy with emotion. His voice cracks as he thanks the crowd, thanks the fans, thanks you—without saying it. You see it in the way he clutches his chest, the way he breathes like every second is a gift.

You look at him and feel your heart stretch to bursting.

Your boyfriend is a paradox. Pure chaos. Pure light. He destroys and he heals. And somehow, impossibly, he’s yours.

Backstage is a blur of movement and sound, but your senses are locked on him. Jung Hoseok, still glistening with sweat, flushed from the high of performing, is leaning against a table, chugging water like he didn't just ruin lives for two hours straight. The towel draped around his shoulders does little to distract from the sharp cut of his jaw, the soaked-through shirt clinging to his chest, the glint in his eyes when he spots you.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you approach with that look—the one he saves for private moments. The one that says he knows. Knows exactly what he did out there.

You stop in front of him, arms crossed. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Hoseok raises a brow. “Me? What did I do?”

You scoff. “Don’t play innocent. That thing during ‘Hangsang’? You really went with that move?”

He shrugs, a smug tilt to his mouth. “Felt right in the moment.”

“In the moment?” You glare. “You looked me dead in the eye while doing it.”

“Ah,” he says, tapping his fingers against the bottle, voice lowering, “so you admit you were watching me.”

You roll your eyes. “You were practically fucking the air.”

His smile sharpens. “Was I?”

He pushes off the table, stepping in close. Too close. Heat radiates from him like a furnace, and his voice drops to a murmur just for you. “You didn’t like it?”

“I liked it too much, and you know it.”

He hums. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” you hiss, pulse spiking, “is that now I can’t think straight and you’re standing here like you didn’t just mouthfuck your own fingers and ruin my entire nervous system.”

He lets out a soft laugh, biting down on his lip like he’s trying not to lose it. His eyes flick down, catching the way your chest rises with each breath. When they return to yours, they’re darker. Hungrier.

“I was just giving a little performance,” he says. “You looked like you needed the reminder.”

You narrow your eyes. “Of what?”

He leans in, lips nearly grazing your ear. “What happens when I actually put my mouth on you.”

Your breath catches—right as a voice cuts through the hallway.

“Hyung! You’ve got five minutes ‘til the send-off!”

You both freeze. Hoseok pulls back with a tight breath, jaw clenching as he throws a nod over his shoulder. “Got it!”

Then his eyes settle back on you. “We’re not done.”

“Oh, I know.”

The energy between you crackles. Neither of you moves as a stylist swoops in to blot the sweat on his forehead, mumbling something about lighting. You barely hear it. Hoseok’s hand brushes your waist as he steps around you, not-so-accidentally dragging fingertips along your side before pulling away completely.

The send-off is a blur, fan signs and waves and cameras flashing. You follow at a distance, trying to keep yourself together, but it’s impossible. Every time he glances back, every time he smiles too wide or bites down on that lip, you feel it unraveling again.

And then you’re in the car.

The doors shut.

Silence.

He’s beside you, legs spread wide, chest still rising and falling too fast. The windows are tinted, the divider up. Just the two of you now.

You glance at him. He’s staring out the window like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just press you to the edge of combustion and walk away.

But his knee bumps yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then stays there.

He turns slowly, lips twitching. “I’m going live in ten.”

You nod, voice tight. “Mm. You better hurry. You look like someone who needs a little help calming down.”

He chuckles, deep and wrecked. “Baby, you’re the reason I’m like this.”

And you sit there, burning, limbs aching, the space between you electric and unbearable.

Neither of you touches.

Not yet.

But god—you both want to.

The hotel room is quiet when you walk in. Clean, modern, luxurious—but it barely registers.

Hoseok heads straight for the desk setup by the window, pulling out his phone and propping it up on a mini tripod. His makeup is barely touched up, hair still messy in that post-show, too-good-to-be-legal way. He mutters something about checking the Wi-Fi, tapping through settings with a frown.

You trail in slower, pretending to be unaffected, but you’re boiling.

And you want payback.

“You starting the live now?” you ask, voice light.

He glances back at you. “In a minute. Why?”

You shrug, toeing off your shoes. “Just wondering how long I have to behave.”

That gets his attention. His head tilts, a knowing smile twitching at his lips. “Don't start something you can't finish, baby.”

“Who says I won’t?”

He shakes his head, amused, and turns back to his phone, hitting the “go live” button before you can say more. The app lights up, comments immediately flooding in as the view count climbs.

“Hey guys,” he says, voice warm, tired but happy. “Just got back from the show. You guys were crazy tonight…”

You sit on the edge of the bed, watching him talk. He’s glowing—soaked in adrenaline and affection, eyes scanning the screen like he’s genuinely soaking up every word. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

You stand, slow and quiet, padding over to where he sits.

He notices. Barely. A flick of his eyes toward you, then back to the camera.

And then you straddle his lap.

He freezes.

It’s subtle—no one on the live can see—but you feel it. The sharp inhale. The tension in his thighs. The way his hands hover, unsure whether to push you off or pull you closer.

You drape your arms loosely around his shoulders, mouth close, almost right beside his ear. “Smile for the fans, Hobi.”

He shifts in the chair, clearly trying to look casual, but you’re sitting right on him—weight pressing into his hips. He clears his throat, waves at the screen.

“Yeah, so I’ll talk about the setlist in a sec,” he says, voice a pitch higher than before. “I just, uh…”

You roll your hips.

Slow. Torturous.

His breath catches audibly.

You suppress a grin.

His eyes dart to the screen, then to you. “Baby,” he warns, lips barely moving.

“Hmm?” You bat your lashes, kissing the shell of his ear.

“Stop.”

“Make me.”

His jaw clenches. The comments keep flying—fans asking why he’s blushing, if the room’s too warm, why he’s suddenly looking down every few seconds.

He tries to power through. Tries to focus. He starts talking about his favorite moment during “Just Dance,” but his voice keeps stuttering. His hands grip the edge of the chair so hard his knuckles go white.

You grind down again. Barely.

He mutters something in Korean under his breath.

Then he’s done.

“I—I’ll talk to you guys later,” he says, too fast. “I need to—rest. Yeah.”

He ends the live with a stiff wave, slamming his phone down the second the stream cuts.

Silence.

You lean in, innocent. “Everything okay, Hobi?”

He looks at you. And he snaps.

In one motion, he lifts you, flips you onto the bed, and crawls on top of you with a growl in his throat and murder in his eyes—sweet, delicious murder.

“You think that was funny?”

You grin, breathless already. “A little.”

He leans in, mouth brushing yours. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“I don't think so.”

He hovers over you, hands planted on either side of your head, breathing hard.

His eyes are wild—half disbelief, half dark amusement—and all of it aimed directly at you.

“You think this is a game?” he murmurs, low and dangerous.

You blink up at him, face the picture of innocence. “Didn’t you start it, Mr. ‘Let Me Finger the Air Like a Pornstar in Front of Thousands’?”

His nostrils flare. “That was performance. This—” he gestures between your bodies, hips brushing yours with almost-zero restraint, “—this is personal.”

“And?” you whisper, one hand sliding up the back of his neck, threading into his hair. “You gonna punish me or talk me to death?”

That does it.

He jerks back like your touch burns. Stands. Paces.

You watch from the bed, smug, legs still slightly spread from where he left you.

He’s trying to get it together. Chest rising and falling, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, jaw flexing like he’s biting back a thousand curses. He drags both hands down his face, then breathes out a laugh that sounds half-wrecked.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You sit up slowly. Swing your legs over the side of the bed, take your sweet time walking up behind him. You press your chest against his back, let your fingers drift just under the waistband of his pants. Just a taste.

“Tell me to stop,” you murmur.

He doesn’t.

“Tell me you didn’t love every second of it.”

Still nothing.

You pull back just enough to tease, but he catches your wrist before you can fully retreat. Spins around, pulling you against him in a hard, unyielding grip.

“You want to play games?” he growls. “Fine. We’ll play.”

His hands drop to your hips, fingers digging in. He leans down, lips brushing yours—so close, but not touching.

“But you don’t get to win.”

Then—again—he lets go.

Backs away. Grabs a water bottle from the table and drinks like it’ll douse the fire in him. It won’t.

“You’re not gonna touch me?” you ask, head tilted just enough to be a challenge. Your pulse is thrumming in your neck, fast and furious, and he can see it—feels it.

Hoseok takes a slow sip from his water bottle, his eyes never leaving yours. Then, licking the last drop from his bottom lip, he smirks. “You’re not ready.”

Your brows lift, mocking. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he murmurs, voice low, cocky. “You’re not ready for what I’d do to you if I actually started touching you.”

You scoff, but the heat that coils in your belly betrays you instantly. Your thighs press together on instinct. God, you hate how right he might be.

But now—it’s about pride. About holding your ground. About not letting him win just because he knows exactly what buttons to press.

You cross your arms, eyes gleaming. “Coward.”

He tilts his head, tongue poking into his cheek as he smiles. Dangerous. Ferocious. “Keep talking, baby,” he warns, rising from the edge of the bed. “You’ll be flat on your back before you can blink.”

You raise a brow. “Big words for someone who rage-quit a livestream because he got hard on camera.”

He lunges.

You shriek, laughing, twisting, but he’s too quick. In a second, he’s got you pinned under him again, his hands bracketing your shoulders, his knee sliding between your legs like he owns the space there.

The smile on his face is feral—unchained. “You think you're funny, huh?” he growls, breath ghosting over your lips. “You think I won’t wreck you right now for that little stunt?”

You grin, wicked and bright. “Mmm, you like it nasty, babe?” you purr, fingers dancing up the line of his jaw. “Should’ve thought better before acting up on stage. That little finger trick?” You click your tongue. “You started it.”

He growls again—deep, from his chest, like you’ve touched something raw.

You lean up, give him a light kiss on the cheek. A tease. Nothing more. Then you start to wriggle out from under him. “I’m gonna go clean up. Make myself comfortable.”

You say it like a threat. And it is.

But the second you try to move, his arms tighten, locking you in place.

“Oh, hell no,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and walk away all smug, acting like you didn’t just hijack my entire f—” he swallows hard, eyes dragging over your body like he’s trying to rein it all back in. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

You laugh again, but it’s breathless this time—your own composure slipping. His body is hot, solid, and there, and every move he makes only pushes you deeper into the mattress.

Still, you raise your chin. “You can’t keep me here forever, Hobi.”

He dips down, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, that spot behind your ear that makes your knees go weak—even when you’re lying down.

“Baby,” he whispers, voice like velvet over a razor’s edge. “You think I’m the one losing control right now?”

Your stomach flips.

“Go on,” he adds, letting up just enough for you to slide out from under him. “Run off. Get comfortable. But when I’m done being nice—” his gaze drops, slow and hot—“you’ll be the one begging to stay in bed.”

And he flops back on the mattress, watching you walk away with hooded eyes and a smirk that promises vengeance.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, but not all the way.

Just enough for him to hear everything. Just enough for him to wonder if you left it ajar on purpose.

You flick on the light and catch your reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, pupils blown wide. You look wrecked already and he hasn’t even touched you properly. It’s power. It’s delicious.

And you’re going to make him feel every second of it.

You peel off your shirt with slow, deliberate movements, knowing he can hear the whisper of fabric, the creak of the floorboards, the soft clink of your necklace hitting the counter. You don’t say a word. Let his mind fill in the gaps.

You hear him shift in the bed. Restless.

Then the tap runs. You rinse your face, run your hands through your hair. Still quiet. Still calculated.

Then, when the silence gets too loud, you hum.

Soft and lazy. Just loud enough for it to carry.

“Hmmm,” you sigh to yourself, like you're very pleased with how things are going. Then: “This lingerie might be too much.”

You hear him curse.

You smile. God, you’re having so much fun.

And you keep going. “Or not enough.”

“Baby,” his voice comes through the door, already strained. “Don’t fuck with me right now.”

“Who’s fucking with you?” you chirp sweetly. “I’m just getting comfortable”

You pause. Let it sit. Let him stew in it.

Then, in a voice soaked in sugar: “You good out there?”

The bed creaks again. Louder this time. You imagine him pacing, or palming himself over those sweatpants he threw on in a rush, maybe thinking about how it felt when you sat in his lap before, shifting just so, how your scent’s probably still on his fingers. Still on his skin.

You press your thighs together and try to stay composed.

This is revenge. Sweet, slow-burning revenge. And you’re winning.

“If you want,” you murmur, voice light and laced with mischief, “I could show you what I picked out…”

Silence.

Then—bang.

A sharp thud against the wall. You can’t tell if it’s his fist or the dresser or his skull, but whatever it is, it sounds violent.

You bite back a smile, high on the power. Teasing him like this is too easy.

“Get out here,” he snarls. “Now.”

You scoff, amused. “You didn’t even say please.”

There’s no pause this time.

“I don’t fucking care. I’m tired.” His voice is raw—loud, dark, and fraying at the edges. You open the door fully and find him in the doorway already, like he couldn’t wait. His pupils are blown, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, one arm extended just far enough to touch the inside of your wrist.

His fingers curl around it.

Not rough, but firm. Insistent.

“You are coming with me,” he says, like it’s law. Like it’s a fact already written.

You stand there in his shirt and the smallest pair of shorts you packed—fabric clinging to your skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. He sees everything. The curve of your ass, the hint of lace at your hips, the smooth slope of your thighs still flushed from the game you started.

He swallows, jaw ticking.

“I was just making myself comfortable,” you say sweetly, and his grip tightens, thumb brushing the pulse at your wrist like it drives him mad.

“You’ve got five seconds,” he says, voice low and shaking. “Before I stop playing nice.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think this is nice?”

He steps closer.

You don’t move.

Now he’s right there—barely an inch between you. The heat off his skin is blistering. His other hand rises to cup your jaw, not quite touching, just hovering, like even that would be giving in too soon.

His eyes flick to your lips, your legs, the way your shirt rides up when you breathe.

“You look like a fucking dream,” he mutters. “A dream that’s trying to kill me.”

You smile, saccharine and smug. “Then maybe you should’ve thought twice before acting up on stage.”

You lean in—just a whisper of your lips against his cheek—and give him a kiss. Barely there. Just enough to ignite.

Then you turn like you’re about to leave again, heading back toward the bed or the bathroom or anywhere that isn’t him.

But his grip doesn’t let go.

He tugs. Not hard—but with purpose.

You stumble right into him, chest against his, thigh brushing the outline of his cock straining against the sweats he rushed to put on after the livestream.

He breathes hard through his nose, like he’s fighting for control.

You whisper against his neck, “You don’t look that tired to me.”

That’s it.

That’s the spark.

He doesn’t lunge, not yet—but his whole body tightens, like a predator held back by a thread. You can feel his fingers flexing against your waist, twitching like they’re seconds from dragging you down onto the floor.

But he won’t. Not until you beg.

God, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love this. What you had. What you were.

He was always all over you, and so were you—two magnets locked in a pull too strong to fight, too wild to tame. Every breath, every look, every fucking brush of skin felt like it was dipped in gasoline. And now?

Now it’s fire.

He walks you backward with slow, deliberate steps until the back of your knees hit the bed. You fall onto it with a soft gasp, and he’s right there, standing between your legs, looking down at you like he’s starving and you’re the feast he’s been denied for way too long.

“Still wanna play?” he asks, voice like gravel, hands clenched at his sides like it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to touch you.

You drag your gaze down his body—his flexing forearms, the twitch in his jaw, the tent in his sweats that looks painful. You smirk. “Are you gonna make me beg, Hoseok?”

His name on your lips does something to him. His eyes darken, and this time when he leans in, it’s not careful. It’s reckless.

He grabs your thighs and yanks you to the edge of the bed so fast you yelp, hands catching on his shoulders. Then his mouth is on your neck—hot and open and claiming—and your whole body arches off the mattress.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he growls against your skin. “With that mouth. With that attitude. With those fucking shorts—”

“You like the shorts?” you pant, tugging on his hair until he groans.

“I hate the shorts,” he snarls, licking down to your collarbone, tongue filthy. “I hate that you wore them when you knew I’d see. I hate that you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You gasp as he nips at your chest through the fabric of your shirt, his hands sliding up under it, rough and eager, palms mapping your ribs like he’s trying to remember what you feel like under pressure.

“I always know what I’m doing,” you whisper.

“Then you knew I wouldn’t last.” He pulls back just long enough to strip the shirt off your body, fast and clumsy, like it offended him just by existing. His eyes rake over you—half-naked, flushed, breathing heavy, legs spread for him—and he snaps.

In a heartbeat, he’s crawling over you, hips grinding into yours, his mouth everywhere—your jaw, your throat, your chest—until you’re gasping his name, your hands clawing at his back, your thighs locking around his waist like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

“You wanna beg now, baby?” he huffs against your lips, breathless.

You roll your hips against him and watch his whole body jolt.

“You’re gonna beg first,” you whisper. “For making me wait.”

And just like that, you flip him—straddle him. His back hits the mattress with a thud, and he looks up at you like he’s already ruined.

You settle your weight on his lap and smile down at him, wicked and wild.

“Let’s see who really breaks first.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

His hands shoot up to grip your waist, knuckles white, muscles flexing like restraint is no longer an option—and maybe it never was. Not when it comes to you. Not when you’re sitting on top of him like this, all flushed and smug and soaked in sweat and attitude.

You grind down once—slow and hard—and he chokes.

“Oh, fuck—” His hips buck up into yours, involuntary, brutal, and you ride it, gasping as your core drags against the thick length straining beneath those damn sweatpants.

That’s it. That’s the snap.

One second, the air between you is strung tight with tension, and the next, he’s moving—sitting up fast, eyes wild, grabbing you like he’s been holding back for hours and just broke. One arm hooks around your back, the other fists in your hair, yanking you into him, crashing his mouth against yours again like he’s starving for it.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision.

Tongues clash, teeth graze, breaths tangle. It's messy and urgent, raw with need. He groans deep in his chest like the taste of you is dragging him under, like he's unraveling at the seams just from this, just from you, and you moan right back, clutching at him like he’s your last tether to the world.

“You feel what you do to me?” he growls, voice thick with hunger, biting down on your bottom lip before dragging it into his mouth and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You’ve been fucking dripping all night.”

“So touch me,” you pant, grinding against him without shame, chasing friction, chasing anything. “Make me feel it.”

And he does. God, does he.

You’re flipped without warning again, like you weigh nothing in his hands. The room blurs for a heartbeat and then your back hits the bed, his weight caging you in, devouring every inch of you with his eyes. He rips your shorts down like they personally offended him, tossing them aside without a glance.

Then he sees the soaked spot on your panties and something snaps behind his eyes.

A low, guttural growl vibrates through his chest. “Fuck.”

He runs a finger right over it—barely there, just a tease—and you gasp, hips bucking up into the touch. He smirks, dark and dangerous, before shoving the fabric aside and diving in like a man possessed.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Two fingers slam into you, deep and fast, and your back arches off the bed as a cry tears from your throat.

“Already so fucking tight,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his eyes fixed on the way your body clenches around him. He curls his fingers just right and thrusts again, harder this time, deeper, and your legs start to shake.

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. All you can do is nod helplessly, whimpering, your nails digging into his arm as your other hand twists in the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.

Each thrust is punishing, each curl devastating, each drag of his fingers designed to destroy you. Your whole body is shaking, every muscle drawn tight, the edge so close it feels like you could fall over it with a single breath.

“Hoseok—fuck, I—”

“Not yet.”

He rips his fingers away, and you scream in frustration, hips bucking into nothing, walls fluttering around the absence like you’ve been ripped open and left begging.

“I said—”

But the words vanish from your mouth because suddenly—God—his mouth is right there.

No warning. No buildup. Just heat and tongue and wicked, wicked lips wrapping around your clit like a death sentence.

He moans into you, arms locking around your thighs to hold you in place while he ruins you with his mouth.

“You—fuck, I—”

He glances up, lips glistening, eyes gleaming with sin. He smirks like he knows. Like he planned this.

And then he says, low and lethal, “Don’t come until I say so.”

Like it’s a challenge. Like he wants to see you fall apart trying not to.

And oh, you will.

Oh, you unleash.

It’s not graceful. It’s not sweet. It’s carnal.

You shatter—loud, writhing, wrecked. A cry bursts from your throat, raw and ragged, echoing off the walls like a confession. Your voice breaks into a hoarse moan, half his name, half a curse, and entirely surrender.

And he watches—fuck, he watches like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

That wicked smile curves across his lips, dark and triumphant. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. His mouth is right there, relentless, greedy, like he’s trying to consume every last tremor from your body. His tongue flicks, circles, presses, and it’s too much—too much heat, too much pleasure, too much him.

Then his hand slides up—slow, smooth, terrifying in how in control he still is—and wraps lightly around your throat.

Not tight. Just enough.

Just enough to make your breath hitch. Just enough to make you feel it—that loss of air, that vulnerability, that heady spike of something deeper.

His lips drag down, kissing the inside of your thigh with reverence, then right back up, mouth sealing over your clit like he’s praying with his tongue.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough, reverent. “So fucking perfect when you come.”

Your body jerks beneath him, aftershocks ripping through you, legs trembling like you’ve run miles. You can barely keep your eyes open, but you see the way he’s looking at you—like you’re something holy and ruined all at once.

“Could watch you fall apart like that forever,” he growls, licking a long, slow stripe through your slick. “Could live between your thighs and never need another damn thing.”

You whimper, mind fogged and limbs useless, but he’s not done.

He shifts up, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, while his hand keeps its gentle pressure at your throat. Not to hurt. Just to hold. Just to remind you: he’s the one doing this.

“You think that was it?” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours as he grinds his hips down, the hard line of him pressing against you. “I haven’t even started.”

Even in the haze—numb, trembling, boneless from the high—you move.

You fight for it.

Still shaking, still gasping, you claw your way onto him like instinct, like something primal and desperate has taken hold. There's no grace, no finesse—just raw need, coursing through you like lightning. You straddle him, hips grinding down, rutting shamelessly against the thick heat straining beneath his clothes.

You’re a mess. A beautiful, wrecked mess.

Mouth parted, chest heaving, hair clinging to your sweat-slicked skin. You can barely breathe, barely think, but all your body knows is him.

“Please…” you gasp, voice breaking on a moan as you roll your hips again. “Please, baby… fuck… want ya—want ya so bad.”

The words come out slurred with lust, almost incomprehensible, like you're drunk on him. And maybe you are.

He watches you like he’s in a trance, hands gripping your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark—burning. Like he’s holding on to every last shred of control and losing.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked with arousal. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” you whimper, grinding down harder, chasing friction, chasing everything. “Want your cock, baby—need it. Need you in me.”

That’s what shatters him.

He flips you again—ruthless, fast. Your back hits the bed and he’s already there, caging you in with his body, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself.

You both moan when he ruts against your core, right there, the heat of him dragging over the slick fabric.

“God, you’re filthy,” he groans “You’re gonna take every inch. Gonna feel me for days.”

You spread your legs wider, shameless and soaked, begging with your body.

“So take me,” you cry, voice breaking as your nails drag down his back, leaving red lines in their wake. “Fuck me.”

God, you love this man.

Love how filthy you both are—how raw, how real. How there’s nothing between you but heat and skin and the kind of need that burns straight through the bones.

He groans at your words, at the way your body arches into his, shameless and pleading. His cock is right there, so close, the head dragging through your slick, teasing your entrance with maddening slowness.

You whine, desperate, hips lifting to chase him, to take him, but he holds steady—just to watch you fall apart a little more. Just to feel your hunger for him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, dangerous. “Can’t even wait a second, can you?”

You shake your head, lips parted, breath catching. “I need you,” you gasp. “Please, just—just fuck me already.”

And then—blissful mercy—he gives in.

He pushes in slow, the thick head of his cock breaching you, stretching you open inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, a broken moan spilling out as your eyes flutter shut.

Then he bottoms out in one smooth, deep thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

Your world ends.

Your eyes roll back, your entire body going limp beneath him, mouth slack, breath stolen. You feel everything—the stretch, the pressure, the way he fits like he was made for you.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, forehead pressing against yours, barely holding himself back. “You feel unreal. So tight, so fucking wet for me.”

You can’t even respond. Just whimper, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, like you never want him to leave.

He pulls out slow, just enough to feel the drag, then thrusts back in with a snap of his hips that knocks the air from your lungs.

You gasp, moan, claw at his back again. “Yes, yes—just like that—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He pounds into you with a rhythm that’s all hunger and devotion, head buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

And all you can think—through the pleasure, the gasps, the sting of nails and the slap of skin—is how much you fucking love this.

How much you fucking love him.

The thing about Hoseok is… he’s an artist, yeah. But first? He’s a dancer.

And those goddamn hips know exactly what they’re doing.

You know better than anyone.

You’ve felt it—in the way he moves against you, inside you, like his body was choreographed to yours. Every roll of his hips is a masterstroke, every thrust precise, powerful, devastating. He hits that spot again and again, like he mapped it out, like he studied it, like he's spent hours—years—perfecting the rhythm that makes you scream his name.

And you do.

You chant it, breathless and wrecked, nails digging into his back like he’s the only thing tethering you to this earth.

“Hoseok—fuck, right there, baby, right there—”

He groans into your neck, hips grinding deeper, slower for a second, just to make you feel the drag of him inside you. Just to show you who’s in control.

“You feel me?” he growls, teeth dragging over the curve of your throat, his voice a rasp in your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.”

And you do.

You take everything. Every inch, every thrust, every filthy word he feeds into your skin like sin-soaked poetry. Your body matches his like instinct, like choreography written in lust and obsession. This is more than sex—it’s a rhythm, a performance, a fucking ritual.

“You’re my filthy princess,” he pants, hips snapping against yours, the sound obscene, slick, perfect. “You know why I did that shit on stage, babe?”

You blink through the haze, barely able to speak, to breathe.

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, thrusts never faltering, never softening. “I did it ‘cause I was thinking of you.”

Your heart stutters. Your pussy clenches around him.

His voice darkens, sweet with venom. “Thought about you the night before that concert… pressed up against the wall, legs shaking, those pretty little moans spilling out while I had my fingers inside you. Remember that?”

You nod frantically, mind flashing with the memory—his hand, your helplessness, the way you came with your mouth against his shoulder to muffle the scream.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the way you begged,” he grins, feral, breath hitching as your walls flutter around him. “‘Oh baby,’” he mocks you in a breathy whimper, falsetto, sinful. “‘I’m your filthy fucking bitch…’”

Your whole body seizes. Shame and heat twist together like a fuse sparking to life.

He laughs—low and wicked, full of pride. “And all I could think was: that’s mine. That girl up front, lookin’ all sweet, all put-together?”

His hips drive harder, deeper—he’s pounding into you now, chasing the sound of your cries, the clench of your cunt.

“She’s the same one who gets on her knees like a whore for me.”

You whimper, head thrown back, nails clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s you, baby,” he says, voice all gravel and affection, eyes blazing. “My pretty girl, my nasty little thing. The one who smiles for the cameras, then bends over the second I lock the door.”

Your entire body is trembling. You don’t know if it’s the pace or the filth or the way he’s looking at you like he’s obsessed—but you're close, again, helpless to stop it.

“You gonna come for me again?” he asks, cocky and tender all at once. “Let me feel that tight little pussy squeeze the fuck out of me?”

“Y-Yeah—fuck, Hoseok—”

“Come,” he growls, voice raw, deep, commanding. “Come for me, my beautiful princess—my filthy fucking whore.”

That’s it. That’s the snap.

You shatter.

Your entire body goes taut, every muscle pulling tight before releasing in one violent, uncontrollable wave. Your legs shake around him, trembling so hard it’s like your bones have melted. Your mouth opens on a scream, but it barely makes it out—just a broken, choked moan that dies in your throat as your vision whites out.

You cling to him, hands clawing at his back like you need something—anything—to anchor you. But he’s not slowing down. If anything, he’s driving it deeper, dragging your orgasm out until it borders on unbearable.

And then—your body gives.

A gush of wetness spills between you, soaking his cock, the sheets, your thighs. You gasp, humiliated and feral all at once, trying to pull away—but he growls low, hands gripping your hips, holding you there.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses, staring down where your bodies are joined. “That’s it, baby. Look at that. Look at the mess you just made for me.”

You’re still twitching, body jerking with aftershocks, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. But Hoseok—he looks like a man possessed.

“Goddamn, you’re perfect,” he breathes, dragging his cock out just enough to watch more of your release drip out, then sliding right back in with a groan. “So wet, so ruined, so fucking mine.”

You whimper beneath him, wrecked and pliant, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t… I—I already…”

“You can,” he growls, eyes blazing as he locks gazes with you. “And you will. I’m not done with you yet.”

He kisses you then—deep and claiming, like he’s sealing something between you with tongue and teeth and breath.

And all you can do is moan into it, broken and breathless, because despite everything— You want it. You want him.

You’re still trembling, your body a live wire of oversensitivity and bliss, when he starts moving again—slow at first, but no less intense. Like he’s savoring the afterglow, dragging it out, making you feel every inch of him, every pulse and push and stretch.

“You’re unreal,” Hoseok mutters against your mouth, voice thick with awe and hunger. “You came so hard for me. Fuck, baby… you squirted for me.”

Your cheeks burn, your lips part to apologize, but he cuts you off with another deep thrust that makes your back arch, a whimper catching in your throat.

“Don’t even try,” he growls, pinning your hips down. “That was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

He’s drunk on you now—high on the mess, the heat, the way your body is still fluttering around him. He dips his head to kiss down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging his tongue along your skin as if trying to taste the orgasm still clinging to you.

And you… you’re floating.

You can’t even form words. Just sounds. Moans and gasps and breathy little pleas as he rocks into you, deeper now, slower, rolling his hips with maddening precision.

“Still so tight,” he whispers, voice ragged. “You feel that? The way your pussy’s still trying to milk me?”

You nod weakly, eyes glassy, mouth open on a silent gasp when he hits that spot again, perfectly, like he knows.

“Fuck, I love you like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “All soft. Fucked-out. Shaking. You’re so fucking pretty when you come.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing lazy circles on your clit, and your whole body jolts.

“N-No—too much—”

“I know, baby,” he coos, still fucking you through it. “I know. Just one more. One more for me, yeah?”

You sob his name, overwhelmed, but you don’t tell him no. Because you don’t want it to stop. Not yet. Not when it feels like this. Not when his body is still moving against yours like a symphony only you get to hear.

You lock your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, holding him there. And he groans—low, guttural, broken.

“Oh fuck—fuck, baby—”

He’s close. You can feel it.

The rhythm starts to slip, his thrusts getting rougher, faster. The weight of him, the sound of your soaked skin meeting his, the filthy praise falling from his lips—it’s all building again, dizzying, consuming.

And right before the fall, right when everything goes blinding and hot—he looks at you. Really looks at you.

And he says it.

“Come with me.”

And you do.

Together.

Hard, loud, beautiful.

The high fades like smoke—slow, warm, lingering—but the after? The after is where it all settles. Where the heat gives way to something softer, deeper, realer.

You’re both breathless, tangled together in a mess of limbs and sweat and slick, bodies still twitching from the aftershocks. Hoseok collapses gently onto you, careful not to crush you, just enough to feel your heartbeat slam against his.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just the sound of your breathing, still uneven and shaky. The way his hand finds yours, fingers lacing like it’s instinct.

Then, a laugh. Small, hoarse. Yours.

He lifts his head slightly, his forehead still resting on yours, brows furrowed in amused concern. “What?”

You grin, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He laughs too, deep and wrecked, kissing your forehead like he’s proud of that. “You weren’t supposed to. That was kinda the point.”

You try to nudge him with your knee, but it twitches uselessly and flops against the mattress. That just makes him laugh harder.

“I broke you,” he teases, clearly delighted with himself. “My poor baby.”

He kisses you again, this time slower, sweeter. Like a thank-you. Like a promise. Like he means it.

Then he starts pulling away to grab something—a towel, maybe—but you clutch at him with a tiny, panicked sound. “No—don’t go.”

He freezes. Looks down at you. And something in his face melts.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says gently, crawling right back over you, arms wrapping around your waist to roll you both onto your sides. “Not now. Not ever.”

You bury your face in his neck, letting your body relax completely into him. His scent, his warmth, the thrum of his pulse under your fingertips—it’s all enough to lull you into the sweetest kind of daze.

His thumb strokes your hip lazily. “You really are my filthy little princess, huh?”

You mumble something incoherent against his throat.

He chuckles. “What was that?”

“I said,” you sigh, half-asleep already, “your filthy queen, actually.”

He grins like you’ve just given him the world. “Damn right.”

Then he kisses your shoulder, one hand trailing up your spine, the other pulling the sheets around both of you.

"I love you, babe"

And just like that—you’re safe. Wrecked. Loved. Held.

The morning comes slow, gentle, a hazy stretch of sunlight spilling through half-closed blinds, casting soft lines across tangled sheets and bare limbs.

You wake first—barely. Just enough to feel the stiffness in your muscles, the warm ache between your thighs, and the delicious weight of an arm slung over your waist. Hoseok’s chest is pressed to your back, his breath soft and warm against your shoulder, one leg tucked between yours like he couldn’t bear to be any farther away, even in sleep.

You hum quietly, nuzzling into the pillow with a sleepy smile. Everything smells like him—sweat, skin, sex, and that faint hint of his cologne that somehow survived the chaos of last night.

You don't want to move. Ever.

But a groggy groan rumbles behind you.

“Fuck.”

You shift slightly. “What time is it?”

There’s a pause. Then another groan, this one full of regret. “Eight-thirty.”

You blink. “…AM?”

He flops onto his back dramatically, arm flung over his eyes like he’s auditioning for a tragedy. “I have to be at soundcheck in three hours. My body feels like it got run over by a truck.”

You snort, rolling onto your side to face him. His hair’s a mess, lips puffy, eyes still half-closed and pouting like a grumpy cat.

“Wonder why that is,” you tease, trailing your fingers over the fresh nail marks on his chest.

He squints at you from under his arm. “You did this. You and your pretty little ‘Please, baby, fuck me so good’ voice.”

You fake a gasp. “I never—”

He mimics you, pitch high and breathy, “‘Oh Hobi, I’m your filthy fuckin’ bitch—’”

You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it with one hand and groans again, flopping back down.

“…I deserve that,” he mumbles. Then, with sudden, dramatic anguish: “God, I’m so tired. My legs are jello. I have choreo in nine hours.”

You try not to laugh, but it bubbles out anyway. “You broke me last night. This is just karma.”

“I’m never going that hard the night before a show again,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes.

You kiss his cheek gently. “Liar.”

He sighs, lips curling into a crooked little smile. “Yeah. I’m totally gonna do it again.”

You both lie there for another few moments, the calm creeping back in, the kind that only comes with mornings like this. The silence is soft. Easy. Safe.

Then he cracks one eye open again, already plotting. “Okay. Hear me out. If I nap in the car and stretch in the dressing room, I might survive tonight.”

You grin. “I’ll be in the front row. Screaming my head off. Still limping.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Bet.”

He doesn’t say are you okay? He already knows you’re not. Instead, he steps close and tilts your chin up with two fingers, voice low and deliberate.

“You’re not going to think tonight.” “You’re going to listen. To me. Just me.”

The softness in his tone is gone and is instead replaced with command. A quiet, spine-tingling kind that has shivers racing down your spine. You blink up at him, stunned into stillness.

“Take off your clothes,” he says, unmoving. “Then lie down and spread your legs.”

You hesitate for a heartbeat. His brow arches slightly, dominance radiating off him strongly. “Now.”

Something electric shifts in your chest, and that is when you finally make a move. When he touches you, it’s with purpose, it's not just to tease you, but to control you. Every motion of his hand is firm, focused, and unrelenting. The kind of attention that leaves no room for anxiety, no space for your racing thoughts.

Only him.

“You’ve been carrying the weight of everything again,” he murmurs, his voice thick with heat. “Let it go. Right here.”

His lips trace a line down your neck as his fingers slide between your thighs, coaxing reactions from you like he’s tuning the finest instrument in the world. He watches you with every twitch, every gasp, and he's cataloguing it in his mind for later use.

“There she is,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t have to be strong right now. You just have to take what I give you.”

And what he gives you? It’s overwhelming. His fingers work you open with practised precision, pressing firm and deep inside you, his mouth brushing filthy and soft words into your skin. Not crude, but definitely claiming.

“Look at you falling apart for me.” “You’re going to come for me like this — you don’t get to hold it in tonight.” “Let me ruin you a little. You’ll feel better.”

The pleasure builds fast and suddenly, and feels thick like a wave, and he feels it. Wonwoo feels the way your body tenses and how your legs start to shake.

“That’s it. Don’t fight it. Cum for me sweetheart”

And when it finally crashes over you, your body gives out entirely, you're writhing and breaking apart beneath him, and completely soaking his hand and the sheets. He curses softly, proud and awed.

“You needed that,” he murmurs, breath hot against your temple. “Didn’t you?”

You can’t speak, so instead, you opt to just nod, half-lost in the haze of your mind-blowing orgasm. He kisses your cheek, trailing his fingers up your thigh slowly.

you actively try not to tense back up as his dick pushes into your cunt. despite him having prepared you, having spent what felt like ages fucking his fingers in and out, in and out, you can still feel the slight burn of your pussy stretching around his cock. your toes curl and you can't help but twist your fingers into the sheets, biting down on your lip.

seungkwan lets out a shuttering gasp, his grip on the sheets on either side of your head tightening. he hangs his head as he stills his hips, his nose pressing against the curve of your cheek.

"gotta relax, baby," he says, voice deep and raspy. when seungkwan came home from practice his voice was already a little fucked. he got halfway through a cup of tea topped with honey before you, needy and pathetic in that too-cute way, stumbled into his arms.

and fuck, if you weren't cute and pathetic right not beneath him.

"you gotta let my cock in," seungkwan cooed, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw. "gotta relax your pussy, baby."

you nod, turning and pressing your face against his. you tried to mold yourself back into the bed; tried to make yourself present. the warmth of seungkwan's body was flooding into you, trapped between him and the blanket beneath you. the mattress was soft and plush, because life was full of denials but seungkwan would be damned if he denied himself a cloud-like bed to fall into every night.

you relaxed back into the bed.

seungkwan could feel your cunt loosen around him. no longer did your pussy have a tight grip on him, the sort that he was greatly reluctant to try and press against. he never wanted to hurt you; never wanted this to hurt.

and so, with your cunt relaxed around him, seungkwan continues to push in.

you arch up against seungkwan as he fucks into you, breasts pressing against him. he slips his hand down to one of your thighs, and then moves your thigh up, giving him more room to settle between your legs. your knee knocks against his side.

"keep spreading," seungkwan says. he settles against you, cock fully sheathed, pelvis pressed against your thighs. "let me move."

"don't," you gasp out. your pussy clamps down on his cock, and seungkwan can't help the throaty groan that escapes him.

"won't," he says, dropping his face to the crook of your neck. he breathes against your skin, inhaling your scent. "won't move 'til you say it's good."

you move one of your hands to his shoulder, fingertips pressing into his flesh.

"feels big," you say, voice breaking.

"feels," seungkwan echoes back. "you saying i'm not big?"

you roll your eyes at him, hand sliding up his shoulder. you settle your hand along his jaw. "you know what i mean."

seungkwan hums. he settles against you, relaxing into your body in turn. seungkwan takes a moment to admire you.

he moves his hand to your face. seungkwan trails his fingers, long and thin, along the soft curve of your cheek. his nails gently scrape along your skin, and seungkwan can't help but follow the path of his fingers. he slides his forefinger, lightly and slowly, to your chin.

seungkwan's touch is as light as a butterfly's kiss. it's the sort of loving, gentle touch that belongs only to that of a lover; of an admirer.

and how he admires you.

seungkwan trails his finger to your lips. he looks at the pale shade of his nail and compares it to the lovely hue of your lips. he watches as the plump flesh of your lips bends beneath the pressure of his finger, as your lips part, gently, in response.

seungkwan can't help but push his finger between your lips. your mouth is just as warm as your cunt, and just as he had slid his dick into your pussy he slides his finger into your mouth. your mouth is warm and wet and welcoming.

you take his finger eagerly, as if it were his cock into your cunt. he doesn't press his finger all the way in. instead he settles his finger along your tongue. his cock throbs as you suck at his finger, your lashes fluttering.

"fucking pretty," seungkwan murmurs. "you're so fucking pretty."

reluctantly, seungkwan removes his finger from your mouth. he trails his fingers down the column of your throat, watching. he continues to move his hand along your body, until his fingers are cradling the edge of your tit.

he can't help but follow the curve, his thumb gently swiping. impulsive, seungkwan goes to your nipple. he slides a finger on either side of your nipple, tugging softly.

your mouth opens in a sweet gasp.

"kwannie," you call out, arms wrapping around his shoulders. you shift beneath him, moving so your legs are wrapped around him.

seungkwan tugs at your nipple again. "ready?"

you nod.

seungkwan begins to pull from your pussy. he moves slowly, cock sweetly dragging against your walls. the slide is easy due to how wet you are, and he adores how your cunt flutters around his dick.

once the head of his dick is at your entrance seungkwan rolls his hips towards you. the movement is fluid, a smooth rock back into your pussy. he rolls his hips as he fucks you, the motion constant.

he's addicted to the way your pussy grips him, how smooth the slide is. seungkwan's hand grips at your tit, nails digging in slightly, lost in the velvet feel of your cunt.

"feels good," he gasps out. he can feel the rasp of his voice, can feel the dryness of his throat. "feels so fucking good, sweetheart."

your body responds so beautifully to him. your body arches up into him, your legs tighten around him in an effort to keep him close. your mouth is open in a constant moan, eyes squeezing shut.

seungkwan can feel his balls tightening, his dick throbbing. he wants to cum in your pussy so bad, wants to fill you up so much.

he can't help but let his thrusts carry away. seungkwan begins to fuck you earnestly. the slap of his thrusts are loud, sharp and stinging. he wants to cum, wants to see his cum spilling fro your cute pussy —

your legs begin to weaken around him, falling to the side. seungkwan moves his hand from your tit. he loops his arms underneath your legs, hooking your legs up over his arms.

he fucks and thrusts and feels his heavy balls tighten against him. you feel so fucking good; you look gorgeous; you sound divine.

you moan out his name, broken and high.

seungkwan feels his balls clench once more, and then he's spilling inside of you. it's like a string pulled taut has been cut. he keeps fucking you as he cums, relentlessly with one goal in mind.

even once he stops cumming he doesn't pull out. seungkwan lets his dick soften in your pussy. he moves his hand down to your cunt, releasing one of your legs. two of his fingers find your clit easily. seungkwan begins to rub at your clit, cunt drenched from your juices and his cum.

"you gotta cum," he says, voice hoarse. he frames your clit with his fingers, rubbing at the sensitive area around it. your pussy continues to clench down around his spent dick, and he has half a mind to pull out, the sensation bordering on too much, but fuck —

you cum with a loud cry, lips curling and torso arching off of the bed. seungkwan groans in response and lays his body on yours, keeping you caught between him and the bed as he continues to rub at your clit, pushing you through orgasm.

"that's it," he moans, throat sore from misuse, "cum for me, baby. cum."

Jeonghan prides himself in being two steps ahead of everyone. It’s just how he is—how he operates. He reads people easily, anticipates what they’ll do before they can even think it themselves. It’s why he always wins petty bets, why he always manages to dodge responsibility, why he can talk his way out of anything with nothing more than a lazy smile. He sees the signs before they become obvious, notices the smallest shifts in expression, the tiniest changes in behavior.

That’s why, after knowing you for years, Jeonghan finds himself baffled. The first time he notices something is when you sit in your normal seat next to him before your lecture starts, sliding a coffee in front of him. It’s something you do so often that it barely registers—until Seokmin starts to complain.

“Where’s mine?” Seokmin whines, dramatically slumping against the table. “Why does Jeonghan always get special treatment? I like coffee too, you know.”

You scoff, sipping from your own cup without a second thought. “You have two legs, Kyeom, use them.”

Seokmin pouts, muttering something about Jeonghan’s legs and injustice, but Jeonghan barely hears him. Because for the first time, he’s thinking about what Seokmin had said. You always bring him coffee. Always. Even when you’re running late, even when you don’t get one for yourself. Even when you grumble about how he doesn’t deserve it.

He lifts the cup, staring at the little details he’s never bothered to notice before. The way his name is scrawled across the side in your handwriting instead of the barista’s. The way you always get it exactly how he likes—two sugars, just enough milk to take the edge off the bitterness. The way you don’t even wait for a thank you.

Like it’s second nature. Like it’s just… what you do.

And now, he can’t stop thinking about it.

He starts noticing other things during the lecture.

How you always roll your eyes when he leans against you, but never actually push him away. How you scold him for doodling on the margins of your notebook, but still let him get away with it every time. How you look at him when you think he isn’t paying attention.

It makes something shift in his brain—tilting, twisting, catching on a thought he’s somehow never had before.

And maybe that should be the end of it.

But it isn’t.

Not yet.

Because a week later, it happens again.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

It’s late—too late for you to be waiting around for him, but you do anyway. The library is nearly empty, the last stragglers packing up as Jeonghan stretches his arms over his head with a groan.

“Finally done?” you ask, voice amused as you glance up from your phone. You’re already leaning against the table, your bag slung over your shoulder, like you’ve been waiting for him this whole time.

Because you have.

Jeonghan blinks. He hadn’t asked you to. Hadn’t even considered it. He just assumed you’d gone home when you finished hours ago. But you didn’t—you stayed.

“Why are you still here?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you said you were leaving at nine.”

You shrug. “Changed my mind.”

Changed your mind.

Jeonghan frowns but doesn’t push further. Because now, he’s thinking about it again.

About the way you always are there whenever he needs you, about how you never actually leave until he does. About how, even when you complain about him, you’re still here.

Always here, waiting for him.

His stomach twists with something unfamiliar. Something that feels a little too warm, a little too close to something he isn’t ready to name. He follows you into the cold night air, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His thoughts are too loud, too disorganized, for him to focus.

And when you shiver beside him, he doesn’t even think—he just shrugs off his hoodie and tugs it over your head before you can protest.

You freeze, blinking up at him. “What—”

“Just wear it,” Jeonghan mutters, looking away.

And maybe, if he let himself think too hard about why he did that—why the sight of you in his hoodie makes something tighten in his chest—he’d realize he’s in way more trouble than he thought.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

The next time, it’s at a party.

Jeonghan isn’t even sure why he came—probably because Mingyu wouldn’t stop nagging him about needing to ‘go out and touch grass,’ whatever that means. The music is loud, the room packed with people, and Jeonghan, as usual, is lounging in the corner with a drink in hand, thoroughly entertained by the mess unfolding around him.

Then he sees you.

You’re talking to someone—some guy he doesn’t recognize, who’s standing a little too close, leaning in a little too much. You don’t seem bothered at a glance, but Jeonghan notices the way your fingers tighten around your cup, the slight shift in your stance. It’s subtle, something no one else would catch. But he does. He sees the tightness in your smile and the way you recoil when the man touches your arm.

Before Jeonghan can think twice, he’s already moving.

He slides up next to you easily, arm slinging around your shoulders like it belongs there, like it’s second nature. “There you are,” he drawls, flashing his most infuriating smile as he pointedly ignores the guy in front of you. “Been looking for you everywhere.”

You blink up at him, startled for only a second before you relax against him, leaning into his hold like it’s instinct.

The guy shifts awkwardly. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were—”

Jeonghan tilts his head, still smiling. He doesn’t say anything, just lets the weight of unspoken words hang in the air until the guy gets the message and quickly excuses himself.

Once he’s gone, Jeonghan glances down at you, raising a brow. “You okay?”

You let out a breath, rolling your eyes. “I was handling it.”

“I know.” He shrugs, arm still around you, still holding you close. “Felt like bothering you anyway.”

You huff, but you don’t pull away.

And then it hits him again.

The way you always let him do this—let him close, let him linger. The way you lean into him, like you belong there. The way it feels so natural that he doesn’t realize he's still holding onto you until his fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder.

Something warm twists in his chest.

He should let go. He should step back.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

Another day, it’s at lunch.

Jeonghan doesn’t think much when you slide into the seat across from him, tray in hand, like you always do. He barely glances up from his phone as you start picking at your food, the conversation around you blending into background noise.

Then you do something that makes his fingers still over his screen. You push the cucumbers off his plate. It’s so natural, so absentminded, that you don’t even seem to notice yourself doing it. Just a quick movement, the same way you always do.

Jeonghan stares at his plate, where the cucumbers had been only seconds ago, now neatly placed onto yours without a word. He glances up at you, but you’re still focused on your meal, completely unbothered, like this is just… normal.

He thinks back—tries to remember when this started. When you figured out he didn’t like cucumbers. When you decided, without being asked, to take them off his plate every single time.

Jeonghan swallows.

“Are you gonna eat that?” you ask suddenly, pointing at the bread roll on his tray.

He blinks, momentarily caught off guard before scoffing. “At least let me offer before you start eyeing my food.”

You roll your eyes, reaching over to grab it anyway. “Please, you were gonna give it to me either way.”

He doesn’t argue. Because you’re right. He always does.

And now, as you tear off a piece of the bread and pop it into your mouth without thinking, Jeonghan can’t help but notice the way this has all become a habit. The way there are things you do for him without question. The way there are things he does for you, too.

Jeonghan exhales, poking at the rest of his food, but suddenly, it doesn’t taste the same.

Because now, he’s thinking about it again.

Thinking about what makes you act like this.

But he doesn’t ask. 

Not yet.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

The next instance is in the rain.

Jeonghan had told you to go home before the storm hit, rolled his eyes when you stubbornly refused– insisting you’d be fine– until he finally managed to convince you. And now, standing under the awning of a closed convenience store, watching the rain pour down in sheets, he’s debating whether he should call you just to say, “I told you so.”

Then his phone buzzes.

You: are you still at the library?

Jeonghan frowns, quickly typing back.

Jeonghan: no, at the convenience store across from it, dorm ran out of soju You: don’t leave yet. I’m coming to get you.

He stares at the screen, brow furrowing. You’re coming to get him?

It takes you fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of Jeonghan watching the rain fall, of tapping his fingers against his phone, of wondering—really wondering—why you’re doing this.

And then you’re there, pulling up to the curb with your hazard lights flashing, hair slightly damp from the short sprint to your car. You barely give him a chance to react before you’re unlocking the door, waving him in.

“Hurry up,” you say, like this is normal. Like it’s nothing. Like you haven’t just driven across town in the middle of a downpour for him.

Jeonghan slides into the passenger seat, dripping water onto your floor mats. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches you as you reach into the backseat and pull out a towel.

You toss it at him without looking, focused on pulling back into traffic. “Dry your hair before you get sick.”

Jeonghan stares at the towel, then at you. “Did you—”

“I always keep one in my car,” you interrupt, as if reading his mind. “For emergencies.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, rubbing the towel over his damp hair. “So, I’m an emergency now?”

“You’re definitely something.” You shake your head, smiling to yourself. “I don’t know why I bother with you.”

But you do.

You do, every single time.

You didn’t have to come get him. You didn’t have to wait for him at the library, or bring him coffee every morning, or let him cling to you at parties without question.

And yet, here you are.

Jeonghan exhales, pressing his lips together, fingers tightening around the towel in his lap.

His chest feels warm again. Too warm.

He should say something. Should tease you, should make some dumb joke to brush this off like he always does.

But for the first time, he doesn’t.

For the first time, he just sits there, watching you drive, heart pounding against his ribs.

But he doesn’t want to think about how you make him feel.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

The worst time is when he’s sick.

Jeonghan rarely gets sick. He prides himself on that, actually—on having an immune system strong enough to withstand whatever hell Mingyu’s cooking experiments unleash upon their friend group. But now, he’s curled up in bed, utterly miserable, his head pounding and his throat raw.

He doesn’t remember texting you. He’s not even sure if he did. But somehow, you’re there.

The knock on his door barely registers, his brain foggy with fever, but then you’re pushing it open, arms full—plastic bags rustling, a familiar frown on your lips.

“Yah,” you scold immediately, setting everything down on his desk before walking over to him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dying?”

Jeonghan groans, burying his face in his pillow. “Not dying.”

“You sound like you swallowed glass.” You reach out, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead before he can stop you. Your skin is cool against his overheated skin, and it makes him shiver.

You frown deeper. “You’re burning up.”

“I’ll live,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You click your tongue but don’t argue, instead moving back to the desk, unpacking the bags you brought. Jeonghan watches through half-lidded eyes as you pull out medicine, a bottle of his favorite drink, a container of porridge, and— he freezes, heart stuttering.

You brought the exact brand of honey lemon lozenges he likes. The ones he always complains are overpriced but still buys anyway. His fingers twitch where they rest against his blanket.

“How’d you—” He stops to clear his throat. “You remembered?”

You glance at him, raising a brow. “Of course I did.” 

You say it like it’s obvious, as if he’s the weird one for even questioning it. Jeonghan doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet, watching as you pour medicine into the cap and hold it out expectantly.

He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t make a fuss like he normally would.

He just sits up, takes the medicine, and lets you take care of him.

And this time, he doesn’t try to push the warmth in his chest away, choosing instead to bask in your care, pretending it means more than it does.

But he doesn’t admit that.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

The next time Jeonghan notices it, really notices it, is a week later.

You don’t know it’s happening (not that you ever do). Don’t notice that he’s staring at you from across the table, barely registering Seungcheol’s story about some girl who ghosted him after three dates. Don’t know that something in his brain is shifting—catching on a thought that’s finally fully formed.

He watches the way you laugh at something Mingyu says, how your nose scrunches slightly when you sip your too-sweet drink. Watches the way you lean back in your chair, rolling your eyes at something dumb he said earlier.

He thinks about how easily you fit next to him. How you always have.

And then it hits him. 

A slow-burning realization that should’ve hit him years ago.

The reason you always let him steal your food even when you pretend to be annoyed. The reason you text him good morning when you know he won’t wake up until noon. The reason you never let him get away with his bullshit but still let him stay, no matter how insufferable he is.

The reason you look at him sometimes like he’s the only person in the room, like you’d give him the world if he just asked.

The reason you always have.

His stomach flips.

Oh.

Oh.

Jeonghan blinks. Swallows hard. Tries to ignore the sudden, inexplicable rush of warmth crawling up his neck. Because this—this—should not be happening. He’s Jeonghan. You’re you. His best friend. The one person who never falls for his tricks, never gets caught up in his nonsense.

Except… you do, don’t you?

And he’s been too blind—too stupid—to see it.

“Oh, shit,” Jeonghan mutters under his breath.

Mingyu pauses mid-bite, looking up. “Huh?”

Jeonghan forces a lazy smile, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing.

It’s everything.

And Jeonghan—who has always prided himself on being two steps ahead of everyone else—has never been more terrified in his life because now, he can’t stop noticing.

It’s in the way you always save him a seat, even when the lecture hall is packed. The way you complain about his bad habits but never actually stop him. The way your fingers brush against his when you pass him something, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

It’s in the way he finds himself looking for you first in a crowded room, in the way his teasing has softened without him realizing, in the way his heart stumbles over itself when you laugh at something he says.

It’s in the way you listen to him—even when he’s talking absolute nonsense—nodding along like his words actually matter. The way you remember the smallest things, like how he hates cucumbers or how he always picks the sesame bagel first. The way you instinctively move closer when he nudges you, like it’s second nature, like you don’t even think about it.

And Jeonghan—who has always prided himself on knowing things before anyone else, on seeing things before they happen—is suddenly drowning in a realization that has been staring him in the face for years.

Because it’s not just you.

It’s him, too.

It’s the way he always shifts closer to you on instinct, the way his gaze flickers toward you the second you walk into a room. The way he lets his guard down without thinking, lets you see the parts of him that no one else does. The way he keeps finding excuses to be near you, even when he tells himself he’s not.

It’s the way his hoodie still hangs in your closet because you never gave it back—and he never asked for it. The way he’s memorized the exact rhythm of your footsteps when you walk beside him. The way he never thinks twice about sharing his food with you, even when he swats Seokmin’s hand away for trying the same thing.

The way his heart is racing right now, loud enough that he swears someone else must hear it.

He swallows hard, fingers tightening around his drink.

Because if all of this is true—if he’s been feeling this way without even knowing it—then that means everything has already changed. And he has no idea what to do about it.

Jeonghan feels like he can’t breathe. The noise of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, the laughter, the clatter of plates—it all feels too loud, too much. His skin is buzzing, his thoughts spiraling, and before he can stop himself, he’s pushing back his chair and standing up.

No one really notices—Seungcheol is too caught up in his story, Mingyu is still chewing—but you do. Of course you do.

Jeonghan mutters something about fresh air and slips outside before anyone thinks to ask questions. The cool evening air hits him like a slap, sharp and grounding, but it does nothing to quiet the way his chest is tightening. He leans against the brick wall, pressing his palms against his eyes, trying to steady himself.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

The door swings open behind him.

“Jeonghan?”

Your voice is gentle, cautious.

He forces himself to relax, dropping his hands and looking at you with the most neutral expression he can manage. “What’s up?”

You step closer, studying him, your brows furrowing. “Are you okay?”

Jeonghan scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You give him a look—the one that tells him you know he’s full of shit. “You just got up and walked out in the middle of a conversation. That’s not normal.”

He shrugs, shifting his weight. “I just needed some air.”

You don’t move. Don’t buy it for a second.

“Jeonghan.” Your voice is softer this time, almost hesitant. “What’s wrong?”

And he could lie– brush it off, smirk, make some dumb joke to change the subject. That’s what he always does. But for some reason, with you standing there, looking at him like that—like you care, like you’re waiting for the truth—he finds that he can’t.

So instead, Jeonghan exhales sharply, shakes his head and looks away. “I think I just realized something really, really big.”

You tilt your head. “What?”

He hesitates– opens his mouth, closes it.

Then—

“It’s nothing,” he says, too quickly. Forces a smirk, even though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on, let’s go back before Mingyu eats all my fries.”

You watch him for a moment longer, and he wonders if you can see through him, if you can hear all the things he isn’t saying.

But then, finally, you sigh. “You’re acting weird.”

Jeonghan laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours as he steers you back inside. “I’m always weird.”

You roll your eyes but let him pull you along. And Jeonghan?

Jeonghan wonders if he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

He tells himself it’s fine. Tells himself it was just a weird moment, a fleeting thought, something he can push down and forget about if he just acts normal.

So that’s what he does.

For the next few days, he’s careful– not staring too long when you talk, not lingering when you walk beside him. He keeps things exactly the same—laughs at your complaints, steals your food, teases you like he always has.

But he can’t unsee it now.

Can’t unfeel the way his heart stutters when you smile at him. The way his skin burns when your arm brushes his. He finds himself watching you when you aren’t looking, cataloging all the little things about you that he somehow never realized were his favorite things.

Worst of all—he can’t unsee the way you look at him.

Because now that he’s noticed, he knows.

You’ve always been looking at him like that.

And now it’s killing him.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

It all comes to a head one night when you’re at Seungcheol’s place for a movie night. The room is dim, the couch too crowded, so you end up sitting on the floor between Jeonghan’s legs. It’s normal. You’ve done it a hundred times before.

But tonight, Jeonghan feels every shift, every time you lean against him. Your shoulder against his knee. Your head tilted back against his leg when you laugh at something on the screen. The warmth of you, right there, so close, so easy.

And then—because the universe is cruel—you grab his hand absentmindedly, just to play with his fingers like you always do when you’re fidgeting. But this time, Jeonghan’s entire world tilts on its axis. His breath catches, heart lurches.

And suddenly, all he can think is—I’m so fucked.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at your hand in his, feeling the slow, absentminded way your fingers trace along his knuckles. It’s nothing.

Except it isn’t because now he knows, and knowing makes it unbearable. So he does the only thing he can think of: he pulls his hand away and stands up.

Too fast. Too abrupt.

You blink, looking up at him in confusion as he mumbles something—some excuse that even he knows doesn’t make sense—and makes a beeline for the door. He barely hears the others calling after him, barely registers the cool night air as he steps outside, pressing a hand to his chest like he can physically push down whatever the hell is clawing its way up his throat.

This can’t be happening.

He can’t be acting like this.

But it is, he is.

And then—

The door creaks open behind him.

“Jeonghan?”

Your voice. Soft, uncertain.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second before forcing a smile and turning around. “Yeah?”

You step closer, arms crossed against the cold. “You’ve been… off these last few days. Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Too quick. Too easy. A lie, and you know it.

You frown, chastising him, “Jeonghan.”

And the way you say his name—like you know him too well, like you can see straight through him—makes his stomach flip. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I just needed some space.”

You study him, searching his face like you’re piecing together a puzzle only he knows the answer to. “Did I do something?” Your voice is quiet, hesitant, like the idea of hurting him actually hurts you. It almost makes him want to laugh because God, you have no idea.

“No,” he says, too soft, too real. “You didn’t do anything.”

You don’t look convinced, but you don’t push. Instead, you step closer, tilting your head. “Then what is it? I’m worried about you.”

Jeonghan looks at you—the way your brows furrow, the way your lips press together, the way you’re always standing too close but it never mattered until now. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—to push this moment away, to pretend like it’s just another weird, fleeting feeling. But then he looks at you, really looks at you.

Your eyes, wide and trusting, waiting for him to say something that will make sense of whatever the hell happened in there. He takes a step forward, slowly, almost reluctantly, like his body is moving on its own. His arms wrap around you on instinct, like muscle memory, like habit. But when his face finds the crook of your neck and you rub soothing circles into his back, it doesn’t feel like a habit at all. It feels like something else entirely.

Jeonghan pulls back slightly, his hands still lingering on your arms, as if trying to ground himself. The air between you is thick with unspoken words, and he knows he can’t run from it any longer. His heart is beating fast, and he finally asks, his voice tentative, “Do you... do you like me?”

You blink, the question catching you off guard. He’s asked you this before, often asking “what about me” whenever anyone compliments another person. For a moment, it feels like time has paused. He’s looking at you with this vulnerability, this rawness, and it’s both terrifying and comforting at the same time.

“Of course I like you, you’re my best friend.”

Jeonghan’s chest tightens at your words, and his breath catches in his throat. It’s not the answer he was hoping for, not exactly, but he’s not sure what he was expecting either. His heart sinks a little. He didn’t know what kind of answer he wanted, but this... wasn’t it.

“I—yeah, I know,” he says quickly, rubbing a hand over his face, clearly frustrated with himself. He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous now, why it’s suddenly harder to breathe. “But I mean... do you like me more than that? Like, in a way that’s not just... like that?”

There’s a pause as you look at him, and he can’t read your expression, can’t tell if you’re confused or just processing. But your eyes soften as you take in the question.

You tilt your head, trying to make sense of it. “Wait... are you asking if I like you like you?”

Jeonghan nods, a bit sheepish, unable to hide the vulnerability on his face now. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Have I been reading the signals wrong? Am I more than just...do you see me the way I see you?”

For a moment, you don’t say anything. The silence stretches, and Jeonghan feels his heart racing, anxiety curling in his stomach. He regrets even asking, but he can’t bring himself to back out now. Finally, you take a step closer, a smile tugging at your lips, though it’s a little teasing. “And what if I do?”

The words hit him harder than he expected, and for a moment, Jeonghan just stands there, blinking at you, his mind scrambling to catch up. He wasn’t ready for that answer. He wasn’t prepared for the shift in the air between you.

“Well,” he says, frowning. “Do you?”

You laugh softly, but there’s no mocking in it, just warmth. “I think you’re a little slow, Jeonghan. I don’t know how much more obvious I could’ve been. I’ve liked you for years.”

Jeonghan’s breath catches, and for a split second, he feels lightheaded, overwhelmed by the sudden clarity. His heart thuds in his chest as you step closer, and there’s a quiet intensity in your gaze that makes everything feel like it’s falling into place.

“You...” He’s still struggling to get the words out, his mind still spinning, but this time, it’s not confusion that’s holding him back. It’s something else entirely. “I didn’t know.”

You smile again, shaking your head and stepping just a little closer until there’s barely any space between you. “Well, I wasn’t exactly going to say it first, was I?” you tease, but there’s something deeper in your voice now. “You’ve been my best friend for how long now? I’ve seen you turn down hundreds of women.”

Jeonghan reaches out, his hands trembling just slightly as he gently cups your face in his palms, searching your eyes for any hint of doubt. “But... you’re different.” He whispers, his voice low but steady.

You lean into his touch, your eyes never leaving his. “Am I?” 

He nods and you smile, causing warmth to spread across his chest. “What does this mean?” He asks hesitantly. Sure he’s been in plenty of relationships before, but he didn’t care about any of them like he cares about you because, like he said, you’re different.

“It means you’re an idiot for taking this long,” you say with a grin. “But it also means I don’t have to wait anymore.”

Before he can say another word, you close the space between you, your lips meeting his in a soft, slow kiss. It wasn’t urgent. There’s no rush, no pushing– just the slow pull of two people who had been waiting for this moment for far too long. Your lips are gentle, testing at first, as if asking for permission. And he gives it, deepening the kiss with a quiet intensity as your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss feels like a quiet promise, an unspoken exchange of everything you’ve never said. Your lips part, and he follows, the kiss turning softer, more tender as he tries to memorize every inch of you. He cups your cheek as if you’re something delicate, something worth protecting. Because you are.

It feels like time is suspended, like there's nothing else but the warmth of your mouths, the softness of your hands. Every part of him is alive with sensation, heart racing faster with each passing moment. He can feel your pulse, too—faster now, matching his.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, both of you smiling, hearts racing.

“How did you put up with me? I was such an idiot.” Jeonghan says softly, his voice full of affection, but also amusement.

You laugh, your fingers tracing his jawline. “Nothing out of the ordinary. And hey, even dumbasses deserve love.” You say, giving him a peck on the lips.

The sound of a door creaking open behind you breaks the moment, and you pull away reluctantly, both of you still close, but now acutely aware that you’re no longer alone. The sound of Seungcheol’s voice filters through the hallway. “Hey! You two coming back in or what? We need someone to help pick the next movie!”

You glance at Jeonghan, both of you smiling, the weight of the world feeling just a little lighter now. He laughs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at you, a bit sheepish.

“Guess we should probably... go back,” you say with a grin.

He nods, still unable to wipe the smile off his face. “Probably, yeah. Or we could go over to my place instead?” 

You just laugh, shaking your head, “Maybe next time, loverboy,” you say, dragging him back to the living room, this time snuggling up next to him under a blanket. Your hand rests on his thigh, trancing slow patterns absentmindedly onto the skin and making a shiver go down his back. It’s not the first time you’ve done this–heck you were fidgeting with his hand before he left–but this time is different. Because now you both know. Jeonghan tries his best to focus on the movie, he really does, but all he can think about is the softness of your lips on his, the way you tugged at his hair when he licked into your mouth, the way your hand feels so good as it squeezes his thigh.

Nope.

Nope nope nope nope nope.

He grabs your hand, flipping it up to interlock his fingers with yours because he is not about to get hard. You gently squeeze his hand, resting your head on his shoulder. He’s hyper-aware of how your hand slots perfectly with his, how you fling your legs over his own. When he glances over at you and sees a mischievous glint in your eye so often found in his, he knows he’s screwed. 

And god does he love it.

It’s a running joke between your friends that Jeonghan can never last more than two hours, whether it’s drinking, socializing, or partying, after two hours Jeonghan will clock out. He manages to make it through three hours of your teasing as the movie plays in the background. He doesn’t know what's happening in the movie, and quite frankly, couldn’t give any less of a fuck. Not when he’s endured your breath ghosting over his neck, your weight shifting on him slightly too much for it to be innocent, for three. Whole. Hours. 

Yawning and pretending to stretch when the movie is paused for a bathroom break, he stands up, allowing the blanket to fall from his lap and enjoying your complaint at the sudden cold. 

“Alright,” Jeonghan announces, rubbing at his eyes dramatically. “I think that’s my cue to head out.”

A chorus of groans follows. “Dude, the movie isn’t even over,” Minghao complains, arms crossed.

“You do this every time,” Jihoon adds, unimpressed.

Jeonghan sighs. “It’s not even that good.”

“Bro, it’s nominated for like, five academy awards.” Vernon guffaws.

Jeonghan shrugs, entirely unbothered.

You roll your eyes but don’t move from your spot on the couch. “You’re so predictable.”

He hums, tilting his head at you. “I’m consistent, there’s a difference.” He grabs your hand, attempting to tug you up. “Come on, let’s go.”

You blink at him, feigning innocence. “Where am I going?”

“Home. With me. So we can escape these idiots. Duh.”

A pillow flies in Jeonghan’s direction, courtesy of Seungkwan. “We can still hear you, dipshit.”

Jeonghan easily dodges it before turning back to you with a grin. “Come on.”

You stretch your arms over your head and settle deeper into the couch, smirking at him. “I think I’ll stay.”

Jeonghan stares at you like you’ve just betrayed him. “But who’s going to drive me home?” He pulls his lips into a pout.

“I guess you’ll have to take the bus,” you drag out, watching the way his face scrunches in displeasure, “I want to finish the movie.”

Jeonghan narrows his eyes at you, crouching slightly to be level with your gaze. “But you don’t even care about the movie.”

You shrug. “Apparently it’s nominated for whatever Vernon said. Very interesting stuff.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He drops onto his knees in front of you, leaning against the couch as he complains. “But I wanna go home.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then go?”

His hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you slightly forward. “Not without you.”

“Jeonghan,” you warn, but it holds no real bite.

He whines, a real, genuine whine that has Jihoon groaning in disgust in the background before tugging you forward to whisper in your ear. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to be with you. Alone. Where I don’t have to share you with all these people.” 

You fight a smile. “Wow, I never knew you were so clingy.”

He glares up at you, pout still prominent. “Only for you.”

There’s a beat of silence before you sigh dramatically, running a hand through your hair. “Ugh, fine.”

Jeonghan perks up immediately, eyes glimmering with victory. “Nice!”

You shove at his forehead lightly. “God, you’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’re still coming with me,” he sing-songs, standing up and holding out a hand.

You take it begrudgingly, rolling your eyes when he laces your fingers together smugly.

“Bye, quitters,” Seungkwan calls out, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jeonghan doesn’t even spare him a glance, tugging you toward the door with a satisfied grin.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

Jeonghan is not used to being the one squirming, yet here he is, sitting in your passenger seat, fingers twitching against his knee, fighting the urge to run his tongue over his bottom lip, needing something to do.

He’s been watching you for the past fifteen minutes, the way your hands flex on the wheel, the way your brows furrow slightly whenever he shifts in his seat. You’re pretending to be unaffected, as if his presence this close—his breath practically in your space, his eyes raking over you like he’s memorizing every detail—does nothing to you.

It’s almost convincing. Almost.

But Jeonghan knows you too well.

He wonders if you can feel the weight of his gaze as he studies you, cataloging every flicker of your expression, every little movement. The way your lips part slightly when you exhale, the way you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek when the traffic slows.

You’re gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. It makes him smirk.

“You’re staring,” you say, voice clipped.

“Am I not allowed?” he asks, all feigned innocence. He props his chin up on his hand, leaning toward you just slightly, just enough to feel the tension coil even tighter between you.

He watches your fingers tighten just a little more. You don’t look at him. He grins.

“Thought so,” he murmurs, just to be annoying.

You exhale sharply through your nose. “Maybe if you weren’t looking at me like that, it’d be easier.”

“Like what? I’m just looking at my beautiful best friend who happens to be madly in love with me.”

You scoff, shooting him a pointed look, but he just smiles at you, that cute smile he always does when he’s being the picture perfect image of innocence.

He shifts in his seat, lets his hand fall casually onto your thigh. The reaction is instant—your muscles tense, just for a second, but he notices. He always does. 

You don’t shove him off. You don’t even flinch. He lets his thumb move, tracing small, slow circles against the fabric of your jeans. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to be felt. Enough to make you react.

“Jeonghan,” you warn.

He hums, fingers pressing just a little firmer. “What?”

“You’re distracting me.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Wonder what that must be like.” He muses.

The car slows to a stop at a red light, and for the first time, you turn to face him fully. Your eyes meet his, and god, it’s enough to make his stomach twist. There’s a challenge there, a silent push and pull that makes Jeonghan wonder who’s going to break first.

Just as he’s about to push further, you grab his wrist.For a brief moment he worries that he’s gone too far, made you uncomfortable enough to shove him off, but you don’t. Instead you just turn his hand upwards to intertwine your fingers the way he did before.

“Behave,” you say simply.

And then you’re driving again, like nothing happened.

Jeonghan blinks. His mouth parts slightly, caught somewhere between shock and amusement, and he lets out a quiet chuckle, leaning back into his seat. His knee bounces slightly—he hates how much you affect him. (No, he doesn’t.)"

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

As soon as his apartment door closes, your mouth is on Jeonghan’s. Your lips move urgently against his as he smiles into the kiss. When you tilt his chin to deepen it, pushing your tongue into his mouth, he makes a sound he didn’t know he was capable of– something between a whimper and a groan that screamed neediness.

“Angel,” He whines against your lips, hands running up and down your body as he pushes you harder against the door, slotting a leg between your thighs. Your fingers tug at his hair deliciously, soft lips contrasting the way they devour him. You grind against his thigh, sighing at the friction,your hands trailing down his body to tug at his shirt. You break apart so he can tug his shirt off, your hands leaving goosebumps as they trail across the newly exposed skin. 

You break the kiss, trailing kisses across his jaw and down his neck, sucking marks onto his collarbone that have his mind reeling, “Please,” His hands squeeze your waist tighter, he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for anymore, all he knows is that he needs more; more of your touch, your lips, your smell, you, you, you.

You smile against his skin, your breath making him shiver as it fans across the wet patch of skin you had been ravishing, “Aww, Hannie,” you coo, “are you getting impatient baby?” Your hips grind into his thigh again and he lets out a shaky breath.

Witchcraft, he decides, is the only explanation to whatever spell you have him under. He nods frantically, hips involuntarily thrusting forward when you chuckle, lifting your face back up to his. The look in your eyes is a cross between adoring and down right evil as you kiss his lips languidly before moving towards his ear, “Think about how I’ve felt all this time.”

The whispered words get lost in his soft groans as you continue to kiss him, grinding harder on him and whimpering against his skin. Suddenly you’re pushing him, not separating your lips as you force him to walk backwards. You know his apartment like the back of your hand– even helped him unpack his moving boxes when he first bought it– so it’s no surprise that you lead him to the bedroom without a hitch, clothes falling off somewhere along the way until you’re standing in front of him, clad in a white set that-

Wow.

If Aphrodite exists, you must be blessed by her, he thinks (not wanting to eternally damn you by saying you rival her beauty—although he definitely wouldn’t say you don’t). The lace hugs your curves perfectly, small bows accentuating every beautiful—fuck, he doesn’t even know what he’s thinking anymore because you just look that good. Jeonghan doesn’t even realize he’s reaching for you, hands hovering in the air between you as if he's scared you’ll disappear if he touches you.

You reach out your hand to intertwine your fingers with his, pushing until he falls back onto the bed before climbing on top of him. You thread your fingers through his hair as you straddle him, kissing him slowly, grinding against his hardness through his boxers. The feeling has his eyes closing, needy groans escaping his lips before he can stop them.

“My pretty baby,” you whisper against his lips, hands tugging in his hair to give you access to his throat again, licking and sucking marks in ways that have his back arching off the bed. Your hands run up and down his torso, hips grinding harder against his prompting a string of curses to escape him as he grabs your hips—to stop you or push you against him more, he doesn’t know. “So needy for me, huh? Who knew that behind your teasing facade you were really just a brat?”

Does Jeonghan have a degradation kink? He didn’t think so until this moment, when his hips buck into yours involuntarily with a whine. “Angel, please, I—I need you.” He practically sobs when you start to climb off him, settling yourself on the bed and spreading your legs open. Jeonghan rushes towards you, breath catching in his throat at the sight of a damp spot in the center of your panties.

 He settles himself between your legs, leaving marks on your inner thigh before nuzzling himself against your covered core. The sound of your breath hitching makes him chuckle as he presses a wet kiss directly over the damp fabric, “And you said I was needy.” He mutters, bringing a hand up to slide your panties to the side of your corce, practically drooling at the clear string of liquid that connects them. Unable to help himself, he licks at your entrance lightly, humming at the taste and the way your legs quiver next to him.

“You’re lucky I love you because if there’s one thing you were right about, it's that I am a tease. But tonight?” Jeonghan starts rubbing slow circles over your clit, “Tonight, I’m going to have you shaking under me.” With that, he rids you of your underwear completely before diving into your heat. Your hands once again shoot to his hair, pushing his face further against you as he eats your pussy like it’s his last meal on death row. 

“Shit, Hannie, nggh.” You whine above him, moans getting higher in pitch as he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking harshly, “Fingers, please– fuck, please.” He isn’t one to deny you when you beg so cutely for him, reveling in the way your pussy practically sucks his finger in. He can feel how tight your walls are, slipping another finger in with ease because of how wet you’ve gotten. All for him. He curves his fingers into a spongy spot that has your back arching off the bed, proceeding to target the spot while attacking your clit with his tongue. The sounds coming from above him is music to his ears, all of his senses taken over by you as he feels you break around him. He doesn’t stop, drinking your juices and bringing you to another high just as quickly, until you’re quivering around him. 

He slows down, not stopping but giving you time to catch your breath when you pull him away, bringing his lips back up to yours, not caring that you can taste yourself on his lips. You make quick work of your bra, throwing it to the side somewhere and Jeonghan can’t help but ogle. He sits up, dragging his hands up your bare body and resting them just below the swell of your chest. Slowly, he connects his lips to the skin, closing his eyes as one hand goes to fondle the other. Your hips start moving against his again, sweet moans coming from both of you. Eventually you push him back to the bed so you can appreciate the sight of Jeonghan, face flushed, hair splayed across the pillow behind him, lips parted.

With each rock of your hips, Jeonghan moans louder.  Your movements get faster and faster, and so do Jeonghan's moans, the whimpers only making you need him more.

He can hardly stand it, gripping your hips as tight as he can, trying to hold himself back, but the pressure feels so good, and you look so angelic as you rub your bare pussy against him. 

You grab his hair and pull his head back. "Fuck," he chokes, looking down at where you're grinding against him. You feel his cock twitch inside his pants, and switch your pace to a quicker rhythm, grinding harder as Jeonghan's eyes darken under you.

He grabs your hips tightly, goes still, and lets out a low whine. You feel his hips jolt beneath you, and you pause. His face is flushed a deep pink all the way to his neck.

You stare in disbelief. Jeonghan hides his face in your neck, holding your body close. You look beneath you, a dark spot forming in Jeonghan's boxers.

"Aw, Hannie," you pull his face from your neck, looking him in the eyes. "My sweet, sweet Hannie." You smile and kiss him slowly, full of adoration and love. You kiss down his neck, making way towards his dick before finally sliding onto your knees on the floor between Jeonghan's legs. You press a kiss to the wet spot in his boxers, looking him directly in the eyes as you do, and feeling him twitch against your lips.

You gently pull his cock out of his underwear, shocked to see him covered in his own cum. He twitches at the contact, sensitive.

"Fuck, you’re perfect."

You teasingly stroke his length and watch him twitch when your thumb runs over the tip. “Please,” he looks up at you through his lashes, pleading, "I need you."

Those words are all you need to hear before planting your legs on either side of him, reaching between your bodies and wrapping your hand around Jeonghan's length. You glide the tip along your entrance, soaking him in your arousal before lowering your hips to slide him inside you. Loud moans escape both of you at the sensation of him filling you. He says your name like a prayer, hands rubbing circles on your hips, not knowing if it’s to ground you or himself. You slowly lift yourself up before sitting back down quickly, loving the way Jeonghan’s head falls to the side. "Shit, pretty. So perfect for me, god."

His grip on your hips gets tighter as you pick up speed, your pussy squeezing around him as if it never wants to let him go. All thoughts are wiped from his brain when you start kissing him through moans, whispering in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love him. He can feel you getting closer, your cunt pulsating with every roll of your hips. He brings a hand to your clit, starting to rub circles when you break, bringing him over the edge with you.

Your body collapses over Jeonghan's, shaking slightly as you come down from your high. Although he’s not in a much better state, he flips you onto your back, slipping out of you despite your protests and appreciating the way his cum drips out of your hole. He makes his way to the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth to clean you up a little until he notices you awkwardly waddling in after him. He’s unable to stop the laugh that bubbles in his chest, making you pout as you sit on the toilet to let the cum drain out of you.

Jeonghan leans over, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, and he can’t help but notice how beautiful your smile is—how it lights up your face and his days.

✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

Epilogue:

Jeonghan doesn’t change. He still steals your food, still drapes himself over you like a cat when he’s tired, nuzzles into your shoulder and complains that you’re too warm when it’s his fault for climbing all over you in the first place. He still teases you mercilessly, grinning that lazy, adorable infuriating smile whenever you roll your eyes at him.

What’s changed is that now, you kiss him to shut him up. And Jeonghan—who spent so long hiding behind his charm, his easy confidence—doesn’t even try to stop you. If anything, he leans into it. Leans into you. 

but if you were also being hard on yourself, working too much or overworking, not taking proper care of yourself, he'd be there for you, even in your lowest moments. bf!seungkwan would hate seeing you not take care of yourself. when he comes home to you working still when it was literally going to be midnight, he's huffing, carrying you to bed, your complaints going unheard as he tucks you in bed, threatening to lock your laptop after 10pm if he caught you working late in the night again. "you're gonna get sick baby hm", he says concerned, not wanting anything to happen to you.

and on days when you were your lowest, feeling like shit and found yourself crying, bf!seungkwan would wrap you in his arms, gently asking you what was wrong. you'd sniffle and cry some more, while he held you tightly, rubbing you back gently. if you didn't want to tell him, he'd not force you and just wish whatever you were going through would pass. his heart ached to see you in pain and all he wanted to do was protect you from whatever was bothering or hurting you.