黄宝贝

The next morning hits like a hangover he didn’t earn.

Haechan shows up twenty minutes early — unheard of — coffee in one hand, hood pulled low and zipped to the chin. He's already snapping at the lighting guy before the man even opens his mouth.

“Move the key light three inches left. It’s going to wash her out. Again.”

The crew exchanges glances. He’s always been sharp, but today he’s mean.

Snapping at the sound guy for a mic that’s “too hot,” telling makeup to “Don’t overdo her lips today. I don’t want them looking bitten on camera” when they’re literally just glossed.

Everyone chalks it up to a bad night.

Only Haechan knows the truth: he spent the entire night replaying your orgasm on loop, coming twice more in the shower just trying to get you out of his system.

It didn’t work.

He’s halfway through giving notes to a PA when—

You laugh.

Soft. Bright. Somewhere behind him.

He goes still.

His eyes snap to you before he can stop them.

You’re standing near the monitors, robe loose, hair still a little messy from sleep with that same soft, nervous-excited smile you had yesterday. You wave at the crew, thank them again for the compliments.

For a second, he just watches.

Then your eyes flick up.

You catch him staring.

You hold it—just long enough to feel intentional.

His grip tightens around the coffee cup.

He looks away first. Too fast. Clears his throat. “Places in ten.”

–

The scene today is POV. Simple setup: male talent (thank fuck it’s not Chad this time) on his back, you riding him, camera mounted to mimic his view. Intimate. Close. Lots of eye contact, body rolls, hands on hips/thighs/waist for leverage. The kind of shot that sells “connection”.

Haechan hates it already.

He calls action. You climb onto the bed, robe slipping off your shoulders, skin glowing under the soft ring lights. The actor’s hands find your waist immediately—professional, practiced.

You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch until you’re fully seated on his cock, a soft, involuntary moan slipping out as the stretch hits just right.

You start slow, grinding down in lazy circles, head tipping back on a breathy moan that’s half-scripted, half-real.

Haechan’s staring at the monitor like it personally offended him.

Except he doesn’t look away.

His jaw tightens as the feed fills with you—every shift of your hips, every soft expression.

It’s wrong. It’s his job to watch, to adjust, to make it look good.

But there’s a split second, buried under all of that, where it hits him differently—heat curling low in his stomach, sharp and unwanted.

It should be him.

The thought arrives before he can stop it.

Followed immediately by something uglier—the actor's hands on your waist, thumbs pressing into skin that Haechan can almost feel in his own palms.

He doesn't say anything. Obviously. He just grips his coffee harder than it needs to and watches you move, hating every second of how much he can’t look away.

“Camera’s too high,” he mutters. Then louder: “Cut. Reset.”

The crew groans internally. Second take, not even thirty seconds in.

You sit back on your heels, confused but obedient. Your co-actor slides out carefully.

Haechan stands and walks over. The set goes quiet.

“I need to adjust you,” he says, voice coming out rough. “The angle’s off. You’re blocking the shot.”

He’s lying.

The angle’s fine.

He just… needs to touch you. Once. Just once. To see if it’s as bad as he remembers from yesterday’s guiding scene.

You nod. “Okay.”

He steps between your parted thighs—still kneeling on the bed, robe open just enough that he can see the curve of your stomach, the dip of your waist. He doesn’t look down. Not yet.

His hands hover for half a second, then settle.

Left palm on your hip bone. Right on the soft dip above your waist.

The second his fingertips meet your skin, something in his brain short-circuits.

Soft.

Warm.

Giving under his grip like you were made to be held. Your skin is velvet-smooth, still carrying that faint post-shower heat, and when you shift slightly to give him better access, the flesh yields just enough to make his thumbs dig in involuntarily.

Fuck, she feels like this?

He’s touched hundreds of bodies on set. Guided hands, adjusted poses, repositioned limbs like they were props. Never once did it feel like this—like electricity arcing straight to his cock. Never once did his pulse hammer in his ears just from palms on hips.

He slides his hands lower—slow, “professional”—fingers splaying over the tops of your thighs. soft, thick, trembling just a little under his touch. He presses gently, spreading them wider for the camera (bullshit excuse), and your breath hitches. Tiny. Barely audible.

But he hears it.

His thumbs stroke once—once—along the inner curve of your thigh. Not high enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to feel the heat radiating from your core, close enough that he can smell your skin, your faint vanilla lotion, the ghost of arousal that’s already there.

You’re looking up at him. Eyes wide, lips parted. Not acting.

He’s losing it.

Mentally he’s already flipped you onto your back, spread you wide, buried his face between those thighs until you’re crying his name.

Physically, he’s still just…

Adjusting.

Hands shaking now. He can feel the tremor in his own fingers and prays you don’t notice.

“Like this,” he rasps, voice so low it’s almost a growl. He rolls your hips forward a fraction—guiding the motion you’ll use later—making your body arch just so. The movement drags your skin against his palms again, plush and perfect, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning.

Your thighs flex under his grip. A soft exhale escapes you.

He freezes.

For one heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Then he forces his hands away. Steps back like he’s been burned.

“Better,” he mutters. “That’s… better.”

He turns to the crew before anyone can see how blown his pupils are. “Roll it again.”

He drops back into his chair, legs crossed to hide the obvious bulge straining against his jeans. One hand scrubs over his face. The other fists on his thigh so hard it’ll bruise.

On the monitor, you start moving again—hips rolling exactly the way he just positioned you. Slow. Sensual. Eyes flicking to him every few seconds like you’re checking if he approves.

He approves.

He approves so much he might come in his pants if you keep looking at him like that.

And the shoot’s only just started.

The cameras are rolling again. Reset complete. The POV rig is mounted—sleek, invasive, positioned right where your co-actor’s eyes would be if this were real. It captures everything from below: the slow roll of your hips, the bounce of your breasts, the way your thighs flex around his waist as you sink down inch by inch.

Haechan is back in his chair but his posture is rigid now, his fingers digging into the armrests. He’s trying—God, he’s trying—to be the detached professional. Voice steady. Directions clipped. But every word comes out rougher than the last.

“Action.”

You start moving. Slow grinds at first, building rhythm. Your co-actor’s hands rest on your hips—light, guiding. You lean back just enough for the camera to catch the arch of your back, the sway of your body.

Haechan’s eyes are glued to the monitor feed. The POV angle fills the screen: your face hovering close, lips parted, eyes locked straight down the lens. Straight at him.

He swallows hard.

“Eyes on the camera,” he directs, voice low but carrying. “Hold it. Make it feel like you’re looking right at them. Right at me—at the viewer.”

He means the viewer. He swears he means the viewer.

But the way you obey—immediately, intensely—your gaze piercing the lens like it’s his face instead. The way your lashes flutter when you sink down — just once, involuntary, like even you can't help it.

It wrecks him. Through the screen. Through every layer of professionalism he's clinging to.

You ride harder now. Hips circling, rolling, taking your co-actor deeper. Soft moans spill out, breathier than yesterday, less controlled. Your hands brace against his chest for leverage as your back arches, head tipping just enough for your hair to fall over one shoulder.

Haechan shifts in his seat, but the friction against his aching cock makes his vision blur at the edges.

“Hands up,” he says, sharper than he means to. “Grip her—firm. Support her rhythm. Make it look possessive—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Just keep her steady.”

Your co-actor obeys instantly. His palms slide up your sides, cupping your breasts—thumbs brushing the undersides before he squeezes gently, holding you steady as you bounce.

The monitor shows it all in perfect, filthy detail: the way your tits fill his hands, the subtle give of soft flesh under his fingers, the way your nipples visibly tighten at the contact.

Your mouth falls open on a gasp—real and unscripted, your eyes locked on the camera.

Never leaving him.

Haechan’s breath stutters. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring so hard the rest of the room fades out. Onscreen, you move like you’re chasing something just out of reach—hips rolling, body tightening, every motion sharper than the last.

And those eyes.

Fixed. Wanting. Burning straight through the lens.

A groan almost slips out. He catches it at the last second—turns it into a cough, hand flying to his mouth. The crew doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they don’t say shit.

Inside, though—

He’s coming apart.

Fuck.

Look at her.

Taking it so well. Moving like that…

For the camera.

For me.

He can’t stop the thoughts.

They come fast and hot, one bleeding into the next— imagining those are his hands instead—kneading, pinching, rolling your nipples until you’re whining his name. Imagining it’s his cock you’re riding, your walls tightening around him, your eyes locked on his like it’s always been him.

“Keep the pace,” he rasps, voice catching on the last word. “Don’t speed up yet. Build it. Let her feel every inch.”

You listen.

Slow, deliberate rolls that make your thighs tremble. The actor's grip tightens, thumbs circling your nipples, and you arch into it with a soft, helpless whine that hits Haechan straight square in the chest.

His free hand drops to his thigh. Fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

He's rock hard. Has been for the last ten minutes. The denim isn't hiding anything anymore and he knows it and he can't bring himself to care because every roll of your hips on that monitor feels like it's happening to him. Every moan sounds like it's for him.

Then your eyes flick — subtle, barely a second — right to where he's sitting behind the monitor.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

“Perfect,” he mutters, barely audible. “Just… fucking perfect.”

The take keeps going.

You keep looking at the camera like it’s him. He keeps watching like he’s the one buried inside you.

And he knows—deep in his aching, throbbing core—that he’s not making it through this shoot without losing it.

Not when you’re like this.

Not when it feels like you’re fucking him through the lens.

And then—

“I’m gonna cum.”

Soft. Broken. Barely above a whisper but the mics catch every syllable.

Cameras still rolling. Your hips still grinding down slow and filthy. Eyes still locked on the lens.

On him.

Wait—

Was that line in the script?

He can't remember. The script is a blur he barely glanced at because all he could think about was you — your skin under his palms earlier, your thighs trembling when he spread them, the way your breath hitched when his thumbs drifted just a little too close to where he really wanted to touch.

He doesn’t know if you’re acting.

He doesn’t know if you’re telling the crew.

He only knows you're looking straight through the camera — straight through the POV rig — straight into his eyes like the lens doesn't exist. Like there’s no crew, no fucking monitors. Just the two of you in this dimly-lit room.

Just him buried inside you.

Just him feeling every clench as you chase that edge.

“Keep going.”

His voice comes out wrecked—rougher than he’s ever let it sound on set.

It’s supposed to be a direction.

It doesn’t sound like it.

“Keep going,” he repeats, quieter this time, leaning so far forward the chair creaks. “Don’t stop. Ride it out. Let it build… let it happen.”

The crew thinks he’s talking to both of you.

He’s not.

He’s talking to you.

Telling you to keep moving like this—slow, deep, greedy—until you break.

On the monitor, the POV feed is unforgiving.

Your face fills half the frame— eyes glassy and pleading, lips parted. Your thighs shaking harder now, rhythm faltering as you get close.

You whimper — higher, needier.

“Haechan—”

His name.

Not scripted. Not “director.”

Just him.

Gasped out like a secret. Like a prayer.

His grip white-knuckles the armrest.

On screen you arch back, spine pulling into that perfect, filthy curve. Your hips stutter, grind down once—twice—and then—

You come.

For real.

Again.

Your body locks up, walls clenching tight, thighs snapping shut around your co-actor’s waist as a broken sound tears out of you. Your whole body trembles through it, shaking and helpless.

And still—

You don’t look away.

Your eyes stay locked on the lens. On him.

Tears gather at the corners, your expression wrecked from how intense it is, but you don’t blink. Don’t break.

Like you’re coming for him.

In his head, it’s his cock.

Has been since the second you said his name.

He can almost feel it — the way you'd flutter around him, chasing every last pulse while he holds your hips down and makes you take it. His mouth against your ear, voice barely above a whisper: "There you go. Just like that." — while your nails rake down his back and your mouth falls open on his name again and again.

On the monitor, you’re still riding it out—small, helpless rolls of your hips, soft whimpers fading into shaky breaths. The actor's still moving, chasing his scripted finish, but Haechan stopped seeing him a long time ago.

Only you.

The way your lips tremble like you want to say something else. Something that isn't in the script.

He's shaking.

Actually shaking in his chair.

"Cut," he rasps.

The set comes back to life. Crew members move in, lights shifting, someone calling out for water.

Haechan doesn’t move.

He stares at the frozen frame on the monitor — your face, blissed out, eyes still half-lidded and aimed exactly where he's sitting. Like even after the word "cut" you're still looking at him.

Still waiting.

He drags a hand down his face.

He has never come this close to breaking on set. Never once.

Never been this close to saying fuck the cameras, fuck the crew, fuck the rules—and just taking what’s felt like his since the moment you walked onto his set.

But he stays seated.

For now.

Because if he stands up right now everyone in this room will know exactly what you did to him.

And because he knows—deep in that aching, throbbing part of him—that the second this shoot wraps…

He’s not making it through another conversation with you without snapping.

—

The crew wraps fast—lights clicking off one by one, someone shouting about the boom mic, laughter echoing down the hall as people start heading out. You linger near the set, robe tied tight, skin still flushed and buzzing from the last take. Your thighs ache in the best-worst way.

But all you can think about is Haechan.

He's already moving — hoodie up, head down, fast and purposeful like he's trying to disappear. No goodbye. No "great work." Just gone, same as yesterday.

Something twists in your chest.

You follow before you can talk yourself out of it. Bare feet quiet against the cold floor, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he’ll hear it before you even reach him.

He slips into one of the side rooms—the green room no one uses because the AC’s broken and it always smells faintly like old coffee. Door half-open. You hesitate, then knock softly.

“Come in,” he mutters, voice tight. Distracted.

You push the door open.

He’s pacing. Three steps forward, three back. Hand dragging over his face,  hoodie shoved low, hair a mess underneath. His breathing’s uneven, his shoulders are rigid, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump. Like he's one wrong word away from snapping.

You swallow. “Um… Haechan?”

He freezes mid-step. Doesn't turn around.

You take a small step inside. "I just wanted to ask about my performance. Was it… okay? The last take — I know I went off-script a little. The moaning and… saying your name. I thought it worked for the scene but if it was bad I can—"

“Stop.”

Sharp.

Too sharp.

You flinch.

He exhales hard through his nose, hand dragging through his hair. "I need to be alone right now. Just… go."

The words hit cold.

Your throat tightens. You nod, quick and small. "Oh. Okay. Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

You turn to leave, shoulders curling in, feeling suddenly small and stupid. Of course he didn’t want to talk. Of course—

Behind you, he makes a strangled sound—half groan, half curse.

“Wait.”

You freeze. Hand still on the door.

He’s right behind you now.

You didn’t even hear him move.

He's just — there, close enough that you can smell sweat and cologne and something underneath both that makes your brain go quiet.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, quieter now. Rough. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

You don’t turn right away. Can’t.

Your voice comes out small. “You sounded like you hate me.”

A beat of silence so thick it hurts.

“I don’t hate you,” he says, voice low, strained. “Not even a little.”

You finally look at him.

His jaw is tight, eyes cutting away then back, like he keeps making a decision and unmaking it. Like whatever's happening behind his face is costing him something.

"Then why…?"

He lets out a short, humorless laugh, dragging both hands down his face again.

“Because I’m trying not to lose my fucking mind right now. And every time you’re in the same room as me, I—” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “You did good. You did too good. That’s the problem.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Too good?”

He steps closer.

Not touching. Never touching.

But close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that you can see the tension in his arms, fists clenched at his sides.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Too good. Too real. Too fucking perfect. You came on camera—twice now—like that, looking right at me, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and I’m supposed to just… direct?” He exhales sharply. “Pretend it doesn't affect me? Pretend I'm not sitting there so hard it hurts, trying not to come in my jeans while the whole crew thinks it's just another day?"

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice dropping. "You have no idea what you do to me. How many times I've had to walk away so I don't drag you off that set and finish what you started. And then you come in here asking if you did a bad job?"

He exhales, sharp. "Fuck, baby. You almost killed me out there."

The pet name slips out before he can stop it.

His eyes widen a fraction — like he heard it too — but he doesn't take it back.

You’re shaking now. Not from the cold.

“I thought…” Your voice wavers. “I thought I ruined it. Or that you were mad.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. For wanting this. For wanting you.”

His throat bobs once.

“For not being able to look away when you fall apart like that.”

Silence stretches between you.

He's so close now his hoodie brushes your robe. You can feel the heat of him everywhere — chest, thighs, everywhere.

"I should go," you whisper, even though your feet won't move.

"You should," he agrees, voice rough. But he doesn't step back. Doesn't open the door wider.

Instead, his hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and hovers near your cheek. Not touching. Just… there. Fingers trembling like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

“But I don’t want you to.”

Your eyes close for a second.

When you open them, he’s still there. Still looking at you like that.

"Tell me to stop," he says quietly. "Tell me to fuck off, and I will. If you don't want this I'll back off. I swear I will." His voice dips. "But if you don't…"

He lets it trail off.

Let it sit there between you—promise and warning all at once.

The air feels too thick to breathe.

You don’t tell him to leave.

You don't move at all.

And that's all the answer he needs.

The room feels smaller now. Air thick with everything unsaid.

Haechan's still standing too close, hoodie brushing your robe, hand hovering near your cheek like he's afraid one wrong move will break whatever this is.

Your eyes drop.

Land on the small damp spot already darkening the denim.

Your breath catches audibly.

He follows your line of sight—and freezes.

Color rushes up his neck, his ears, his cheeks — he looks caught, exposed, like you just found something he's been hiding for hours.

Which you have.

You swallow. Your voice comes out small, shy, almost disbelieving.

"Is that… because of me?"

A small pause. Eyes flicking back up to his.

"I did that?"

Haechan exhales sharply. His Adam's apple bobs. He doesn't look away — can't — and his voice cracks when he answers.

"Yeah."

Just that.

No excuses. No deflection.

“Yeah, baby. You did that.”

The pet name slips again, softer this time. Careful. Like he’s testing it. His eyes search yours like he's waiting for you to bolt.

You don’t.

Instead your knees hit the floor.

A soft thud against the carpet.

You're eye level with his hips now, close enough to see the way his thighs flex when he shifts slightly. Hands hovering uncertainly just above his thighs. Not quite touching.

Haechan jolts. Hands fly up like he’s going to stop you—then stall midair.

“What—what are you doing?” His voice is strangled, panicked. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. His legs stay planted, breath coming faster, cock twitching visibly under the fabric like it’s begging for attention.

You look up at him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, and it almost sounds real. "I didn't mean to make you this hard. It must've been so difficult. Trying to direct like that. All day."

A strangled sound leaves him—half laugh, half something rougher.

"Difficult doesn't even—" He cuts himself off the second your fingers brush the button of his jeans.

You don't ask permission. You just do it.

Button pops. Zipper rasps down slow, loud in the quiet room. You tug the waistband down with it.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

You don’t look away.

You gasp—quiet, involuntary. Eyes widening, lips parting.

He’s… bigger than you expected. Thick, flushed, the curve of him making your stomach drop as you take it in.

Haechan makes a broken noise in the back of his throat. One hand shoots to the doorframe, knuckles going white. The other hovers near your head—like he wants to thread his fingers through your hair but doesn’t trust himself not to pull.

“Fuck—wait—”

Too late.

You lean forward and take him into your mouth.

No teasing. Just warm, wet heat enveloping the head, tongue flat against the underside as you sink down on the first go.

Haechan actually stumbles a little at the feeling of it.

"Shit — oh my god —" His voice cracks, hips jerking forward before he catches himself. Hand finally lands in your hair — not pulling, just holding, trembling. "Baby — fuck — you don't have to —"

But you do.

You hum around him — and the vibration makes his whole body shudder. You pull back slow, lips dragging, tongue swirling around the head before sinking down again. Deeper this time. Cheeks hollowing. Hand wrapping around what your mouth can't reach, stroking in time.

He’s already losing it. Head tipped back against the door, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of you on your knees might actually kill him.

"You — fuck — You’re gonna fucking ruin me," he rasps. "Been hard for you since yesterday… and now this—fuck—”"

You pull off just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip.

"I'm sorry it was hard for you." A soft kiss. "Let me make it better."

Then you take him again — deeper, faster, throat relaxing as you work him with everything you've got.

“Fuck—good girl—such a good girl—”

His grip tightens. Hips start to rock — shallow, helpless thrusts he can't stop. Low, broken moans spill out of him.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters like he’s trying to warn you and can’t get it out in time.

“Baby—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You don't pull off.

You take him deeper.

Suck harder.

Look up at him with those same wide eyes you gave the camera all day.

And that's what breaks him.

Haechan comes with a strangled groan—hips snapping forward, cock pulsing hot and thick down your throat as he spills. You swallow around him, throat working, not spilling a drop.

He's trembling when it's over. Hand still fisted gently in your hair, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s trying to calm himself down.

You pull off slowly. Lips swollen and eyes glassy.

And he just… stares.

Like he doesn’t know what to do with what just happened.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're unreal."

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, suddenly shy again. "Did that… help?"

He lets out a weak, disbelieving laugh and drops to his knees so you're face to face. Cups your jaw in both hands, thumbs brushing your swollen lips.

Then he kisses you — hard, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue like he's claiming every second of what just happened.

The door's still unlocked.

The crew's still somewhere in the building.

But right now?

None of that exists.

Only this.

The kiss starts desperate — hands cupping your face like you're something about to vanish if he lets go.

He pulls you up from your knees in one smooth motion, body flush against his, and walks you backward until the small table catches the backs of your thighs. Lifts you onto it without breaking the kiss.

Your legs part around him instinctively. Robe falling completely open, skin cold against the surface while he presses in close.

He groans into your mouth the second he feels how wet you are — how slick your thighs still are from earlier.

“Fuck.”

The sound gets swallowed by your mouth as he kisses you harder, tongue against yours, messy and desperate. One hand tangles in your hair while the other slides down your side—finally, finally touching without cameras, without excuses, without pretending any of this is professional anymore.

"Been wanting this since the second you walked on set. Wanted to touch you. Taste you. Make you come for me instead." A pause, voice dropping to almost nothing. "Not some lens. Not some script. Me."

He drops to his knees so fast it almost hurts — kneecaps hitting the floor, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider.

He goes still for a second.

Just — looks.

Like he's been starving for this exact view and now that he has it, he doesn't know where to start.

Then he dives in.

No buildup. No teasing.

Just his mouth on you like he's been thinking about nothing else all day.

The first drag of his tongue against your clit makes your whole body jolt, your hips jerk off the table before you can stop them.

You gasp sharply, fingers flying into his hair. He moans into you. Loud. Unashamed. Like he's the one being taken apart, the vibration making your thighs shake harder around his head.

His tongue flicked against your clit relentlessly while his nose stayed pressed against your mound, buried so deep between your thighs it was like he never wanted to come up for air.

"Fuck." He groans, hot and muffled against your folds. "You taste so good."

He pulls back just enough to bite down on the inside of your thigh — not hard, just enough to feel it. Just to hear the sound you make. Then licks over the sting before burying himself back in.

His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the table, lifting, tilting your hips so he can get deeper — and then his tongue is inside you, curling, and you cry out sharp enough that you slap a hand over your own mouth.

His nose nudges against your clit while his tongue pushes deeper, dragging another broken sound from your throat before he comes back up to suck your clit between his lips slow enough to make your whole body shake.

And every time you react—every twitch of your hips, every pull at his hair, every helpless little sound—he moans against you again, hands tightening on your thighs like it’s getting him off too.

“Look at you,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are wet, chin shining under the light, eyes completely blown. “Moaning like that for me. Fuck, baby—come on my tongue. Let me feel it.”

He dives back in.

Two fingers slide inside you, curling deep enough to make your back arch off the table while his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking in a messy rhythm with every thrust of his hand.

You stop trying to stay quiet. You’re loud now—completely unable to stop it. Gasps turning into broken cries of his name.

“Haechan—oh god—”

He whines against you. Actually whines.

His hips jerk uselessly against nothing, cock hard again already, but he doesn’t touch himself once. Doesn’t seem to care. All he cares about is the way your thighs lock around his head like you never want him to stop.

Every reaction you give him only makes him groan louder against your skin, hands tightening around your thighs like he’s getting drunk off this.

"That's it," he growls, voice vibrating against your clit. "Come for me. Come on my face."

And you do.

Harder than on set. Harder than anything.

Your whole body locks up with it, thighs tightening around his head as a sob rips out of your throat, back arching while you pulse around his fingers.

He doesn’t stop—keeps going, moaning against you like he’s the one coming, still licking through every aftershock like he can't make himself stop.

When you finally slump back, trembling, chest heaving, he pulls away slow.

Lips swollen. Face a mess. Eyes glassy and dark and so blissed out it almost hurts to look at.

He rests his forehead against your inner thigh.

Breathing hard. Pressing soft, reverent kisses to your skin like he's grateful.

"Jesus," he whispers, voice hoarse. "I could do this forever."

He looks up at you with this dazed little smile that somehow feels filthier than anything he’s said so far.

"But we're not done."

His hands slide up your sides.

"Not even close."

He rises slowly from his knees, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, lifting you just enough to keep your legs around his waist.

Then he’s kissing you again.

Harder this time. Messier. Tongue pushing into your mouth so you can taste yourself on him, and the second you do, your stomach twists. You make this pathetic little sound into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans back like the sound alone could finish him off.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice rough. “You taste so good.”

You can barely think straight after that.

One hand braces against the table beside you while the other reaches down between your bodies, guiding himself against you. He’s still hard—still twitching from your mouth earlier, from watching you come apart on his tongue.

He wraps a hand around himself and slowly drags the tip between your folds, collecting the slick already dripping out of you. The accidental brush against your clit made you whimper.

The head of his cock catches at your entrance.

He presses forward just enough to part your folds, the blunt head stretching your entrance slightly before he stops.

You look at him and his eyes are already on yours, dark and intense enough to make heat crawl up your neck all over again.

No words. Just that heavy, burning stare — like he's memorizing you. Every flicker across your face. Every breath.

Then he pushes in.

Slow.

So fucking slow.

Inch by thick inch, stretching you open, filling you until your breath hitches and your nails bite into his hoodie.

And he keeps looking at you.

Doesn’t look away once.

He watches the way your brows pinch when he bottoms out — the way your mouth falls open, the soft sound you make when he settles deep inside you.

One hand pinning your thigh wider, exposing you fully as he watches his cock disappear into your dripping cunt. The sight alone — his cock splitting your swollen lips, veins dragging against your inner walls — makes his grip tighten against your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

His voice actually shakes a little.

“Look at you.”

Heat floods straight to your face.

“Taking me so well.”

He stays buried inside you for a long moment, like he’s letting himself feel it. Letting you feel it too.

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first. Pulling back just enough before thrusting deep again, hips rolling instead of snapping, grinding against every sensitive spot until your legs start trembling around him.

His forehead presses against yours, breaths mixing together, and when you look up at him, he’s already staring.

“You feel that?” he whispers.

Another slow thrust.

“That’s me.”

Your stomach twists hard.

“Inside you. Finally.”

You can’t even answer properly. Just nod helplessly and cling to him while your hips keep chasing him without meaning to.

He kisses you again, messy and deep, before pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.

The same words he gave you on set. But this time there's no camera. No crew. No pretending. 

“Don’t look away. I want to see every second of you cumming on my cock.”

He pulls back an inch, the drag of his cock along your walls making your breath catch, before pushing deeper again. The stretch hits harder this time, enough to make your legs tense around him, your pussy fluttering helplessly as he sinks halfway back in.

Every thrust knocks another broken sound out of you. The wet squelch of your soaked folds taking him echoes through the room while his hips keep rocking into yours, deep enough to leave you trembling around his waist.

And every time he bottoms out, the grind against your clit pulls another helpless sound from your throat.

Sweat slips down his skin, warm against your chest, and you lock your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him even closer.

One of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit in slow, firm circles, pleasure cutting through the fullness hard enough to make your whole body jerk. The other stays at the back of your neck, keeping you close.

Your body responds instantly, hips lifting to meet every thrust as the rhythm builds into something hotter, steadier. The fullness turns almost dizzying, every slow plunge hitting that sweet spot and making your walls flutter around him.

You’re already shaking.

Still sensitive from his mouth. Still completely full of him.

“Haechan—”

His name comes out embarrassingly wrecked.

“Yeah?” he groans immediately, hips stuttering for the first time. “Say it again.”

Your whole world narrows to the sounds between you — the sharp smack of skin, the wet slide every time he thrusts back into you, your broken moans mixing with his rough breathing.

The pressure inside you snaps so suddenly it almost scares you.

Your whole body tightens around him as you come with his name on your lips, vision blurring at the edges from how intense it is. Your thighs lock around his waist, and he lets out this wrecked sound like he can feel every pulse of you.

And he watches every second.

Like he can’t look away even if he wants to.

The way your body arches toward him like he’s gravity itself.

That’s what pushes him over.

He buries himself deep one last time and comes with a low, broken moan, hips twitching against yours while he rides through it. Even after, he stays close, staring at you like he’s still trying to process what just happened.

He doesn’t pull out.

The small room still smells faintly of coffee and sex, the air thick and warm from everything you’ve already done.

Haechan catches his breath against your neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your collarbone like he’s still savoring the taste of your skin. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

His eyes are dark. Still hungry.

One hand slides under your thigh while the other braces at your waist before he lifts you off the table in one smooth motion. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, ankles locking behind his back as he carries you across the room.

The movement makes you feel every inch of him still buried inside you, deep enough to pull a shaky breath from your lungs, and Haechan groans quietly at the way you tighten around him.

He steps out of his jeans halfway across the room, kicking them aside without a second thought before dropping onto the old leather couch against the wall.

The couch leather is cool and slightly sticky against Haechan’s bare back, creaking softly beneath him as he sinks deeper into it, thighs spread wide, eyes fixed on you the entire time.

Your robe is long gone now, discarded somewhere on the floor with his hoodie. Nothing between you but skin, heat, and the lingering throb of wanting more.

His hands are already on you.

Warm palms slide up the backs of your thighs, fingers spreading possessively over your skin as he guides you into his lap. Your knees sink into the worn cushions on either side of his hips, chest pressed flush against his.

Every tiny movement drags your nipples against his, sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You can feel his heartbeat hammering beneath your hands — fast, uneven, matching the ache building low in your stomach.

And the way he looks up at you —

Like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to touch.

His hands slide to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to guide, not force. He doesn’t rush. Just keeps you there for a second, letting you feel the slow pulse of him still inside you.

“Ride me,” he says, voice low and rough, eyes never leaving yours.

“Slow,” he murmurs. “Like you did on set… but this time it’s just for me.”

You lift yourself slightly, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other guides him back inside you. He feels hot and heavy against your slick folds, the head of him catching at your entrance before slowly sliding deeper.

The stretch hits harder like this — facing him, every inch sliding in with a slow, burning glide that makes your breath hitch audibly. You sink down inch by inch, feeling the way he throbs inside you like a second heartbeat while his eyes stay locked on your face the entire time.

When your ass finally meets his thighs—fully seated, stuffed full— Haechan’s head falls back against the couch with a low groan. His hands flex hard against your hips like he’s trying to hold himself together, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before snapping open again.

And then he’s looking at you.

Like he can’t stand missing a single second of this.

“Fuck—baby,” he breathes.

His hands wander up your back before settling on your hips, helping guide you into the same slow roll that already has both of you breathing harder.

“You feel so good,” he groans softly. “Still so fucking tight…”

You start moving properly then — slow lifts until only the head remains inside followed by deep, dragging drops, grinding down every time your hips meet his.

The angle is perfect. Every roll presses against that spot inside you while the friction between your bodies sends heat shooting straight up your spine.

Wet sounds fill the quiet room — slick, rhythmic, embarrassingly loud — mixing with your uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the old couch beneath you.

Haechan’s hands roam everywhere.

Thighs. Waist. Up your sides.

Thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he cups them fully, palms hot against your skin as his fingers toy with your nipples until they ache. Then he leans in and takes one into his mouth with a groan, sucking hard before switching to the other while you whimper and grind down harder against him.

But somehow he always comes back to your face.

A hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging lightly across your bottom lip as he keeps your gaze fixed on him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me.”

The words sound dangerously close to his on-set directions, except softer now. Rougher around the edges. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach twist.

Every time you sink back down, your clit catches against the coarse hair at the base of him, sending a sharp pulse through you. The pressure building inside you feels different this time — deeper, heavier, like something tightening low in your stomach every time he thrusts up into you.

“I wanna see every time you feel good,” he says quietly. “Every time I make you feel good.”

His mouth finds your neck, sucking lightly while his teeth graze your pulse.

His hips start rolling up to meet you now, deep controlled thrusts that make you gasp every time he bottoms out.

You whimper softly, hips faltering for a second when he thrusts into you again.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice cracking this time. “Just like that—fuck.”

His grip tightens at your hips.

“Your face when you take me…” He breaks off with another breathless sound, eyes dragging over your expression. “God.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and firm in time with your hips. The pressure builds so intensely your thighs start shaking around him, pleasure twisting almost painfully low in your stomach—too much fullness, too much heat, too much him.

He angles his hips just slightly on the next thrust, hitting that spot perfectly while his thumb presses harder against your clit.

“Haechan—”

His name comes out broken and pleading. Your thighs are trembling, burning, but you can’t stop.

The release crashes over you so suddenly it steals the breath from your lungs.

Something inside you snaps.

You cry out, back arching hard your breasts press into his face as your walls tighten around him in sharp pulsing waves. Wet heat floods between your thighs, soaking him, the couch, both of you, and the sound of it makes Haechan groan low in his throat like he can’t believe what he’s feeling.

“Fuck—yeah, that’s it—”

He’s moaning with you now, hips stuttering while he watches your face like he’s completely gone from it.

“So pretty,” he breathes brokenly. “Fuck… you’re so pretty when you come.”

He doesn’t stop moving. Keeps thrusting through it slowly, dragging out every tremor until you’re whimpering from the overstimulation, thighs shaking so badly you can barely stay upright.

Only then does he finally let himself go.

One last deep thrust, burying himself inside you as he comes with a wrecked groan of your name, arms tightening around you while both of you shake through it.

You collapse against his chest afterward, breathing hard, skin damp with sweat and everything else. His arms wrap around you immediately, holding you close like he doesn’t want an inch of space between you.

Open-mouthed kisses press against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice completely ruined. “You just… fuck.”

You hide your face in his neck, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him.

He laughs softly under his breath, still sounding wrecked, fingers sliding gently through your hair.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Another kiss presses against your hairline before he shifts you carefully in his lap, still inside you and softening slowly, until you’re curled against his chest.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you moves.

Just breathing.

Skin sticking together.

The faint drip of your combined release somewhere beneath you.

His heartbeat slowing beneath your cheek.

His lips brush your ear, smile warm against your skin.

anytime he desired, he'd grant himself access to your curved mounds, his palms pressed to your flesh, almost completely covering them, with his thumbs picking and pinching at your perky nipples.

and by "anytime", that truly meant anytime. while gaming, he'd pull you onto his lap facing the monitor so he could idly flick one hand up to your breasts between rounds, squeezing and kneading even as he focused on the screen. while cuddling, he loved having your back pressed flush to his chest, arms encircled tightly around you while both hands cupped your tits.

if you were being honest, it got irritating at times. he'd interrupt you mid-chore or while you were buried deep in some necessary yet pestering paperwork just to slip his warm, eager hands under your shirt without hesitation, completely ignoring your small complaints and whines.

"just continue what you were doing. pretend i'm not even here, okay? just want to feel you.."

you couldn't even refuse him though you wanted to due to how distracting it was because he constantly begged and pleaded for you to let him.

and that was only the beginning. things only intensified once he got you beneath him. or on top. he wasn't particular about the position.

when things grew heated between you two, two of his fingers soon dragging slowly in and out of your soaked folds, one of his hands still stays gripping onto one breast, his mouth sucking and tongue lapping at the pink peaks.

he's always murmuring words against your skin during sex, his voice low and rough with lust. "fuck, i love these pretty little tits so much," he'd groan, "fit so damn well in my hands."

the same can be applied to when he has his mouth occupied between your legs. his tongue is busy elsewhere, flicking against your already-swollen clit and puffy pussy lips, yet his hands still do not dare leave your cleavage.

he's a hungry, hungry man.

oh, and when he finally sinks himself fully and completely raw into you... guess where his hands love to grip? it's ridiculous, honestly. whether you're riding him, underneath him in missionary, or even from the back, his hands and fingers are constantly toying and kneading your tits that bounce in perfect rhythm with his movements.

he'll be snapping his hips up into yours repeatedly, the head of his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you so deliciously to the point that your limbs have gone numb and your eyes are rolling back into your head, but he maintains his relentlessness.

"so fuckin' tight... jesus christ, you're perfect.. love every inch of you."

and by the time things are finished, your poor tits are covered in lovebites and flushed red from his grip, and not to mention, your body is trembling from the after effects of the earthshaking orgasm he just gave you, the tears of overwhelming pleasure still pricking your eyes.

he'll be chuckling softly (like the absolute ass he is) while cleaning up the combined juices belonging to both of you from between your thighs, his gaze still roaming over those soft curves of your chest that he's so enamored with.

"my god, look at you," he murmurs.

he disposes of the dirtied tissues and climbs on top again, hovering over your shaking form.

"your tits are always pretty, but they look best like this."

a small pause.

"should i try cumming on them next?" he questions with that extremely infuriating smile of his.

you laugh breathlessly, shoving him off you.

"oh my god, shut up!"

“so,” giselle’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, “that haechan guy is kinda cute. definitely your type.”

you already know that.

“hm…he’s alright,” you shrug, forcing a careless tone as you drag your eyeliner across your lid. too long. you wipe it with concealer. too short. you redraw it. a repetitive cycle until you finally accept that your eyeliner are sisters, not twins.

“ugh!” she flops dramatically onto her bed — the room comes with two double beds, courtesy of haechan, which she refuses to stop bringing up. “you always say that. when are you finally getting a boyfriend?”

you laugh. because she’s not the only one in your friend group waiting for that miracle to happen.

“please, i’m so tired of boys,” you say, lining your lips now, “i swear — there’s no real men nowadays. they all act like princesses.”

“girl, he might be different!” she insists, sitting up now, eyes wide. “just make the first move. i swear, with how pretty you are? he’ll be wrapped around your finger in seconds,” she continues, adorably pouting up at you.

you don’t know why your friends are so obsessed with your nonexistent love life. you barely think about it at all. at least, not as much as they seem to.

“no fucking way,” you reply, smacking your lips together as you finish with your gloss, “you know i’m old fashioned.”

“fine! whatever,” she groans.

her phone rings on the nightstand she’s occupied, finally taking her attention off of you.

instantly, her entire demeanor softens.

“hi my love,” she coos at her phone and you almost snort.

you can’t even imagine yourself talking like that. to a boy. ever.

“yeah, baby, i’m just gonna go to the club for a bit with y/n and her brother and a couple of their friends, i promise i’ll be back at the hotel before 2 a.m.”

ew. updates like that? like she’s reporting to a parent? the thought makes you scrunch your nose. could never be you.

“oki, yes, i’ll call you later taro, i love you.”

she hangs up, all dreamy-eyed and glowing, catching your gaze in the mirror. you gag dramatically, sticking your tongue out, and she laughs, throwing a pillow straight at your head.

“but seriously,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows.

“seriously what?”

“why are we even invited to this?” she gestures around the room, “we’re the only two girls here. and i’m only here because of you — he has to be at least a little interested in you to book us a room.”

you shrug, refusing to agree, even though a small part of you knows that lee haechan may also have a tiny crush on you, too.

because there was that moment.

that stupid, lingering four seconds when your eyes met for the first time. you didn’t even say hi then. there were no introductions. no words. but you felt it. crazy, as that sounds.

even crazier when you take in the fact that you only really formally met him earlier today — at the hotel lobby. when he waved at you, awkwardly, passed you your hotel room card and personally walked you and giselle up your room, which was, coincidentally, right next to his.

“jisung probably just forced him to include us,” you say, still pretending the boy had no effect on you, “and everyone knows no one can say no to my brother.”

giselle laughs, “yeah i guess…your brother is just too adorable to say no to.”

you scrunch your nose up again…because…ew. if only they knew how annoying that little shit actually is.

“we still have three hours until we need to get to the club,” you say, glancing at your watch, “wanna check out the hotel?”

giselle nods immediately, already halfway off the bed before you even finish your sentence.

the two of you wander through the hotel. pool first, then the gym, then the café where you linger a little too long pretending to consider overpriced pastries you both know you’re not buying. eventually, you make your way up to the rooftop, the view stretching out in gold and glass and city noise.

it would’ve been perfect. if it wasn’t so hot. like, offensively hot. the kind that clings to your skin and melts your makeup no matter how hard you try to salvage it.

“okay, no,” giselle groans, fanning herself with her hand. “i’m gonna pass out.”

“same,” you laugh, already turning back toward the elevator, “let’s go back.”

by the time you reach your floor, you’re both a little flushed, a little sticky, and very ready for air conditioning.

but as you walk down the hallway, something catches your attention — the door to haechan’s room is wide open.

and before you can even pretend not to notice — chenle, your personal favorite friend of your brothers’, pops out.

“hey! come in—we’re just pregaming,” he says, his kitty-like smile beaming at you, whiskers and everything. and how could you say no to that actual cutie?

the room smells faintly of alcohol and cologne, the table cluttered with half-empty bottles of vodka and mixers, some sadboi/fuckboi playlist humming through the speakers. and the boys are all sprawled out in different parts of the room.

your brother was by the window, one hand in his pocket while jaemin angles a camera at him like he’s shooting a magazine spread. jeno’s on the bed, head down, thumbs moving across his phone — probably texting that situationship jisung told you all about. renjun’s seated neatly in the corner chair, sipping from his bottle like he doesn’t belong in the chaos at all. then there’s someone new, someone you didn’t meet in the hotel lobby earlier.

and of course, lee haechan — with his back against the wall, a bottle in hand, standing coolly, chatting softly with renjun.

you’re not sure if that’s his natural habitat or if he’s putting up a front for you but you come to a conclusion quickly — you don’t really like it. he seems different from the first time you ever saw him. like he’s trying to be someone he’s not. but then again, you don’t even know who he is.

“hey, i’m mark,” the new guy says, bringing your attention back to him.

mark’s cute. his leather jacket fits him perfectly and he seems like the friendly/outgoing type which are the type of people you enjoy the most since you’re not too friendly yourself.

“i’m y/n,” you say, returning his smile, “this is my friend, giselle.”

she waves at everyone before sitting at the unoccupied bed and starting a conversation with mark. she asks him what his major is. he asks her about her job. leaving you standing there.

your brother, who has now finally realized you were in the room turns towards your voice, and you look at him.

“i can’t believe you guys started pregaming without us.”

“oops,” he shrugs, giving you a gummy smile. you notice jaemin’s camera is pointed at you now. you throw it a small peace sign with the signature duck lips — something you’ve embarrassingly conditioned yourself to do every time a camera is on you.

“here,” a voice captures your attention and your eyes are on the bottle haechan is handing you.

to be fair — he is the closest one to you, geographically speaking, so it’s only right he was handing you a bottle.

you inspect it. it’s quite literally — green.

“uhm…that look’s disgusting,” you say, a playful, totally not flirtatious, lilt in your voice.

he chuckles softly, holding the bottle out closer, “just try it, it’s not that bad.”

“how do i know if i can trust you?” you continue the playful nature, an eyebrow going up, the tiny smile on your face purposefully evident so he knows you’re kidding.

and he plays along with you. his mouth curving slowly, amused.

“guess you’ll just have to take that risk,” he smirks, still holding the bottle out to you.

you huff out a quiet laugh, finally taking the bottle from his hand and bringing it up to your lips, ignoring the fact that this was, technically — an indirect kiss.

but whatever.

you’re too old to be giggling about indirect kisses.

you’re delightfully surprised when the alcohol hits your tongue, eyes flicking back up to him immediately, and he’s already watching you. like he never looked away in the first place. waiting.

“what did you put in this?” you ask, narrowing your eyes slightly.

“can’t tell you, it’s a secret ingredient,” he teases.

“okay, mr. krabs,” you scoff, taking another sip, trying to decipher what the flavor is…until it finally clicks, “it’s lime tang, isn’t?”

he gives you a small chuckle. it’s cute.

“ahh,” he hums, clicking his tongue, “and here i thought you’d spend your whole life trying to pry the secret from me.”

you roll your eyes, and you hate the way you can feel your smile getting wider.

over a boy.

yuck.

“someone’s a little too obsessed with spongebob,” you mutter, “but i do have to give it to you haechan, this is pretty good.”

you hand the bottle back to him. but he doesn’t take it.

“keep it,” he says, gently pushing it back towards you, his hands soft, “it’s yours now.”

you hesitate for half a second, “…thanks.”

your fingers tighten around the bottle and for a moment, the two of you just — look at each other. and there it is again. that same pull from the four second eye contact when you first saw him at your brother’s university.

eventually, you have to force yourself to look away because his gaze is too much. and you don’t like it. too aware of all the people around you. too aware of the fact that your brother was just right there.

so you turn, slipping away before it lingers enough for the others to notice, dropping down beside giselle on the bed. she’s mid conversation with mark, chenle and renjun who joined at some point, you didn’t even notice.

and you fall into it easily. laughing. talking. blending in like you always do.

🏹

when everyone was dressed up and ready, you all met at the lobby once again. you kept it simple, not wanting to make it look like you were trying to impress someone — just a black fitted mid top with low rise jeans, black kitten heels and your cherry red mini handbag.

“who’s riding with who?” you ask, already pulling your phone out, thumb hovering over the grab app.

you glance around casually. but not really. because a small, traitorous part of you is waiting. for him. just one sentence. one “i’ll go with you.” that’s all it would take.

but the moment stretches…then passes.

most of them still feel like strangers. after all, besides chenle, you met the rest of them today. and there’s still that awkward hesitation in the air, like no one wants to assume, no one wants to overstep.

“i’ll go with you guys,” mark says after a beat.

“same,” chenle adds, already standing beside giselle.

renjun just nods, quiet but certain, like it was never even a question. and just like that, it’s decided.

you, giselle, mark, chenle, and renjun pile into one car.

jisung, jeno, jaemin, and haechan in another.

the ride is loud, easy, comfortable in a way that surprises you. mark keeps the conversation going effortlessly, chenle’s half-laughing at everything, and renjun, quiet at first, eventually warms up, adding little comments that make you laugh more than you expect.

it’s nice. more than nice. and for a moment, you forget about the other car entirely.

🏹

the club is already alive when you get there. lights flashing, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest, the air thick with heat and perfume and something electric that makes your pulse pick up.

you spot your friends almost immediately — karina waving you over, ningning already mid-story about something ridiculous, jungwoo grinning as he pulls you into a quick side hug.

introductions blur into laughter, and somehow, seamlessly, everyone just…fits.

the music is good. really good. the kind that makes it impossible to stand still. one song bleeds into the next, and before you know it, you’re dancing, singing, losing yourself in the rhythm as drinks keep appearing in your hand like magic. shot after shot. picture after picture. arms slung over shoulders, phones flashing, memories being made faster than you can process them.

at some point, you notice the boys drifting. one by one, here and there — disappearing into the crowd, probably pulled away by girls who couldn’t help but notice them. you don’t blame them. your group easily has the most attractive men in the entire place tonight. it would be weirder if they weren’t getting attention.

mark and renjun chooses to stay though. and somewhere between your fourth — or fifth? —shot, you realize they’ve quietly become your favorites.

especially when you belong with me starts playing.

“oh my god,” you gasp, grabbing renjun’s arm. his eyes light up instantly. and then the two of you are screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs, perfectly on-key, you think?, completely unbothered, jumping in place like it’s a private concert instead of a packed club.

mark’s laughing beside you, shaking his head but joining in anyway, and it’s just — fun. pure, uncomplicated fun.

but just as promised, giselle left the bar around 1:40am, whispering in your ear, “i’m gonna go…have fun babe,” she says, kissing your cheek.

you hold her hand, not letting her get away so easily.

“i’ll go with you,” you say immediately, steady, no hesitation, “i’m not letting you go alone.”

she pauses, then turns back to you with that same bright, tipsy grin, eyes soft, a little glassy.

“y/n,” she laughs quietly, “you’re having so much fun.”

you don’t loosen your grip, “giselle—”

“stay,” she insists gently, squeezing your hand now instead. “see what the night holds.”

you narrow your eyes at her, “i’m not letting you commute by yourself,” you say, firmer this time, “especially like this.”

“i’m fineeee,” she drags out, giggling under her breath. then she leans in again, dropping her voice like she’s about to share a secret, “taro’s already outside…he brought his motorcycle.”

she wiggles her eyebrows, “we’re gonna put that hotel bed to use.”

you snort, the concern breaking just enough for amusement to slip through, “oh my god.”

“what?” she beams, completely unashamed.

you shake your head, still smiling despite yourself, “fine,” you sigh, tightening your hold on her hand as you start guiding her toward the exit anyway, “i’m at least walking you out.”

“god,” she mutters, leaning her head briefly against your shoulder as you both weave through the crowd, “you’d be such a good girlfriend…”

you side eye her.

“…so caring,” she adds softly.

you can’t help but laugh as the two of you make your way down the stairs, out of the heavy bass and flashing lights, and into the thick, warm night air. it hits you immediately — humid, a little quieter, the distant echo of music still thumping behind you.

shotaro’s already there, waiting by his bike, helmet in hand, posture relaxed but eyes instantly lighting up the moment he sees her.

you feel giselle’s grip tighten just slightly in yours before she lets go, drifting toward him like it’s second nature.

“be careful, shotaro,” you say, passing her over with a pointed look.

“of course,” he nods easily, smiling as he gently steadies her, carefully putting on her customized helmet. he is really good to her. and you can’t be happier for your friend.

she watches him the whole time — soft, fond, completely gone. and you notice. of course you do. you’re the one who always notices.

and yeah, maybe, sometimes, very, very rarely, usually only when the clock hits 2am — you wonder what that would feel like. to let someone look at you like that. take care of you like that. instead of always being the one who does it for everyone else.

“and please,” you smile teasingly, “don’t do it on the left bed, that one’s mine.”

giselle bursts into laughter, “no promises,” and then they were riding off, her arms wrapped tightly around his middle, their laughter’s ringing in the air.

gross.

but there’s no real bite to it. just a small smile lingering as you turn back toward the club.

it’s past 2:00am now, which only means — the party’s just getting started.

you thank the heavens that karina, ningning and jungwoo showed up tonight. because without them? you’d probably be standing awkwardly in a corner somewhere, pretending to enjoy your drink while wondering how the hell you ended up in a club full of your brother’s friends.

instead, you’re grounded. comfortable. exactly where you’re supposed to be.

renjun’s basically been absorbed into your circle somewhere between screaming song lyrics with you and laughing at absolutely nothing. mark stuck around too, easygoing as ever, but you can tell that he had developed a tiny crush on ningning.

the party continues, more shots, more laughter more of everything. you catch glimpses of your brother once and immediately wish you hadn’t. because he’s very clearly lip-locked with some random girl in the middle of a chanting crowd.

“oh my god,” you mutter, turning away instantly, “i don’t have a brother.”

karina cackles beside you, “too late for that.”

“no, i’m disowning him,” you insist, already grabbing another shot to erase the image from your brain.

the music keeps going — song after song, each one louder than the last, lights flashing in colors that start to blur together the longer you stay. time slips. fast.

and then suddenly — it’s 3:00am.

“fuck,” renjun groans, checking his phone, his whole expression dropping. “i need to go. i’m way past my curfew.”

you blink at him, the words taking a second to fully land. right. they’re still in university. some of them still live at home.

“can you get home okay?” you ask, leaning a little closer so he can hear you over the music.

“i’ll get him a grab,” mark cuts in easily, already pulling out his phone. you nod, trusting him without a second thought. maybe you’d be more concerned if you were sober.

but right now? your head is light, your body warm, the world just a little softer around the edges.

they disappear into the crowd and you don’t even try to keep track of how long mark’s gone for. because the second baby by justin bieber comes on, everything else fades.

“OH MY GOD—” ningning screams.

you don’t even think, already grabbing karina and jungwoo, the four of you forming a mini circle as you all shout the lyrics at the top of your lungs like it’s 2010 and this is the only song that exists. jumping. laughing. completely losing it.

by the time the clock hits 4:00am, the energy shifts.

it’s still loud, still bright, but softer now. heavier. like the night is finally starting to catch up with everyone. most of the boys have made their way back, sitting on the couch like gravity is pulling them in.

jeno’s the first one you noticed. he’s hunched forward, looking like he’s in distress, thumbs rapidly pressing buttons on his phone. you make eye contact with him, flashing him a thumbs up, a small way of asking if he was okay. he just nods solemnly. definitely not okay.

jaemin, slouched beside him, catches the exchange and grins lazily, mouthing, “girl problems.”

you let out a quiet “ahh,” nodding like that explains everything. good enough for you.

and right next to him — lee haechan. with his flushed cheeks and lightly damp hair. he looks like sin. pulling you in without trying.

so pretty. so tempting. everything your brother’s friend shouldn’t be.

and like he can feel you looking, his eyes meet yours. a slow smile tugs at his lips. it’s soft. but it does something to your chest that you don’t like. you’re about to return it when—

“y/n, we’re leavinggg,” ningning’s voice cuts in, hands already on your shoulders as she turns you towards her, “we’ve still got work in a couple of hours,” she groans.

“thank’s for coming,” you laugh softly, pulling her into a hug, “and not letting me dance alone,” you murmur in her ear. she hugs you just as tightly.

“message us when you’re back at the hotel, okay?”

you nod, already moving on to karina and pulling her in a hug as well.

then jungwoo, “you gonna be okay? you’re the only girl left,” he says with concerned eyes.

“i’ll be okay,” you assure him, “jisung’s around here somewhere.”

“please,” he scoffs immediately, “that big baby can barely protect you.”

you laugh, softly hitting him on the chest in a small act of protecting your brother. even though jungwoo was absolutely correct.

“she’ll be okay,” a voice behind you says. low. easy. and your heart speeds up without your permission, “we’ll take care of her.”

you turn, already knowing who it is.

“yup, look — four strong men all right here to protect me,” you say gesturing toward the four men not equipped at all to protect a woman at the moment.

jeno is still too busy typing on his phone, sighing every two seconds. jaemin is fully slumped now, head tipped back, mouth half open, completely passed out. haechan just looks like pure trouble. and mark was sitting at the end of the couch, rubbing his temples.

you take note of the open space right between mark and haechan. like it was reserved with your name on it. like he wanted you to sit there.

jungwoo sighs in disappointment as you laugh, turning to face him again, “i’ll be okay. you know me.”

he nods because he does know you. knows the fact that you never get drunk enough to lose your sophistication. and with that, they leave you to it. alone. with that empty space on the couch. you finally give in. settling right between the two boys.

mark’s shoulder brushes yours immediately, his head lolling lazily from one side to the other, eyes half-lidded, clearly losing his battle with alcohol. every few seconds he lets out a quiet sigh, like he’s drifting in and out of consciousness.

you glance at him first, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“you still doing okay?” haechan’s voice is low.

you turn and your breath catches for half a second. he’s right there. closer than you expect. closer than he has any reason to be. close enough that when you turn, your nose brushes lightly against his cheek. it’s quick. barely there. but it’s enough.

you pull back just as fast, leaning into the couch like it didn’t happen, like you didn’t feel that tiny spark shoot straight down your spine.

“yeah,” you say, clearing your throat just slightly. “this is nothing. we barely drank.”

he lifts an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, “okay…miss party girl.”

you laugh, nudging his knee with yours, “i don’t party that much.”

he huffs out a quiet chuckle, leaning back into the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest behind you — not touching, but close enough that you’re aware of it.

“where’s your brother?” he asks.

you tilt your head, giving him a look, “you’re asking me? you were the one with him the whole night.”

“fair,” he admits, smiling a little.

you shrug, glancing out at the crowd, “last time i saw him, he was making out with someone.”

his brows lift, “and you didn’t step in?”

you let out a soft snort, “why would i step in?”

“you’re his older sister,” he says, like it should mean something.

and for a second — you can’t tell if he’s reminding you…or himself.

you roll your eyes, a small laugh slipping out, “please. he’s twenty-two,” you say, shaking your head, “he doesn’t need me stepping in.”

you glance back at him, a teasing smile pulling at your lips, “what about you?” you ask. “you disappeared a lot tonight…busy?”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like he already knows where you’re going with this.

“busy playing your brother’s matchmaker,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “that’s for sure.”

you hum, unconvinced, “i’m sure it was very mutual,” you tease.

“nah,” he shrugs, almost too casually. “didn’t really see anyone i liked.”

you blink at him, then laugh lightly, nudging his knee again, “really? a whole club full of hot women and not a single one caught your attention?”

“guess not.”

there’s something off about how easily he says it. you tilt your head, studying him a little closer now.

“your standards that high?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you. steady. unrushed. like he’s not even trying to hide it.

“we can’t always have what we want,” he says quietly but you’re so focused on him, you hear it loud and clear, even when the first beat of just like heaven fills up the room.

you feel it again. that pull. that quiet, dangerous tension that keeps threading itself between every interaction you have with him, tightening each time like it’s building toward something you’re not ready to name.

and for a second, you don’t know what to say. don’t know if you should say anything.

but before the moment can stretch any further, a sudden weight drops against your shoulder. you jolt, blinking as you look down.

mark.

completely out. head resting heavily against you, breathing slow and even like he passed out mid-thought. you let out a small laugh, glancing back at haechan.

“your friend fell asleep on my shoulder,” you point out, amused.

haechan leans forward slightly, looking past you at mark, then huffs out a quiet laugh, “yeah…he’s gone.”

you shift a little, adjusting so mark doesn’t slide off, instinctively steadying him even as you try not to laugh too loud.

“great,” you mumble. “now i’m stuck.”

“mhm,” haechan hums, leaning back again, eyes still on you, “looks like it.”

and somehow, even with mark half-asleep on you, it still feels like you’re the only two people on that couch.

🏹

you try to stay upright. you really do. but your body’s slowly giving up on you, shoulders heavy, head dipping every few seconds no matter how many times you blink or straighten yourself out.

your head tilts forward slightly. you catch it. straighten. then it happens again, slower this time, your balance slipping just enough that it’s obvious you’re losing the fight.

haechan notices. of course he does. he’s been watching you longer than he should admit. the way your movements get softer, slower. the way your eyes take a second longer to focus. the way your head keeps dipping like you’re trying to convince your body to stay awake when it’s already decided otherwise.

so when it happens again, when your head tips just a little too far to the side — he moves. one hand comes up, gentle but sure, stopping you before you can awkwardly jolt yourself back upright. his fingers brush lightly against your temple as he guides you, not forcing, not rushing, just enough. until your head comes to rest against his shoulder. steady. comfortable. like it was meant to be there. he adjusts slightly after, shifting his posture so you don’t have to hold yourself up anymore, his shoulder dipping just enough to support you properly. and you’re too tired to protest.

from an outside perspective you can almost imagine how ridiculous this group looks. a full row of half-dead bodies on a couch. mark passed out on one side, jaemin completely knocked out on the other, jeno still stress-texting like his life depends on it, and you — resting on haechan like the final piece of a sleeping train.

“tired?” he murmurs softly.

“no,” you whisper. it such an obvious lie, it almost makes you smile.

he chuckles under his breath, “wanna go back to the hotel?”

you nod your head no against his shoulder, the movement slow and lazy, “don’t wanna ruin jisung’s fun.”

honestly, you have no idea where your brother even is anymore. somewhere out there. still partying like the night isn’t already over.

“okay,” haechan says.

just like that. no pushing. no teasing. just…okay. his voice is quieter now, like he’s matching your pace without making a big deal out of it.

a few seconds pass. then, “you’re gonna fall asleep on me,” he adds, softer this time, almost amused.

you hum faintly, eyes slipping open for a second, “i’m not asleep,” you mumble.

he lets out another quiet laugh, “sure.”

after a while, he was getting pretty over it too. it was nearing 5:00am and jisung and chenle were still nowhere to be found.

haechan takes one last glance at you, your breathing has evened out now and he’s pretty sure you’ve fallen into a light slumber. he moves carefully, afraid to wake you.

“jeno,” he calls out to his friend, whispering, which is pretty ironic since the rest of the club is still loud.

your ears pick up on it immediately even if your eyes refuses to open.

“can you find jisung and chenle?” haechan says, softer than you’ve ever heard him all night, “we should head back soon.”

“yeah,” jeno mutters, pushing himself up from the couch, still sounding half-annoyed, half-exhausted. “i’ll look for them.”

you feel the couch move under his weight. and for a second — it’s just the two of you again. you’re still resting against him, eyes slightly open now, too tired to pretend you’re not listening anymore. too tired to move away.

“go back to sleep,” haechan murmurs, quieter this time, “i’ll wake you up when they’re here.”

you let out a small breath, barely audible, “mmm.”

his hand shifts again, briefly brushing against your arm like he’s checking if you’re okay. if you’re comfortable. and you are. too comfortable. dangerously so.

a few minutes pass before you hear familiar voices again — jisung’s loud, unmistakable laugh cutting through everything as he stumbles back over with chenle not far behind.

“yo…why do you all look dead?” jisung says, breathless, still riding whatever high he’s on.

the sound of your brother’s voice finally snaps you back to reality and you slowly remove yourself from haechan’s shoulder.

“we’re heading back,” haechan tells them simply. no explanation. no teasing. and for some reason, they listen.

you reach for your bag and pause. it’s not there. your eyes shift to the side. haechan already has it slung over his shoulder like it’s been there all night. you don’t say anything. you just…notice.

🏹

by the time you step out of the club, it’s exactly 5:15am the sky is pale blue now, the sun slowly rising like it’s stretching awake with the rest of you.

the air feels different. cooler. cleaner. quieter in a way the city never really is.

and somehow, that short slumber on the couch did wonders. your head’s clearer now, your steps steadier, your body no longer fighting to stay upright.

you’re already pulling your phone out, opening grab, thumb hovering over the screen when—

“i’m hungry,” your brother says, of course.

you look up at him, unimpressed, “you’re always hungry.”

“there’s a burger place like seven minutes away,” chenle adds, walking backward with way too much energy for someone who’s been up all night. “we can just walk.”

you hesitate. just for a second. you were about to book a ride. go back. end the night.

but then — you feel it. that look.

you turn slightly. haechan’s already looking at you. quiet. waiting. like the answer somehow sits with you.

you exhale softly, shoulders lifting in a casual shrug, “i could eat.”

and just like that — plans change.

the walk is slow, the streets are calmer than usual, nearly empty, filled with other late party-goers looking for food or getting ready to go home.

you end up beside haechan without thinking. step for step. you don’t mention the bag still hanging off his shoulder. don’t mention the way he subtly switches sides so you’re on the inner part of the sidewalk, closer to the buildings, away from the road. like it’s instinct.

jaemin and mark are a few steps ahead, quiet for once, walking a little too straight, a little too focused. like if they concentrate hard enough, no one will notice how drunk they still are.

far ahead, jisung, jeno, and chenle are louder. their voices echoing through the quiet street as they argue like it’s broad daylight.

“i’m telling you…just block her,” chenle says.

“i can’t just block her,” jeno groans.

“why not? peace of mind,” jisung adds like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“because i like her,” jeno shoots back, frustration clear even from a distance.

“i don’t know man—you can like someone that doesn’t make you feel like shit,” jisung says, way too confidently you almost roll your eyes.

for someone who’s never been in a serious relationship he sure does speak like he knows it all.

“yeah, exactly!,” chenle adds. those two always hyping each other up.

you laugh softly under your breath, shaking your head.

“they’re giving terrible advice,” you mumble.

“yeah,” haechan hums beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, “but it’s fine — jeno’s not gonna listen anyway.”

you glance at him “you think so?”

he nods once, eyes forward, voice calm in a way that feels a little too certain.

“people forget all logic when love comes to play.”

you let out a small laugh, nudging his arm lightly, “okay, shakespeare found in a ditch.”

his lips twitch, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to hide how easy it is for you to make him smile.

🏹

by the time you reach the burger joint — your brother is already seated. burger halfway unwrapped, bite already taken, like it never even crossed his mind to wait for you. you don’t comment on it.

you just shake your head lightly, stepping inside and glancing around and realize it’s just you, mark, and haechan left standing.

mark stretches beside you, running a hand through his hair like he’s still trying to wake himself up, eyes scanning the menu lazily.

and haechan — he’s still next to you. close. like he’s been the entire walk. and maybe he notices the way your shoulders drop just slightly, the quiet acceptance of your brother being…well, your brother. because when you look at him, he’s already smiling at you.

“what do you want?” he asks, glancing down at you.

you blink, a little caught off guard, “uh — no, it’s okay,” you say quickly, shaking your head, offering him a small smile, “i’ll just order after you.”

something about it — the idea of someone just casually buying you something — makes you feel a little…awkward. flustered.

he notices that too. of course he does. and it makes his smile widen just a little.

“c’mon,” he nudges your arm lightly with his elbow, “my treat.”

you narrow your eyes at him, half amused.

“how rich are you?”

he scoffs, a brow lifting, “it’s a burger.”

you huff out a small laugh, crossing your arms loosely.

“you already paid for the hotel rooms,” you remind him, like he might’ve conveniently forgotten, “if anything, i should be treating you.”

he laughs at that, easy and unbothered.

“those were from my parents’ saved-up credit card points,” he says casually, “don’t worry about it.”

then he tilts his head slightly, looking at you again.

“so you either tell me what you want,” he adds, voice light but firm, “or i’m ordering the entire menu.”

you blink. once. twice…you’re not entirely sure he’s joking. and honestly? you don’t feel like finding out.

you sigh, giving in just a little, “…just fries,” you mumble.

his grin widens instantly, “just fries?”

you hesitate for half a second, “…and maybe a sundae,” you add, a little quieter this time.

there’s something about the way he looks at you then — like he’s enjoying this way too much.

“with chocolate syrup?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

you glance up at him, lips pressing together to hide your smile.

“…with chocolate syrup.”

🏹

you find a table for the three of you after that, sliding into your seat with a quiet exhale, finally giving your legs a break.

jisung’s already on his second burger. of course he is. you don’t even bother commenting anymore, just shake your head faintly as you settle in.

a few minutes later, haechan comes back with the tray.

he sets everything down in front of you first — fries, sundae, and a bottle of water you didn’t ask for. but immediately appreciate. you glance up at him, just for a second.

“…thanks,” you murmur.

he just hums, like it’s nothing. like it didn’t matter. like he didn’t think twice about it.

he drops into the seat right in front of you. and you’re glad. because it gives you a perfect view of him.

his hair a little messy from the night, curling at the edge, cheeks slightly flushed, lips a little swollen from too many drinks and he’s so just so — pretty. annoyingly pretty.

and suddenly you’re aware of yourself. of how you probably look right now after hours of dancing, sweating, laughing, barely fixing your makeup. not…put together. not the version of you you’re used to presenting. you resist the urge to check your reflection on your phone. force yourself not to care.

instead, you just reach for your fries, acting like nothing’s changed. like you didn’t just become hyperaware of everything.

you grabbed the ketchup packet, biting the corner off and out of pure habit — you drag a perfect line of red across a single fry. precise. neat.

haechan watches you do it. and then he looks at you like you’ve just disobeyed all the laws of the universe.

“who the fuck eats their fries like that?”

“hey!,” you say defensively, “don’t knock it before you try it.”

he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“you psycho,” he says, leaning back slightly, “it’s literally easier to just put the ketchup on the napkin and dip your fry like a normal person.”

“it doesn’t taste as good!” you argue, already preparing another one.

he raises a brow, unconvinced.

“i swear,” you insist, glancing up at him. “it doesn’t.”

and before you even realize what you’re doing — you’re holding it out to him. right in front of his lips. a perfectly ketchup-lined fry.

there’s a split second where you register it. where you could pull back. laugh it off. but you don’t.

and he doesn’t hesitate. he leans in just enough, his pretty lips wrapping around the fry as he takes it from your fingers — eyes still on you the entire time.

it’s not as innocent as it should be. your breath catches, just slightly.

and then mark drops into the seat beside him.

you retract your hand immediately, reminded of company.

“see?” you say quickly, grabbing another fry to distract yourself. “tastes better, doesn’t it?”

“it tastes like a fry,” he says, completely unimpressed, but his eyes are sparkling with mischief. like he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

you can’t help the grin that slips through.

“whatever.”

🏹

it’s calm now. quiet. no pounding bass. no flashing lights. just early morning chatter, wrappers crinkling, the soft hum of the city waking up. conversation comes easy. you laugh over small moments, replaying bits of the night like it didn’t just happen. and then, you look at mark. tilting your head slightly, a knowing smile creeping in.

“so, mark…” you start casually, grabbing a fry, “you and ningning were dancing all night.”

you let it sit there for a second. just enough for him to realize you noticed.

“oh…yeah,” mark shrugs, like it’s nothing, unwrapping his burger. “she’s cool.”

you narrow your eyes at him slightly. she’s cool? that’s it? you glance at haechan for half a second, like you need a witness to how underwhelming that response was, before looking back at mark.

“just cool?” you press, a teasing edge in your voice, “you were glued to her the whole night.”

mark huffs out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “okay, okay…she’s more than cool,” he admits, a little sheepish now, “she’s…fun. it’d be nice to see her again.”

you hum, satisfied. and if you’re being honest? you’re pretty sure ningning liked him too. and that doesn’t happen easily. it’s hard for any man to keep her attention.

you lean forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand, “are you single, mark?”

it comes out casual. but not really. mark blinks at you mid-bite, clearly caught off guard.

“uh, yeah,” he nods. “yeah, i am.”

you nod slowly, like you’re filing that information away, “good to know.”

he squints at you, “…why?”

“nothinggg,” you say simply, popping a fry into your mouth.

haechan lets out a quiet laugh across from you, watching the whole thing unfold and you can’t help but match his smile.

“what’s your type?” you ask, shifting gears smoothly.

mark thinks for a second, chewing slowly, “i don’t know…someone easy to talk to,” he says. “not…too complicated.”

you nod, accepting it, for now. then your eyes flick to haechan.

“…what about you?”

it’s casual. too casual. like you didn’t just ask that on purpose. he pauses for half a second. then he leans in slightly, one arm resting on the table, gaze steady at you.

“someone who can be my best friend,” he says. simple. but it hits harder than it should. you don’t know why. so you look away first, reaching for your sundae like it suddenly needs your full attention.

“and you?” mark asks, turning it back on you.

you pause mid-scoop, spoon hovering for a second before you shrug lightly.

“i don’t know…someone who actually knows how to act like a man,” you say, half joking, “not someone i have to babysit.”

“easy enough,” haechan murmurs.

you glance up at him, one brow lifting, a quiet challenge in your eyes.

“yet impossible to find,” you add.

mark laughs at that. and then — there’s a brief moment. a quiet look shared between the two of them. quick. subtle. but you catch it. and immediately pretend you didn’t.

suddenly, you’re regretting bringing this topic up.

“what about your type…physically?” mark asks, amused now.

you hum, thinking about it for a second.

“don’t have one.”

“oh well now that’s just bullshit,” haechan says, not missing a beat.

you kick his foot lightly under the table, a laugh spilling out from your lips before you can stop it.

“swear,” you insist, shaking your head, “none of my exes even look alike.”

“there has to be something,” mark presses.

“well…” you trail off, tapping your spoon against the cup, “i guess they’re all conventionally attractive,” you shrug.

“how about you guys?” you ask, wanting to rid the attention off you.

mark opens his mouth but haechan beats him to it. you glance at him and immediately catching the smirk sitting on his lips. yeah. he’s about to be annoying.

“someone conventionally attractive,” he says, taking a slow sip of his cola like he didn’t just throw your cop out answer right back at you.

you roll your eyes instantly but before you could reply, your brother’s voice interrupts. you look over, and sure enough — him, chenle, jeno, and jaemin are already standing, throwing their trash away like they didn’t just eat half the menu.

“we’ll see you guys back at the hotel,” he adds casually.

that’s it. no are you coming? no you good? no second thought about leaving you behind with two men you’ve technically only known for a day. you’re over it at this point. waving him off without a word.

🏹

you reach for your bag and pull out your compact mirror, flipping it open with a small click. you had a feeling the three of you would be leaving soon anyway. might as well check. you glance at your reflection — and freeze.

“…oh my god,” your head snaps up.

haechan’s already looking at you, amused.

“what?”

you turn the mirror toward him like evidence.

“i have no more lipstick,” you say, scandalized. “and none of you told me?” you look between him and mark like they’ve committed a serious offense.

mark lets out a tired laugh.

haechan just smirks, “we’re supposed to tell you that?” he asks.

“yes. that’s what friends do,” you reply instantly, no hesitation.

you’re already digging through your bag, pulling out your lip liner and lipstick like it’s muscle memory. you lean slightly toward the mirror, fixing it. precise. practiced.

you notice the way he’s watching you. the way his gaze drops — lingers. follows the movement of your hand as the liner traces your lips, steady and smooth. but you don’t comment on it.

and haechan — he can’t help but stare at the way your lips part just slightly as you fill them in. careful. focused. it’s such a small thing. mundane. but for some reason, he’s captivated.

he shifts slightly in his seat, glancing at mark for a second like he’s checking if he’s the only one noticing this. mark doesn’t look nearly as entertained, just tired, almost bored, half-focused on his food, completely unbothered. not like him who’s eyes are now drifting back to your lips. his thoughts drifting somewhere he probably shouldn’t let them go. like how your lips probably taste as sweet as the vanilla sundae with a hint of salt from the fries. a combo he doesn’t mind trying.

you snap your compact shut with a soft click. and he’s reminded of who you are.

“there,” you say, tucking everything back into your bag, “much better.”

haechan leans back slightly, dragging his eyes away like it didn’t just take effort.

🏹

it doesn’t take long before the three of you are up too. you pull your phone out, opening the grab app.

“i’ll book it,” you say.

“okay,” mark nods sleepily while haechan just hums beside you.

the car pulls up not long after. you slide in first, then haechan in the middle then mark. his thigh brushes yours immediately. and it stays there.

there’s enough space to move away but neither of you does. instead, you stare out the window, pretending not to notice.

the ride feels longer than it should.

you don’t know if the driver took a wrong turn, or if it’s the traffic slowly building. but you don’t mind. not really. the city outside is alive now, soft light spilling over buildings.

and inside the car — it’s quiet. almost too comfortable. so you enjoy it. letting the ride take just a little longer.

but the longer actually gets ridiculous. almost concerning.

haechan leans over to whisper in your ear, “you’re not kidnapping us are you?” his breath causing goosebumps to rise on your neck.

“little ol’ me?” you say in mock offense.

he hums, glancing between you and the driver like he’s genuinely weighing his options, “i don’t know,” he says, lips twitching. “you did book the ride.”

you scoff softly, crossing your arms.

“i’m the one stuck in a car with three men i barely know,” you point out, tilting your head at him. “i think if anyone should be scared, it’s me.”

he lets out a quiet laugh. but it fades quicker than expected. because he’s been aware of it the whole night and for a second, something shifts in his expression, subtle, but there.

truth is, he doesn’t get it. doesn’t get how jisung could just leave you like that, not even thinking twice. he can’t even imagine doing that to his own sister. his jaw tightens just slightly before he looks back at you.

“are you scared?” he asks softly. no teasing. no smirk. just…genuine. his eyes search yours like he actually wants to know.

you meet his gaze, surprised by the change in tone but you don’t hesitate — you smile. small. real.

“no,” you say honestly. and maybe it sounds a little crazy. but you mean it. you feel safe around him.

he holds your gaze for a second longer, like he’s searching for the truth in your eyes.

“good,” he says, a faint smile returning.

🏹

a few minutes later, the car finally slows, pulling up to the hotel entrance just as the morning light fully settles over the city.

it’s close to 7:00am now. the sky’s no longer soft and dim. it’s bright enough to feel real, like the night has officially ended whether you’re ready for it or not.

you sit up properly, blinking once as you glance over. mark’s still out cold. completely gone.

“bro,” haechan nudges him lightly, then a little harder. “we’re here.”

nothing. not even a twitch. you sigh, already pushing your door open and stepping out, even though the entrance is technically on mark’s side.

haechan follows after you, a sheepish smile on his face like he already knows what’s coming. you both circle around the car.

and yeah — this is gonna be a problem.

“fuck,” you groan immediately when mark’s arm lands around your shoulder, your heels digging into the pavement as his full weight leans into you. “your friend is heavy.”

haechan lets out a breath on the other side, adjusting his grip.

“why’d you let him drink this much?” he shoots back.

you snap your head toward him, “me?” you groan. “you’re the one who left him with us.”

“yeah, well,” he huffs, trying to hoist mark up properly, “i didn’t expect you guys to be alcohol immune.”

you let out a laugh despite yourself, “don’t make me laugh,” you warn, struggling to keep mark upright. “or your friend is going down.”

haechan laughs too — quiet at first, then slipping out a little more.

“i’m serious—” you choke out between laughs, tightening your grip.

“okay, okay—sorry,” he says, still smiling, though he’s barely helping by laughing himself.

the two of you wobble forward, barely coordinated, mark completely dead weight between you.

it’s ridiculous. but fun.

finally, the hotel’s doorman sees your struggle. thank god. and immediately got a wheelchair ready.

“here ma’am, sir, let me assist—”

“please,” you breathe out, immediately letting some of mark’s weight shift off you as he’s carefully guided into the chair.

you straighten up instantly, flexing your hands, rolling your shoulders, “took him long enough,” you mumble under your breath.

haechan lets out a quiet laugh beside you.

“you good?” he asks, glancing at you.

“i think that’s the most workout i’ve done this year,” you mutter. he snorts softly.

🏹

the elevator hums softly as it starts to rise. haechan’s behind the wheelchair, one hand resting on the handle, the other loosely by his side. you’re standing next to mark, who is still completely out, head tilted to the side like he’s given up on consciousness altogether.

you glance at him. then at haechan. then back at mark. and you can’t help it — a laugh slips out.

“this is so embarrassing,” you mumble, already reaching into your back pocket.

“what are you doing?” haechan asks, though there’s already a hint of amusement in his voice.

you pull your phone out, turning the camera on.

“this is too good not to remember,” you say, stepping in slightly.

you angle the phone just right with mark slumped in the middle, you leaning in beside him, barely holding in your laughter.

and haechan doesn’t hesitate. he leans in too. closer than necessary. just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

the picture snaps. you glance at it and immediately grin.

“send that to me,” he says, looking down at your screen.

you glance up at him, trying to act nonchalant, “sure.”

but internally — you hate it. because now you’re the one who has to follow first.

you unlock your phone anyway, opening instagram like you don’t already know exactly what you’re about to search.

“what’s your instagram?” you ask casually.

like you’ve never stalked him on the internet before.

he tells you. you type it in. and yeah— it’s exactly how it looks the last time you were on his profile.

you send the picture quickly then hit follow before you can overthink it.

he’s already pulling his phone out, thumbs moving fast.

“followed back,” he says a second later.

your lips press together, trying to hide the small smile threatening to show.

“good.”

🏹

the elevator dings. doors sliding open. you step aside, letting him go first, one hand holding the door as he carefully wheels your shared patient of the night out.

you follow them down the hall, quieter now, the hotel almost completely still.

and you step into their room with him, not even thinking twice about it — just making sure everything’s okay.

“okay…one more time,” haechan mutters, already moving to lift his friend. you step in without being asked, slipping under mark’s arm again.

“god, how did he get even heavier,” you mumble.

you both manage to get mark onto the bed with a soft thud, his body sinking into the mattress like he belongs there.

you straighten up, brushing your hands off, exhaling.

“there,” you say, “mission accomplished.”

“thanks partner,” haechan teases, a small smile on his face.

you shrug it off like it’s nothing, “yeah, no problem.”

then you turn slightly, already about to head for the door—

“hey.”

you look back. he’s still standing there, watching you.

“you still tired?”

you pause. pretend to think about it for a second even though you already know your answer as soon as he asked. then shake your head lightly.

“not really.”

his lips curve, “wanna have a beer?”

“…where exactly are you planning on getting a beer at 7 am?”

he doesn’t answer. just walks past you and straight to the mini fridge. you watch as he crouches down, opens it, and pulls out two bottles, opening them and holding one out to you.

you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. but you take it from his hand anyway, fingers brushing his briefly.

then, instead of taking the obvious seat — you walk over to his side of the room. slipping down to the floor, back resting lightly against the side of his bed, right in front of the window.

it’s partially hidden, tucked behind the frame of the bed. private. quiet.

in truth — you hate the taste of beer. you just didn’t want the night to end.

he watches you for a second — then lets out a soft laugh.

“you know you can sit on my bed, right?”

you glance up at him, immediately scrunching your nose, “ew. what do you think i am? a monster?”

he pauses, “…huh?”

“i’m not sitting on your bed with these dirty clothes on,” you say, gesturing to yourself. “that’s disgusting.”

he laughs, shaking his head as he walks over, lowering himself down beside you anyway, back against the bed, shoulder just barely brushing yours.

“you’re weird,” he mutters.

“and yet you’re sitting next to me.”

“unfortunately.”

you grin into the rim of your drink.

and for a while — it’s quiet. no music. no chaos. just the two of you, side by side on the floor, bottles in hand. watching the city wake up through the window. cars moving. people beginning their day. the sky fully bright now. and neither of you rushes to say anything.

you just…sit there. together.

🏹

“so,” he finally breaks it, voice low, easy, “your brother…”

“hm?” you hum, not looking at him, eyes still on the window.

“you two close?”

you turn your head slightly, brow lifting.

“why?” you ask, a hint of amusement already creeping in. “you got a crush on him or what?”

he chokes. actually chokes.

“wh—what??”

you turn fully now, fighting your smile.

“do you have a crush on my brother?”

“n-no,” he stumbles, suddenly very awake. “are you asking me if i’m gay??”

you shrug, taking another sip just to hide how entertained you are.

“hey, nothing wrong with it, i’ll even support you.”

“why would you even—”

you cut him off with a small tilt of your head.

“maybe because we can’t get through a conversation without you bringing him up.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. pauses.

“…that’s not—”

you just stare at him. waiting.

he exhales, running a hand through his hair, clearly flustered now.

“that’s not why,” he mutters.

“then why?” you press lightly.

and this time, he doesn’t answer right away. the teasing fades. his gaze shifts back to you — and lingers. longer than it has all night. and you feel it again. that pull that’s been there all night, in every look, every joke, every quiet moment.

but this one feels different. heavier. closer.

“because,” he starts, voice quieter now, like the words aren’t meant for anyone else but you, “you’re his sister.”

you exhale softly through your nose, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

“yes,” you say, dry. “we’ve established that plenty of times tonight.”

he doesn’t take the bait. doesn’t laugh. just huffs out a breath, gaze dropping for a second before coming back up to you. like he’s thinking. weighing it. like there’s a line he knows he shouldn’t cross. and he’s standing right at the edge of it.

but then he looks at you again. really looks. and whatever restraint he had — it slips. just enough.

“and i’ve been trying really hard not to do something stupid.”

your fingers tighten slightly around your bottle. your heartbeat picks up before you can stop it.

“…like what?” you ask, softer now. not teasing anymore. not really.

there’s a pause. a small one. but it stretches. his eyes flick briefly to your lips. back to your eyes. like he’s already imagining it.

and then he says it.

“like kiss you.”

it lands between you. heavy. quiet. real. no joke to soften it. no smirk to take it back. just the truth — sitting right there, in the space between your shoulders, your knees almost touching, your breaths just slightly out of sync.

you don’t move. you don’t even think you breathe. because suddenly — everything feels louder. your heartbeat. the silence. the way he’s still looking at you like he hasn’t decided if he’s done holding himself back yet.

“how long have you and my brother been friends again?” you ask.

he blinks at you, thrown off, confused. like that’s the last thing he expected right now.

“…like a year?” he finally says.

you nod slowly. like you’re actually thinking about it. weighing it. but you weren’t. not really.

your fingers loosen around your bottle, setting it down gently on the floor. then you turn toward him slowly, deliberately, letting the moment stretch.

he watches you intently, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips and back again. he's trying to read you, to predict your next move, but the air between you thickens, heavy with unspoken want.

you tilt your head just a fraction, holding his stare without flinching. the words slip out soft but pointed—

“so you’re not gonna kiss me over a year long friendship?”

it’s quiet. but it hits. hard. his breath catches. for a second, just one, he looks like he’s still holding on to that last thread of restraint.

you lean in closer, inch by torturous inch, until the heat radiating from his body seeps into yours. the world narrows to the space between you, the faint hitch in his breathing, the way his scent settles into your lungs, steady and consuming, until it’s the only thing you can focus on.

and fuck. you’re so close he can’t even hear himself think anymore. everything else fades. logic. rules. bro-code. mark’s snores in the background. all gone.

all that’s left is this pull— magnetic, inevitable — like you’ve both been circling this moment all night and finally stopped pretending otherwise.

and when your noses brush, you whisper, softly—

“or will you risk it and kiss me?”

and he feels like he might drop dead.

your question hang in the air between you, soft and sure, unraveling the last thread of his restraint.

haechan's eyes lock onto yours, dark and stormy. he doesn't hesitate anymore. can't. his fingers thread gently into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your face toward his — and then his lips crash into yours in a soft, slow kiss. enough to steal your breath.

you pull apart for a second, breathless, and you can’t help but bite your lip.

“jisung’s just gonna have to deal with it,” he mutters.

you raise a brow, “yeah, bringing up my brother right after kissing me is—”

you don’t get to finish your sentence because his lips are on yours again. soft, but urgent, like he's been starving for this taste. and you don’t even remember what you were going to say. your mouth responds to him immediately.

his lips part just enough to let his tongue trace the seam of your mouth, seeking entry. you open to him — and god, you taste even sweeter than he imagined, now with the hint of his favorite beer.

it turns hungrier, tongues sliding together in a slick, intimate dance that sends sparks racing down your spine. haechan groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips, raw and unguarded.

his hand travels down, fingers settling on your belt loops, thumb tracing circles on your slightly exposed skin. your hands come up, tangling in his hair, eliciting a whine from him.

that whine ignites something fierce in you, a bold urge that overrides the caution flickering at the edges of your mind. you tug harder on his hair, guiding him with you as you lean back until your back meets the soft carpet floor, the bottle of beers completely forgotten.

your legs part instinctively, making room for him to settle between them, his body pressing down with a weight that's both grounding and electric.

the kiss is hotter now, lips and tongues clashing with desperate need.

the carpet scratches lightly at your back, but you barely notice — everything is him, the heat of his body pinning you, the way his breath comes in hot pants against your mouth, his hand roaming down your side.

his lips break from yours, trailing a wet path down your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there just enough to make you arch into him. he moves lower, mouth finding the curve of your neck, his hand comes up to move your hair out of the way and his touch is enough to make you feel dizzy. then he sucks hard, tongue flicking over the sensitive spot before his teeth sink in lightly, marking you with a blooming bruise. the sensation earns him a sweet moan, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room, reaching his ear like music.

haechan lifts his head just enough to murmur against your skin, his voice a low, teasing rumble.

“shhh, pretty girl, you don’t wanna wake mark up now, do you?” he smiles into your neck, lips brushing the fresh mark as his hand squeezes your hip.

“please,” you say breathlessly, “he wouldn’t even know if the world ended right now,” you joke, mark’s soft snores from across the room confirming your statement.

haechan chuckles softly, the vibration humming against your skin as he nips at your earlobe.

“good point,” he whispers, voice thick with desire, his mouth returning to your neck to soothe the mark with a slow lick while his free hand wanders up to squeeze your tit.

you bite your lip, stifling your moan as you slide your hand down his back, fingers dipping into his back pocket to squeeze his ass. the muscle tenses under your grip, and haechan looks up at you, eyes wide with a little shock, his lips parting in surprise.

“what? two can play that game,” you tease, your voice light but laced with mischief, holding his gaze as you give another squeeze.

he smirks, recovering quickly, his hand still cupping your breast as he leans in closer, “didn’t know you were an ass man,” he says, his tone playful, eyes darkening with amusement and hunger.

“oh yeah,” you reply, teasing, squeezing harder, feeling the firm curve fill your palm, “i just love cute little butts so much,” your tone laced with sarcasm.

haechan laughs at that, the sound warm and genuine, breaking the intensity for a split second and god, he’s just so, so pretty — you’re almost paranoid that you made him up. that this was all just a figment of your imagination. and you’d wake up with your phone in your hand opened to his instagram profile.

before you could completely spiral, you crane your neck up to kiss him again, almost begging. it’s kinda pathetic and so not who you are. but you can’t help it, you’re a sucker for pretty boys.

“hmm,” he hums, the hand on your tit wandering up to brush your bottom lip. you place a soft kiss on the tip of this thumb, “so pretty,” he murmurs.

and lucky for you — he’s a sucker for you.

his lips crash on yours again, “never wanna stop kissing you,” he sighs in between breaths, the moment heating up once more as he melts into you, tongues tangling urgently.

your finger pulls at his belt loop and he understands your signal, grinding on your clothed core once, hips rolling forward with deliberate pressure, and even through the layers of both of your jeans, it’s enough to make you shiver, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight to your clit. you’re so wet, so fucking wet, your panties soaked and sticking to your folds, aching for more friction, more of him.

but before you can ask him to do something about it — before you can beg him to unzip your jeans and slide his fingers inside — your phone buzzes in the back of your pocket.

you try to ignore it, focusing on him, but then it buzzes again. and again. and again. insistent and relentless.

finally, you break the kiss, turning your head to the side. haechan’s mouth trails after you, lips brushing your cheek in a reluctant chase, both of you out of breath and flustered, chests heaving in the dim hotel light.

“one moment,” you say, smiling sheepishly, as you reach back to pull out your phone from your back pocket.

haechan groans softly in protest, but he hovers above you anyway, propped on his elbows, his dark hair tousled from your earlier fingers raking through it, strands falling messily over his forehead. his lips are swollen and glistening from your kisses, parted slightly as he breathes heavily, eyes locked on yours with that hungry, lingering heat. pretty. so fucking distracting. you have to force yourself to look away, tearing your gaze away from the way his chest rises and falls, the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone.

your screen lights up with a string of texts:

giselle 🖤: where r u????

giselle 🖤: it’s almost 9

giselle 🖤: i heard the boys come in earlier

giselle 🖤: if you’re not here cause of taro, he already left for work

giselle 🖤: i’m getting really worried please

giselle 🖤: if you don’t answer right now, im calling the police

you almost feel bad, a twinge of guilt twisting in your gut. but hey, she was the one telling you to “see what the night holds.” and if she knew you were under lee haechan right now — she’d be proud.

“shit,” you mutter under your breath, thumb scrolling through the messages.

haechan's expression shifts instantly, worry creasing his brow as he pushes up slightly, his warm hand sliding to your waist.

“everything okay?” he asks, voice low and concerned, laced with that protective edge that makes your heart skip a tiny beat.

he helps you sit up with gentle pressure, the two of you shifting to sit side by side on the carpet again, his thigh pressing firmly against yours. the heat from his body radiates through your clothes, a reminder of how close you were to stripping them off.

“it’s giselle — she’s looking for me,” you explain, tilting the phone so he can see the frantic string of texts.

he leans in close, his shoulder bumping yours, breath warm against your ear as he reads over your shoulder, his scent filling your senses. and you’re not too sure how you’re going to walk out of this room.

his free hand rests on your thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles that send sparks up your leg, even now.

your phone buzzes again.

giselle 🖤: 3 seconds and i’m waking everyone in this damn hotel

your eyes widen as you type quickly, thumbs flying:

y/n: i’m here!

y/n: sorry!

y/n: im okay!

y/n: omw back

you don’t wait for her response, shutting off the screen and placing your phone to the side.

turning towards haechan, you send him an apologetic smile before cupping his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss — this one soft, innocent, almost sweet, a gentle press of lips that contrasts the raw urgency from before. his mouth yields to yours, warm, tongue flicking out just once to taste you before you pull back.

“i should probably go,” you say sheepishly, your voice hushed, fingers lingering on his cheek as reluctance tugs at you.

before you can fully pull away, haechan’s hand cups the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair with a gentle but insistent tug. he draws you back in, capturing your lips in another soft press.

“i’ll walk you back,” he mutters against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you, as he nips at your bottom lip.

you smirk, the playful curve of your mouth brushing his as you lean in again, stealing another kiss — quick but firm, “i’m literally right next door,” you murmur.

the two of you just can’t seem to stop. every separation lasting only seconds before one of you closes the gap. his lips find yours again, softer this time.

he pulls back just enough to flash you a mischievous smile, his eyes sparkling with that devilish glint, dark lashes framing the heat in his gaze.

“i know you are,” he says, punctuating the words with another kiss, deeper now, “i put you there.”

you pretend to be shocked, pulling back with wide eyes and a dramatic gasp, though your fingers curl into his shirt, holding him close.

“ahhh, i knew it wasn’t a coincidence,” you say, your voice laced with feigned accusation, even though his confession makes your head spin.

“did you?” he counters, his grin widening as he chases your lips for another kiss, this one playful and light.

“mhm,” you hum affirmatively, your response muffled as you kiss him back.

he chuckles, the sound low and vibrating against your lips, warm air fanning your face as he hovers close.

“what can i say? i always had a vision of you begging for my kiss,” he teases, his free hand drifting to your hip, thumb circling the strip of exposed skin above your waistband, dipping just under the edge of your jeans to trace the curve of your bone.

you pull back immediately in mock offense, swatting his chest lightly while trying to suppress your laugh.

“begging? me?? you’re crazy,” you retort even though you did just that. the memory of how desperately you'd wanted him earlier flashing in your mind.

“okay, fine,” he laughs, the sound rich and genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he concedes, pulling you flush against him, “it was me begging.”

“that’s much better,” you smile, your thumb brushing his jawline, feeling the slight stubble rasp against your skin.

he matches your smile, slow and seductive, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up, dark and intent.

“give me another kiss, baby, please,” he says, the endearment rolling off his tongue like velvet, husky and intimate, making your pulse stutter.

and you do. because he called you baby. because he said please. because he’s just oh, oh, so pretty.

the kiss lingers, sweet and unhurried, his free arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, bodies aligning in a perfect, warm fit against the carpet.

when he pulls away for the umpteenth time, he stares at your lips a little too long and you think he might lean in again, but all he does is say something that pulls a soft laugh out of you—

“your lipstick is gone,” he says, a playful smirk on his face.

🏹

haechan stands first, offering his hand to help you up, his fingers lacing with yours as you rise, the simple touch sending sparks up your arm.

“come on,” he murmurs softly, “before your friend gets all of us kicked out of this hotel.”

you giggle, squeezing his hand, letting him lead you toward the door, the cool air of the hallway a stark contrast to the warmth you left behind in the room.

the walk is short — literally just five steps down the dimly lit corridor, the carpet muffling your footsteps, the faint hum of the hotel’s ac the only sound breaking the charged silence.

his thumb strokes the back of your hand, a subtle reassurance, his presence solid and comforting beside you.

at your door, you fish the key card from your bag, holding it out, but before you can swipe it, he takes it from your fingers, his touch lingering on your skin.

he pulls you in for one last kiss, slow and deep, lips molding to yours with a final, aching sweetness. his free hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there as his tongue teases yours one more time, a soft suck on your bottom lip that draws a quiet moan from you.

then, with a reluctant exhale, he breaks away, swiping the card through the reader. the lock beeps green, the door unlocking with a click. he hands the card back but doesn’t step away, leaning in close, his lips brushing your ear.

“good night,” he whispers, the words silent and intimate, meant only for you.

“good night,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible, slipping through the door as it swings open.

your fingers stay tangled with his until the distance forces them apart, a final brush of skin that leaves you both reaching for a second longer.

the last thing he hears before the door shuts is your friend’s voice, sharp and exasperated from inside the room.

“oh my god, you better have a good reason why you’re back so late.”

the door clicks closed, muffling your response, and haechan stands there in the empty hotel hallway, a slow, unstoppable smile spreading across his face.

he looks like a lovesick fool, heart pounding and he thinks you two might go really nice together.

🏹

“one diced tomato… a handful of chopped basil… a hundred and twenty-five milliliters of heavy cream… what the fuck is a milliliter?” you mumble to yourself as you hold up the measuring cup to your eye level.

it’s rare when both you and your boyfriend riku have a shared day off, and this one happens to fall on a weekend where you decide to cook a homemade meal instead of ordering takeout.

you’re so focused on pouring the thick liquid into the glass that when you feel a pair of hands wrap around your front and a warm face press into the crook of your neck, you gasp in surprise.

“smells good in here, baby,” riku mutters into your skin, sending slight shivers down your spine.

the sizzling of the chicken and the boiling of the pasta water brings you back to your senses, only distracted for a quick second before recomposing yourself and setting the cup down.

“sir, there are two open flames and glass objects around!” you try to convey your concern, but your voice wavers as riku starts to press featherlight kisses across the expanse of your neck and shoulders.

all of a sudden, you’re hyperaware of his soft bulge pressing into your back as he continues his ministrations on your skin, his hands moving up and down your sides, squeezing here and there.

you can feel his teeth graze where his lips trail, making your breath hitch in your throat and your eyes flutter shut as you grip onto the edge of the counter.

“r-riku,” you whisper, trying to be as firm as you can while your doting boyfriend is loving on you.

“what’s wrong, angel? am i distracting you? you can multitask, can’t you?” he teases, starting to nip ever so slightly at your neck.

just then, your phone rings, signaling the pasta had finished boiling.

you’re snapped out of your daze as you pull away from riku, turning off one of the burners and grabbing a kitchen towel to protect your hands from the pot as you swiftly move to drain the pasta.

“what’s the next step? let me help you,” your boyfriend offers, an innocent smile painting his face as you turn to him.

“nuh uh, you’re up to no good and i just know it,” you laugh back at him. “just stay there and stop distracting me or i’ll ruin our dinner and we’ll both be upset.”

“fine, fine,” riku mutters, taking his place back behind you again.

you don’t mention it, but you can feel how hard he’s grown now, the bulge pressed against your back feeling heavier and more assertive.

you flip the chicken with a pair of tongs as you feel him subtly grinding against you.

“what are you doing?” you ask, turning around and raising a brow at him.

“have i ever told you how cute you look in these shorts?” he asks, fingers dancing at the lace trim of the tiny lounge shorts you’re sporting.

“mm, mhm,” you hum mindlessly, pouring the heavy cream you set aside earlier into the pan with the chicken.

you can feel his hands trail up under your shirt to caress your stomach, further distracting you although he said he wouldn’t.

you do your best to ignore him, carrying on with your cooking, though his hands feel a little too good against you right now.

“could just slide these to the side and slip it in, y’know?”

a shiver runs down your spine, your eyes squeezing shut.

“baby, i’m literally cooking right now,” you whine. “why are you doing this?”

“i mean,” he hesitates. “is that something that should stop us?” he asks, his voice lower and slightly raspier, hands still trailing along your figure.

“do you want me to burn this chicken or wh-” you’re cut off by a harsh thrust into your lower back, his clothed member rubbing against you just right.

“fuck the chicken,” riku says breathily, a chuckle leaving his parted lips. you hear the rustling of fabric. “or better yet, you keep doing what you’re doing,” you feel your shorts and panties being pulled to the side. “and let me do this.”

a gasp leaves the both of you as he slips himself between your folds, easing himself into you in one swift motion.

“riku, are you crazy?!” you ask, the end of your question fading into a moan as you really feel him settle inside of you, your eyes rolling back at the feeling of being so full.

“no,” he exhales. “but you are for wearing these skimpy ass shorts around the house and not letting me touch you because you’re cooking. don’t even realize how fucking hot you look acting like my little wife, hmm?”

his words have you clenching around him, his hips stuttering slightly before you feel a slap at your outer thigh.

“aren’t you supposed to be finishing up dinner, honey?” he asks, nipping at your ear.

“f-fine,” you huff. “but just stay still,” you pout at him, silently begging him with your eyes.

you move quickly, as best as you can while riku’s bottomed out in you, to finish up cooking your dinner.

he keeps his spot next to your ear, teasing you whenever he notices your hands not chopping or stirring or feeling you pulse around him. he knows, then, that your mind is drifting instead of focusing on cooking.

whether it was a rhetorical question about the recipe or a shallow thrust from him, it always resulted in him pretending he was innocent, either blurting out something like “sorry, baby, you just feel so good around me” as a sweet smile graced his lips or burying his face into the crook of your neck, lightly scraping his teeth at the skin.

the next 10 minutes are a blur as you wrap up the last few touches, only needing to plate everything up now.

“did so good f’me, baby,” he finally praises you, seeing the results of your cooking in front of him. “i think you deserve a reward, yeah?”

you can barely process his sentence before he’s pulling himself out of you, untying your apron and turning your face to swallow your moans through a heated and messy kiss.

he spins you around, pulling the apron up and over your head before tugging your shorts and underwear down, his lips never leaving yours.

“worked so hard cooking for us, but i need a taste of you, baby,” he mumbles before hoisting you up on the counter, spreading your legs with his hands as he kneels down, littering your thighs with hungry kisses.

you lean your head back against the cabinet door, senses overwhelmed with thoughts of just rikurikuriku.

“you’re so wet, angel,” his breath hits your exposed core as he inches closer, kissing everywhere but where you need him most, his fingers pulling you apart and watching your arousal drip onto the countertop.

“please, don’t tease,” you mutter, hands finding their way into his wavy hair.

“since you asked so nicely, i’ll give you whatever you want, baby,” he reassures, delving into your folds with a long swipe from your entrance up to your clit before wrapping his plush lips around the bud, suckling on it with fervor.

your moans are anything but quiet as riku continues his ministrations on you, your fingers tugging at the strands that fall between them.

his hands reach up to play with your chest under your shirt, fingers tweaking at your nipples and groping at the soft flesh.

“taste so damn good, baby. fuck,” he moans into your pussy, his tongue finding its way to your entrance and shallowly fucking it.

his right hand leaves you, moving down to stroke himself as he fully makes out with your cunt, his groans of pleasure sending vibrations all throughout your body.

your eyes flutter open, whines leaving your pouty lips as you realize he’s touching himself.

“want it,” you whine, bucking your hips up into his face, your hands holding the back of his head to steady him in place as you fuck yourself on his tongue.

you feel yourself getting closer with every passing moment, the boy between your legs never letting up on the pressure he’s applying.

“please,” you whisper, your breathing picking up as you start to pant from his actions.

a flash of white appears behind your eyes as they roll back, the pleasure too overwhelming for you as you cum around his tongue. he laps every last drop up, holding apart your thighs that tighten around his head.

he puts both hands on your hips, helping himself stand up in front of you.

“did so good for me, angel,” he’s leaning forward, lips pressing against yours and making you taste yourself. your moans are muffled against his lips before he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip, pulling away and resting his forehead against yours.

“think you can give me another one, baby?” he asks softly before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

your head feels light, failing to form a coherent thought as you nod mindlessly.

“need words, pretty,” he mutters, peering into your eyes.

“you just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm and you expect me to act normal right now?” you ask in disbelief, not being able to keep the smile from tugging at the corners of your lips.

he returns the action along with a flush of deep red painted across his cheeks.

“just fuck me already, riku,” you finally answer, pushing yourself off the counter and pulling him by his face to kiss him again.

you pull off your shirt, throwing it off to the side before spinning yourself around and laying yourself across the counter and perking your ass out to him, turning your head to gauge his reaction.

“you’re gonna be the death of me, baby,” he groans, a hand immediately coming up to grip at the flesh before landing a light smack across it.

he takes himself in his other hand, tilting his hips to drag the head of his cock across your still-leaking folds. “still so wet..” he says, mostly to himself.

he finally latches himself onto your entrance, both of your breaths hitching before he slips in, pushing his hips forward until he’s flush against your backside and he’s completely bottomed out in you once more.

“taking me so fucking well,” riku sighs. “like you’re made just for me.” you almost miss it, your mind reeling at the feeling of being filled completely, subconsciously clenching around him from his praise.

he quickly finds his pace, his hands not leaving your body once. he trails a hand up your spine, making you shiver as it reaches the back of your neck, and applies pressure there, his thrusts sharpening just the slightest.

“f-fuck!” you wheeze out, not being able to keep your eyes open as they squeeze shut from the feeling of his tip hitting that gummy spot just right. “riku!” you cry out, your walls clamping down around him.

“so… tight,” riku groans, the sounds of skin slapping against skin echoing through the kitchen as he continues to press against the same spot that has you melting in his hold.

“my baby’s so good to me… letting me use her how i like,” his voice is muffled as his head drops to the junction between your neck and shoulder, his thrusts not letting up.

from the weight on the back of your neck to the dizzying pace he sets as he chases his high, your mind grows fuzzy and your thoughts are back to strings of rikurikuriku.

your body reacts before you can even register it in your mind, the tight band coiling and snapping as your walls flutter uncontrollably around his length.

“fuck, ‘m gonna fill you up,” his moans are turning into whines. “gonna pump you so full of my cum,” he feels like he’s gonna cry. “you’d like that wouldn’t you— fuck!” his hips still as he cums inside of you, his breath ragged.

he helps the both of you ride out your highs, slowly dragging his length against your coated walls before finally pulling out.

“oh shit,” he mutters, his eyes immediately falling to where his arousal spills out of you, his jaw dropping slightly as you whine at the feeling of it dribbling down your thighs.

he pulls his sweats back up and reaches over to a lower cabinet, pulling the towel off of it to help clean you up.

“are you okay?” he asks, pressing kisses all across the expanse of your back as his hands run along your skin soothingly.

“mm, mhm,” you hum, your voice hoarser than when your boyfriend first joined you in the kitchen.

“sorry i was a little rough, angel,” he whispers.

“it’s okay, i liked it,” you chuckle, turning back around to kiss him once more. “but can we eat dinner now? im starving,” you pout, watching him as he crouches down to pick up your clothes from the floor.

“come on, i’ll do the dishes to make up for distracting you,” riku smiles sweetly as he redresses you and kisses you on the forehead one last time before reaching for two plates from the cabinet to dish up your dinner.

a/n: thank you to my babies @rikupid and @hazyhae for beta reading as always mwah ♡

“If it’s morning for you, good morning,” Haechan’s ears ring as he watches the flat TV screen in his living room, “If it’s night, then, goodnight! And remember…”

“If you don’t see me again, have a nice life!” Haechan repeats the words of the host. His words. Words that he, himself came up with. His punchline — which was stolen by the crusty rat who took his place, who managed to steal from him even the intonation as he spoke the words.

Haechan scoffs, turning the TV off, and throwing his slippers away, not caring where they land. 

He made a colossal mistake, and he’d like to shirk his way out of it easily by saying it wasn’t him. The only problem? He said it on television, everyone has seen his stupid face plastered on their TV’s as he possibly fumbled his career forever. 

But how was he supposed to know people don’t have a sense of humour? Right after it slipped past his lips, his bosses warned him about the repercussions of such a joke, and even if they thought the joke was great and howled with laughter while slapping him on his back repeatedly, the audience didn’t appreciate it.

He sits back on his disgustingly big couch, and rewinds what happened that one night. 

He told his usual jokes, everyone laughed, the live band used the drums and trumpets for effect. And then, just because he felt very brave and his ego was skyrocketing after looking at the amused faces in the audience, he thought it would be a good idea to add one last joke — instead of his usual concluding line for the end of the night.

“And since this was a topic tonight… before I get to wish you a good night,” He announced, grin stretching from ear to ear, showing his pearly white teeth — a smile everyone loves or, better said, used to love, “I got one last joke about abortion that never gets old… just like the baby…”

Crickets. No one laughed, not even a sound coming from the live band — not even the disappointed sound of the trumpet at his flopping joke. 

He cringes remembering how he ended the night, the phone calls from his producers and bosses, and them wishing him the whole thing wouldn’t escalate into something bigger. 

Except, it did escalate.

His amazing rating dropped and, to put it simply, he got called in the office and put on unpaid leave until things settled and waters calmed down.

And even after being put on leave, people still came for his head. Women, activists, whole communities fuelled the online debates, criticism, and hate train over his words and actions. He saw his life being desiccated, under a magnifying glass for everyone to judge and study thoroughly, trying to find past mistakes that could be the final nail in his coffin, and which could erase him from being in the public eye.

Lee Donghyuck, who managed to work hard and make a name for himself. Lee Donghyuck, who moved on from his passion and dream job, leaving being a prosecutor for a better and, what he was hoping to be, a calmer future.

Lee Donghyuck, the almighty county prosecutor left his life behind after audiences loved his presence and made him famous, turned into his television persona — Lee Haechan — and the audiences stepped on him like a disgusting cockroach, ready to get discarded of him, who he once was, and what he once represented.

And worst of all, he got a call asking him to come into office tomorrow — and Haechan knows that’s not a good sign for him. 

You know who Haechan is. Of course you do, whoever claims not to know who he is is either lying or has been living under a rock for the past couple of years. 

He used to be a very diligent prosecutor, who took his job seriously and did his best trying to catch bad guys and getting them convicted for the longest times for their heinous crimes. He used to be one of the best in his field, of the highest competence, so much that lawyers already knew they were on thin ice trying to fight him in court, their clients most likely ending up in jail.

He had an innate talent at what he was doing, and an honest love for his profession — so much that people could just tell he lived and breathed to be a prosecutor. This passion opened a door for him — in television this time. 

There used to be this one program, with people dropping by either in person or with a phone call, and they brought up their legal battles asking for advice — all televised. And Haechan was the one expert the producers called most of the times. 

Phone calls turned into physical appearances at the studio, where he interacted with the audience. He walked in the studio like he owned the entire planet. Expensive suits, expensive leather shoes, Rolex and jewellery adorned his wrists. He had a glint in his eyes, one that could make anyone fall for his charms. 

He was cocky, and for a good reason. He knew just how good he was at his job and, quite frankly, at everything in his life. And although his cockiness might have rubbed some people the wrong way — a handful of people out of an ocean of amazed and satisfied audiences — Haechan was very talented with his charms. He talked to people like he was close to them, like they were long lost friends. He gave them pieces of advice that one would have given to the people you only cared about the most, or to real clients. Not some random person on a TV show. 

He connected with the people, and everyone loved him. He became a legend, well known, well liked — and viewer rates skyrocketed. 

So much that they gave him his own night show. That’s when he became Lee Haechan — but you’ve known him for far longer than you’d like to admit. 

You’ve known him from when he was Lee Donghyuck, a simple student. He studied law and was an insufferable presence in your classes. Your opinions clashed, but then you united against people who had opinions that not only were different than yours, but also wrong. It’s like you were allowed to fight each other, but the moment someone else tried to intervene or take either one of your places, you teamed up to fight back.

You can’t really say you were total strangers to each other. You acknowledged each other, and each other’s talent at what you were doing. Back then, you thought his presence was aggravating, with his usual talent at picking up fights with you and bickering during debates and classes, and you swear he had a sick glint of satisfaction in his eyes every time he saw you getting worked up over him contradicting you.

You got to work on some projects together, and he was close to some people from your small circle of friends. When you’re a law student, there’s not much time you can spend relaxing or going on dates, so the friends you make in your first year are basically the ones you’re stuck with. You heard stories, whispers, but not once did you consider Donghyuck more than what he was — a friend of a friend, who liked driving you insane with every chance he got. 

Everyone liked him, got along with him well, yet you kept your distance — mainly because you couldn’t stand his cockiness when he was so satisfied with his driving you up the wall, or when he knew he was right and that he won an argument or debate.

And then your studies ended, and he climbed the success ladder with big and quick steps, while you liked taking your time. 

You focused on your career, and you liked gloating that your success rate was almost impeccable. Sure, the amount of work load couldn’t compare to what Donghyuck had to work with as a prosecutor, but you never diminished your efforts and your talent. 

For this exact reason, you picked up doing pro bono work every chance you got — being driven by the thought that you could do your part and help people out, with this small aspect at least, and it became an important part of your life, one that helped you stay grounded.

After reminiscing the past, and knowing what’s to come in the next weeks, it boosts your confidence and makes you completely satisfied with yourself, like nothing — and no one — can take you down. 

Which is exactly why the drive to the studio feels extremely exciting, like your skin is tingling to get to work — this being the first time you work on this type of case. 

Your heels clink on the shiny floors as you make your way towards the conference room, where your bosses and your client are waiting for you to make an appearance.

And with a few minutes left to spare before your meeting starts, you stall on the hallways of the headquarters, because you hate showing up earlier — or later, for that matter — for appointments. You like being very precise, organised in every little aspect of your life because, after all, these are the only moments you try to stay away from unpredictability. 

“Oh, hi!” You’re snatched out of your thoughts as you look at your watch. Two more minutes left before going in. “Is there a reason you’re not going in?” Johnny Suh, one of your bosses, smiles while looking at you, all confused.

You shrug, taking a sip from your coffee, “Still two minutes left,” 

He shakes his head like he doesn’t take you seriously, and the sly smile on his features makes you understand he really isn’t, “Don’t be silly,” He gestures for you to walk towards the door, huge hand barely touching your tricep respectfully in order to guide you in, “He’s already here,”

He opens the door for you, and you give him a small smile, complying with his request to go in. He’s your boss, after all.

“I told you that’s not it! I didn’t mean it that way, I was jus-” You recognise the voice, high in pitch with frustration, and he stops his rambling when he turns his head to look at who’s walking inside the conference room. 

“Y/n?” He’s in disbelief, and a small crease forms in between his eyebrows.

“You two know each other?” Johnny asks, sitting down at the huge table, “Of course you do! I forgot you used to work in the same field,” He looks over a few papers as he takes his blazer off, “Then there’s no need for formal introductions, right?”

You take your seat right across from where Donghyuck is sitting, and you watch as he pouts with confusion while looking at you. You smile, a kind of devious and calm smile he’s never seen on your face before — and it almost creeps him out.

“What are you doin’ here?” He asks you, leaning in over the table as if your answer is meant to be a secret, for his ears only. As if the room isn’t filled with producers and executives.

“Y/n is your lawyer,” Another executive speaks up before Johnny can ease Donghyuck into it. 

You’re impressed by the straightforwardness, realising that the sooner the bandaid gets ripped off, the better for everyone. 

“My what?!” Donghyuck’s voice is high in pitch, proving to you that his usual exaggerating persona from the past hasn’t changed a bit. “I don’t need a lawyer,”

“Yet,” the CFO intervenes, and Donghyuck’s head snaps to the side to look at her. 

His eyebrows furrow while taking his sweet moment trying to understand what is going on. 

“I’m sorry but-” He snakes his head incredulously, his gaze moving between your figure and Johnny’s, “Am I being sued for something?”

“Not yet,” The CFO corrects him, and judging by the crease between Donghyuck’s eyebrows, you know he’s getting frustrated. 

“But we can’t take chances on this, Haechan,” Johnny speaks up, “We know that your image is being taunted right now, and that people are very much against you,” He explains, like it should be obvious to Donghyuck that things aren’t going to calm down so easily and so soon. “Shall anything happen, Y/n’s here to assist you the best she can while also trying to work on your public image and clear your name,”

“Shall anything happen,” Donghyuck snaps, “I can represent myself very well, you all know this already,”

You look at him, now that you have the proper opportunity to see him in real time, and not on a screen. It’s been so long since you last saw him in person, you’re almost in owe at how his features remained the same, yet they became bolder, stronger, more contoured. He matured, and it brought a glow to him that you never imagined possible — not to his annoying face, anyway.

Eyes have become fiercer, like they’ve seen so many things. His jaw is visibly more defined, stronger, and when it sets with annoyance it shows you just how much he’s changed. You saw this exact jaw so many times in the past, and with every little sign of contradiction coming from someone else against him, he acted the same — jaw setting when upset, tongue in his cheek when he was taking it lightheartedly.

You look at his hands, that have also changed over time. Veins are more prominent under his tanned, honey-like skin, jewellery now adorning his wrist and fingers with beautiful golden rings and bracelets complimenting his skin tone. 

It’s like he hasn’t changed when it comes to his behaviour, but physically he’s become something nearly out of this world — as much as you hate to admit it. Never in a thousand years were you thinking you’d ever be admitting to yourself how good-looking he’s gotten, and certainly you don’t plan to share your thought with anyone else. You guess you’ll have to take this secret to your grave, especially because you know that if your thoughts made it to his ears, you’d never know the end of it. 

“Haechan,” Another executive calls his name, as a warning. “This is Y/n’s job, not yours. I think you’ve done enough, ”

Donghyuck turns around to look at you, straight in the eye. Everything the execs are telling him, all the instructions and pieces of advice they’re directing his way, you know he’s not listening. He’s looking at you like he’s ready to take a bite out of you, and if you didn’t already know him and his ways you’d be afraid right now.

Instead, you pucker your lips trying to mask your smile, trying to keep a professional façade in front of everyone. 

What is he so worked up for, anyway? You ask yourself. No one said he’s not capable of representing himself, but you were literally hired for this kind of matters, and it’s ironic that he’s your very first client since becoming a corporate lawyer. 

You’re fairly certain Donghyuck has paid no attention to anything going on during this meeting, so you already know you’ll have to pay extra attention to everything he does until everything calms down.

As the meeting comes to an end, and everyone gets up to leave, Donghyuck doesn’t move — doesn’t even bid anyone goodbye as they exit the conference room. 

It’s just the two of you now, and you look at him as he watches every single movement of yours. The way you click on your retractable pen before putting it away in your tiny and fancy pencil case; the way you pile your files before putting them back inside your shoulder bag.

“Why are you here?” He rasps, still not relaxing in his seat. His elbows seem to be glued to the table as he keeps his fingers intertwined, not letting emotions betray him. Or so he hopes, because you know him pretty well to know he’s pissed by your presence. 

“Have you not been paying attention?” You mock him, raising your eyebrows at him, “I’m the corporate lawyer,”

He huffs a mocking breath, rolling his eyes at you before clicking his tongue, “I don’t need a lawyer,”

You sigh, suddenly at your limit after hearing him going on like a broken record, “You don’t. Yet.” You snatch your bag away from the table, gracefully placing it on your shoulder — albeit its heaviness, “You’re a fool if you think I’m here for you, though.”

“What?” He barks, not able to refrain anymore. He has so much pent up rage from the past few weeks that he’s been dying to let out, and you’re doing your best to make him snap. Just like the old days. “What does that even mean?”

“I thought you were smarter than this,” You reply, but it comes out more as a question dripping with mockery, and it has him pushing his tongue in the inside of his cheek, “I’m a corporate lawyer, which means that I’m protecting their interests and their image, not yours. I’m sure you already know how that works… When you get in trouble, they also do,” You remind him, and you’re not even sure why you have to go through this with him right now — he’s supposed to know all this stuff already. 

“I need to go now,” You announce, finally turning your back to him, “We’ll keep in touch,”

There’s a gram of satisfaction jubilating inside your body, and you can’t help the smirk that takes over your features as you leave him behind, knowing his ego and pride are now sore.

Haechan’s ears pick up a muffled sound, but he’s still too tired to care. He’s been home for a while, still on a leave, and he hasn’t seen you ever since you left the office with that arrogance that makes him want to climb walls. 

The muffled sound becomes clearer, like someone properly banging on his door, and he waits a few more moments praying that whoever is at his door will soon go away. He’s not expecting anyone, he’s sure security downstairs didn’t let anyone get to his door, yet the knocking is incessant — and it gets on his nerves.

His barefoot steps thud as he makes his way, dizzy and sleepy, towards the front door. He looks through the peephole before letting out a groan, but unlocks the door nonetheless.

“Why are you here?” He locks the door after you, and you kick your heels off, out of politeness, walking  down his entry hallway towards his living room. 

He lives in one of those luxurious buildings — and you didn’t expect less coming from a former prosecutor who made a fortune out of his job, and a fortune more from his new job in television. His living room has you fighting the urge to let out a low whistle in appreciation, and you throw a quick glance around trying not to be too obvious with your curiosity. Everything is tidy; the decor is neat, showing his personal taste with every item of eclectic furniture and memorabilia, and the place smells like him. 

You turn around on your heels, facing him once again, “You didn’t pick up my calls,” You explain, looking him up and down.

He snickers as he looks for his glasses around the living room. His hair is ruffled, his voice is raspy, and he’s still in his pyjama shorts — you definitely snatched him out of bed.

He sits on the couch, placing his glassed on the bridge of his nose before looking at you, “I don’t pick up calls from unknown callers,” He shrugs, getting more comfortable in his seat, but not offering you to take a sit.

Not that you would need him to offer you anything, not even an invitation. But because you’re in a hurry, you decide to just stand a few feet away from him. 

“I told you we’d keep in touch,” You bark, furrowing your eyebrows at him, “So didn’t you think that maybe, just maybe, your lawyer is the one calling?”

He shrugs, muffling a yawn, “You could have sent me an email,” 

“I did,” Your reply is dry, and you see him avoiding your gaze. “Go get ready, we’re going out,”

“Oh?” He squeals delighted, “Like a date?” He quips, grinning ear to ear, but stands up nonetheless.

You roll your eyes at him, “Just dress nicely,”

“Where are you taking me? I’m not a brunch person, I prefer candlelit dinners, you kn-” He’s interrupted by your steps, following him to his dressing room. “What are you doing?”

You let out the fakest, most mocking sound of endearment while looking at him and at how he keeps his hands over his clothed chest, as if you could see through his t-shirt.

“I didn’t realise you are a prude,” You mock him, looking at the enormous dressing room. “Go ahead, it’s not like I haven’t seen a man’s bare torso before,” You instruct him, and you can’t help but look at how an entire dresser is full of expensive suits and shirts made of Egyptian cotton. You suppress the need to let out a low whistle for the second time today, “I need you to look impeccable, I know the press is still after you. They can’t catch you lacking,”

He hums, and you’re sure he didn’t pay attention to what you just told him. That, or he just doesn’t care if he’s caught dressing like a homeless person. But it would be disastrous to his image, especially because most of his public appearances have been nothing short of perfect — and dressing badly right now could start discourse around press, and around everyone actively being against him. 

You see him pulling his white t-shirt off his back, tossing it on the loveseat in the corner of the room. 

Your eyes fall on his V line, out of instinct. It’s defined, it travels down to the waistband of his pyjama shorts, that are hanging dangerously low on his hips, and you feel like you can’t take your eyes off of him. Like there’s a magnetic force that doesn’t allow you to look away from him — and the same force has your eyes travelling across the waistband, gaze shifting to the happy trail on his lower abdomen.

You gulp, finally taking your eyes off his tanned skin, looking for something more appropriate to gawk at — like the vanity behind you. You turn around as if you didn’t just momentarily lose yourself in the sight of Donghyuck’s bare torso. 

If he noticed your gawking, he doesn’t say anything — and you go about your inspecting his vanity while he gets dressed, moaning about you invading his privacy. 

You look at the many bottles of perfumes scattered on the vanity, realising just how neat he is even with arranging his cologne and perfume bottles. You pick up a few, smelling them, and you’re instantly slapped by his usual scents — the ones he used back when you were students. 

“Excuse me, miss… sorry…” He mumbles while sliding up next to you and into your personal space, snatching the bottle of Diptyque from your grasp and spraying it on his bare chest and, surprisingly, all around himself.

You cough, stepping away from him, and you see how his slim fingers button his shirt up with dexterity. 

You shake your head, “Did you not apply deodorant?” 

A cocky smirk appears in the corner of his mouth, “I don’t need that,” He licks his lips, “You’ll learn that about me,” 

You throw him an incredulous look, “And how would I do that?”

That insufferable cocky smirk makes an appearance once again, and he shakes his head while styling his shirt, “There are a few ways. You’ll see… eventually,”

His cockiness irks you. You liked him better when he was sulking over the fact that you are his lawyer. 

You managed to book an important interview for him, one that can straighten his career back to the way it used to be. 

He’s going to talk about his old cases, he’s going to talk about all the times he helped people struggling with legal matters. He’s going to bring back all the good he’s done to society, and you’re sure that will stop the online hate train he’s still being the victim of. 

You explain everything to him, you line the whole plan down for him to understand, to know what he should expect from the interview. Given that today is going to be just about getting a new suit for the interview, you think he needs to have enough time to mull over his thoughts and possible answers involving the topics about his past. 

You also made sure they wouldn’t bring up the recent controversy — you made a clear script of topics to be addressed, you’ve made it clear to the producers. And you think this is the perfect opportunity for him to clear his name, save his career, and dodge any more criticism from the public. That, and the fact you know the editor working on said program, so it’s going to be easy to have everything under control. 

“As always,” You start, touching the collar of his shirt, styling it on his nape as he looks at himself in the big mirror, and your fingers comb through the strands of hair that are getting longer, “Don’t talk to the press. Ignore them, I know you have a big prosecuting mouth, but try your best not to make this even worse,”

Your words irk Donghyuck, who follows after you as you stand by his door, putting your heels back on before heading outside. 

You’re acting like he’s an idiot who runs his mouth. Like he doesn’t know what he has to do now that he’s walking on thin ice, and he wants to remind you that he’s been around the press more than you have.

“Stop bossing me around,” He rasps as he locks his front door, and you can tell that he’s getting worked up, by the way he’s pouting while talking. You walk ahead of him, going towards the lifts, “You show up to my place, dictating orders that I have to follow because you’re… my lawyer,” He barks, and it comes out more as a question, “You think you know best, but I’m not your puppy! I’m not following you around!” 

You stop in your tracks, and he nearly slams into your back as he doesn’t catch your pausing. You turn around, pouting at him. 

“I’m not asking you to follow me around, Donghyuck,” You mock him, posing and looking up at him, “You’re the one literally choosing to walk behind me, puppy boy,” You point your head at him, and you grab his cheeks with your free hand, squishing them together to make him pout, “You’re my puppy because you genuinely want to,” 

You turn around, heels clinking on the marbled floors of the hallways as you make your way towards the lifts once again, “Ya comin’?” You ask him without halting your steps.

Donghyuck stays still for a moment, right as and where you left him. He looks at the way you sway your hips as you walk down the hallway, and he feels like the collar of his shirt is strangling him. He’s very confident about what he said about not needing deodorant, but he didn’t think you’d have him in the palm of your hand, talking down to him and making him sweat.

He clears his throat, choosing to stay silent as he follows you, and the thought that he is your puppy is starting to be very convincing inside his brain. 

When interview day arrives, Donghyuck walks inside the studio like he owns the place — his usual confidence overflowing and becoming obvious even to the blind. 

You pull him by the sleeve. “Tone your ego down,” You whisper through your teeth, for him to hear, “Be humble,”

“I am humble,” He looks down at you, the proximity of your bodies making his minty breath fan down on your face. “Imagine just how insufferable I am when I don’t have to walk on glass,”

“Oh,” You push at his chest, taking a step back, “I don’t have to imagine,” You turn around, your back now facing him, and you roll your eyes out of frustration. 

He snorts, “I know you rolled your eyes at me,” He comments, voice low and raw with amusement. You turn around to look at him, and you see him grinning at you, pearly teeth on display as he tries to control his laughter, “You might not realise this yet, Y/n, but I know you,” He rasps, still amused, yet the glint in his eyes  seems serious.

His words dawn on you, and your stomach flutters — but you don’t want to overthink about his words and the implication behind them. There can be endless, and you choose not to think about any right now.

Donghyuck gets dragged towards the changing room, and you follow after him and the stylist. You keep a close eye on him. 

He’s leisurely making conversation with the stylist, making her ease into conversation and talk to him like they’re long lost friends. His innate gift of communicating is once again proven to you, and frankly to anyone else too. Even the ones mad at him seem to forget why they’re keeping away, once he opens his mouth. 

Such charms are a gift, but also a curse — judging by where it got him these days.

You look at him, all styled, all ready to go in his beautiful navy suit you personally handpicked for him a few days ago. The blue brings out the tan of his skin just perfectly; he smells like Diptyque once again, and his longer strands are styled beautifully in order to frame his face. 

You look up at him, while he plays with the buttons of his suit. The slope of his nose is perfect, and he pouts his full lips seemingly without realising, too busy paying attention to his sleeves.

You look at him in all his glory, and you let out a sigh. 

You place the palm of your hand right in between his shoulder blades, your other hand grabbing him by the base of his neck. You push on his back and at the base of his neck simultaneously, making him adjust his posture.

“Uh,” He huffs, and his eyes widen as gets startled by your sudden actions. He clears his throat, trying to fight a smile.

“You need to learn to stand up straight,” You judge, still pushing on his spine and throat.

He finally breaks, smirk obvious even to you, and you look up at him just in time to see him licking his bottom lip. 

“How’d you know I like this?” He provokes while smirking, looking down at you with the corner of his eye, but doesn’t change posture the moment you take your hands away from his body.

“Pervert,” You mumble, averting your gaze.

He chortles, turning around to look at you, posture still straight. He’s even taller than before, towering over you, and you hate that you have to look up at him.

“Oh c’mon!” He pulls you by the arm to get you to look at him, “You act like you weren't gawking at my naked body the other day,” He rasps lowly, keeping the banter between the two of you as you wait for him to be called for the interview, “I might be a pervert, but you’re not better than me!” 

His hands extend towards you, trying to grab you by the arms to get your attention — or any other reaction out of you — but you’re quick with your movements as you slap his hands away. He manages to grab you by the wrist, and you stop squirming as you feel his warm and velvety skin touching yours.

You look up at him, only to notice his eyes trailing across your features, and right after looking you straight in the eye for a few seconds, his gaze falls on your lips. His gaze is sultry as he doesn’t look away, he doesn’t even let go of your wrist, yet you become relaxed to his touch.

You feel your stomach fluttering. It’s the look in his eyes, it’s the tongue still playing on his bottom lip, his cologne flooding your senses thanks to the proximity of your bodies. Your senses are alert, he managed to wake them up with a simple touch, and you suddenly feel like hotness it starting to pool in the pit of your stomach.

Your doe eyes, and the slight blush of your cheeks are enough to rile Donghyuck up, and enough to give him a reason to believe that maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t feel so wrong. 

Just as you see him smirking once again, opening his mouth to let out something that you are sure is going to be pushing your buttons, he gets interrupted.

“Y/n?” A man’s voice snatches you out of the childish banter with Donghyuck, and you turn around to look for whoever just called your name. 

A big smile stretches on your face, “Sungchan!” 

The tall man takes a few steps, draping an arm around you, “You’re here, finally!” He smiles down at you, and then his gaze shifts towards Donghyuck, who's standing like a lost puppy behind you, “Lee Haechan! It’s so nice to finally get to meet you in person!” 

Donghyuck nods, seriousness suddenly taking over his features, and he looks at the tall man who’s now on the receiving end of all your attention. He seems like a positive person; a helper, maybe. Someone you can rely on at all times — but he doesn’t want to imagine you, of all people, relying on the man who has you grinning from eat to ear right now. It should be him, the source of your grinning and decompressing, not this person you probably don’t even know as well as you know him.

He feels hotness starting to bother him, creeping up his neck — all the way to his jaw and ears. He feels uncomfortable, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a long time. He starts feeling like a puppy once again, and he has the urge to take his tie off and possibly beat this man with it. Who cares if he adds one more controversy to the whole fiasco? Certainly not him, because he’s ready to do it if it means he has your attention back on himself.

Just as he’s ready to intervene in your conversation — even if he doesn’t know how, but he thinks he can find a way to ruin the shameless batting of eyelashes from your part — a voice calls for his name, announcing that he’s ready to go. 

You turn around to look at him one last time, signalling him to be calm and level headed. 

“I’ve always wanted to meet him!” Sungchan’s eyes sparkle while looking at the small screen as you follow the interview. 

Donghyuck makes pleasant jokes to break the ice, witty sarcasm dripping off the tip of his tongue, enamouring the host, and you know he’s safe. He’s got this — like always.

Your attention shifts to Sungchan. You met him a long time ago, fresh out of university, during language classes you picked up as a hobby. You bonded over common interests and the fact that you attended the same course allowed you to study together from time to time, and spend more time together.

But then you started becoming busier with your career, and attending those classes became close to impossible. You kept in touch with Sungchan, and now he promised he’d help you out with Donghyuck’s interview.

You take your eyes off the small screen yet again, once you hear Sungchan humming.

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” He asks, voice raw, “Would you like to have dinner with me?” 

You blink at him, and you try to keep your usual seriousness, but it becomes difficult when you notice how much his eyes are sparkling as he looks at you. You move your weight on your other leg, averting your gaze as you try to mask your delight. 

The interview will air in a couple of weeks, and by that time everything will calm down with Donghyuck’s issue. Plus, this gives you the perfect opportunity to discuss more about how you’d like the interview to come out.

“Pick me up at eight,” You tell him, smiling softly, right before your gaze returns to the small screen.

Time goes by, Sungchan eventually leaves the studio, and Donghyuck seems to have the host wrapped around his pinky finger. 

He waltz towards you, confidence coming out of every single pore on his skin, and he winks your way as he goes back to changing in his casual clothes. 

He’s relaxed, he’s his usual self as he bids everyone goodbye, and even stops to shake hands of a few executives, all while carrying his expensive suit over his shoulder. You watch him being in his natural habitat — surrounded by people, being loved and appreciated by them. He smiles, lips curving while his smile reaches his eyes as he tries to dodge certain topics and turn people down in the most polite way. And he has the tact for it, he has diplomacy, yet he has the easygoing humour that knows exactly when to attenuate conflictual topics.

You’re still wondering why he got himself in this position in the first place. Going from being a prosecutor — profession which, by the way, endowed him with all the skills he sports nowadays — to becoming a tv host who has easily fallen in disgrace, victim of sensitive judgement and especially of cancel culture.

“So,” He starts, approaching his Porsche in the parking lot, “Should we have dinner together, tomorrow? You know… to celebrate the fact that tonight was a success,” 

You raise your eyebrows, and you see the unfaltering glint in his eyes only getting bigger with excitement. You think it’s because your plan was successful, he enjoyed the interview, and it will be enough to clear up all sorts of confusion when it comes to his controversies. 

“I’d love to,” You start, and you think the glint in his eyes became even more sparkly, “But…” You suck air through your teeth, wrinkling your nose.

Donghyuck doesn’t like how you wrinkle your nose — or, to put it better, what it implies.

He nods insistingly, pushing you to continue, “I’m fairly sure you didn’t have anything planned,”

You shrug, “Sungchan kinda beat you to it,”

The sky falls on him. While he was following your orders, another man worked his charms on you? 

“You’re ditching me for someone you barely know?” He’s getting worked up, but he’s trying to keep it light by pushing his tongue in the inside on his cheek as he smiles with disbelief.

“Sungchan and I are friends,” You retort, suddenly not liking how you have to explain your life to Donghyuck — who has been a total stranger to you, and with whom you only reconnected a month ago.

“Friends?” He sniggers, disbelief making his voice high in pitch, “If you’re friends with him, then what does that make us?” 

“You’re my client, Donghyuck,” You spit out, arrogance matching his during his worst days. This is the first time Donghyuck hates the way you say his name. “I’ll call you soon. You better pick up my calls!” You warn him as your heels clink on the concrete, as you walk towards the exit.

And Donghyuck feels his insides churning as he thinks of what you’ve just told him. 

Unbelievable.

It’s unbelievable how he is at home, bored out of his mind, and you’re out on a what? A date?

He likes to think it’s just a simple chit-chat with an old friend, but he’s a man and he knows how the ones of his kind can get when there’s a pretty girl around. 

You called him his client, but he remembers how you called him a fool for believing you were his lawyer. 

Your usual biting back every time he tries to get closer hasn’t changed. Maybe you misunderstood his intentions, and no, this isn’t about him asking you out — because he totally did that, and was hoping you’d finally warm up to him. 

You literally rocked his world when you reappeared in his life, yet you’re now out with that Sung-something, and he feels like he is going to lose all progress made with you up until now. Is it a crime that he wants to crash your supposed date? That he doesn’t care if the press finds him wandering the streets as he looks for the restaurant that man took you out to?

Instead, he picks up his phone. He wants to send a text, just to make sure you’re having fun — but who is he kidding? He wants to send a text to bring your attention on him. 

How long have you known this Sung person for, anyway? Donghyuck bets the history between him and you feels heavier, fuller than whatever friendship you have with that guy because, after all, as much as you might not have liked it, you two were always around each other all those years back. 

He sighs, taking a sip from his glass of wine, and he lets his intrusive thoughts win. He dials your number,  but just as expected, you don’t pick up. So he insists, because that’s what he’s best at — pushing your buttons.

“You better be dying and for some reason I’m the last number in your recents,” You spit through gritted teeth, as you pick up his call. 

He smiles like a fool when he finally hears your voice, “I am dying,” He chuckles, playing with the rings on his fingers, “Dying to see you again,”

“Unbelievable,” You let out an outraged mumble. He can’t see you, but he knows you just rolled your eyes at his comeback. 

If only you could see him now, you’d see his pupils are the shape of hearts as his eyes glint just imagining you reacting to him. 

“Why did you call me? I’m kinda busy,” You burst his bubble, and he’s the one rolling his eyes now. Just the thought of your whereabouts and the company you keep right now is making his throat go dry.

“Oh, really?” He plays dumb, yet he knows he can’t fool you, “Was it tonight? I forgot about that,” He’s shameless, and he hears your scoffing.

“We literally talked about this last night, Hyuck,” His heart skips a bit at the way you call his name, because only people who are close to him can use his government name — and he certainly feels you being close to him, as much as neither of you have ever addressed this before. 

“I must have forgotten,” His tone drips with fake innocence, a pout forming on his plump lips. 

You hate that you can envision him right now — in his home attire, his fluffy hair unkept, only combed through by his fingers, glasses resting on the bridge of his pretty nose, bare feet taking steps between the living room and kitchen. 

“So, what? Are you on a date right now?” He challenges, finally letting you know why he’s calling. You make a sound that he takes as a confirmation of his fears, “With Mr Lanky?”

“Donghyuck!” You warn, outraged and tired. “You’re lucky he’s gone to the restroom and couldn’t hear this useless conversation,”

“Oh, I don’t know, gorgeous,” He smirks to himself, “He’s been gone for a while. What if he’s got the runs after talking to a gorgeous girl like yourself?” His tone is low and, as much as you want to hang up the call, his voice makes your stomach flutter. 

That, or the cheese soufflé is the one to blame. 

“Come by later,” He rasps, and you almost think you didn’t hear him right, “If things are disastrous and he really shat himself… just come by,”

And he doesn’t wait to hear your reply. He doesn’t want to hear a smart comeback coming from you, but he hopes you’ll come to him. 

And while you don’t show up to his place like he asked you, you certainly think about him for the rest of the night. Sungchan, who seemed like a knight in shiny armour when he picked you up, has suddenly shifted in your eyes — especially after the phone call from Donghyuck. 

Your energy deflects, you’re sure the man across the table picks up on this as well. The more you look at him, the more you realise he just isn’t what you want and what you need.

His jokes aren’t obtuse, offensive, or genuinely funny either. The sparkle in his eyes is there only when he talks about work, and you hate that you reached a point in which you’re comparing him to the obnoxious person hunting your mind. 

Truth be told, no one does it like him. You realise that even your past so-called rivalry between the two of you was something you missed while he was out there trying to conquer the world. 

Suddenly, the night seems wasted. The cheese soufflé too insipid, the steak too dry, the company not what you were hoping for. And not because Sungchan is a bad guy with an abysmal personality, but because he’s not Donghyuck. 

“Everything okay?” Sungchan asks you at some point, and you realise you haven’t been listening to him, and that he probably noticed. 

You nod, giving him a small smile, just hoping that it’s enough to fool you both. Everything seemed to be going well until Donghyuck called you. 

“Do you think you can send me a copy of the interview after you’re done with it?” You mumble absentmindedly, playing with the fork in your hand.

Sungchan smiles, teeth on display, “Y/n, I’m not here to talk about Haechan’s interview,” He announces, and a lump sets in your throat, “I wanted to have this opportunity to ask you out,”

Oh, you mouth as you find it difficult to keep your eyes on him.

He lets out a huff of laughter, albeit you know it’s not light and genuine, “But I guess it’s better if we keep  our friendship this way, right?” He’s hurt, but he’s faking it not to make you uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, Sungchan, I didn-” You try to explain but he shakes his hand, smile still present on his lips.

“No worries! I dropped it on you out of the blue, I apologise for that!” He doesn’t have to apologise for his feelings, yet he does — literally thinking that he made you uncomfortable with his small and innocent confession. 

Your chest suddenly hurts, and your eyes feel like they’re becoming fuller with unspoken feelings and emotions, and he pats your hand from across the table as he senses his mistake. 

“I don’t want you to feel bad, ‘kay? We’re just at different places in our lives, even if your and someone else’s are perfectly aligned right now! I just had to shoot my shot, I hope you can understand,” He’s awfully comforting, and somehow if feels even heavier inside your chest.

You try to shake this strange feeling away, but your insides start churning at the unbearable thought that you rejected the man in front of you, and at the thought of your bubbling feelings that need to be addressed soon.  

The door swings open, and you already think this is a bad idea. The smirk in the corner of his mouth confirms that maybe you were better off at home, in your pyjamas.

It’s been a few days since you last spoke to Donghyuck, and as much as you hate do admit it, your last interaction with Sungchan planted a thought in your brain. One that you can’t really ignore. Instead, you show up to his doorstep trying to get the answers you need.

“Wowza, gorgeous!” Donghyuck smirks, eyeing you from head to toe. He moves away from the doorway, allowing you to walk in, and you stop by the entrance. “I think you really like my place, that’s why you drop by all the time,” He rasps, eyes glinting, “That, or maybe you just like me,”

You roll your eyes, glance stopping on one picture by the entrance — that you didn’t notice last time you were here. Probably because his sleepy figure was standing in front of it, unknowingly blocking your view. You recognise the picture, it’s one of the last pictures you took with your friends as a whole group, back during your university years — before Jaemin relocated to another big city, before one of your girl friends got herself into rehab; back when everything seemed normal and felt whole. You spot yourself in a corner, hugging Jaemin and Yizhuo — your closest friends during university — and you spot Donghyuck in the other corner, smiling at the camera like he’s the sun itself. 

It was one of the last outings you did as a group, right before graduation, and right before life got busy for all of you. Looking at all the faces in the picture, you realise that was one of the best trips you took, and you think of all the times Donghyuck made the outings better and less boring. 

He sees how you’re getting lost in the nostalgia of the past, as your gaze travels along the faces in the picture. Truth be told, that picture is there for one reason only, and said reason is now looking at it with eyes full of emotion. 

He looks at you once again. You look spectacular — black dress that kisses your curves and shapes the right way, your naked shoulders seem so soft and smooth and he has to fight the thought of what your skin might feel like under the burning skin of his hands. 

You’re gorgeous, and a lump forms in his throat as he feels like you’ve never been more unattainable than right now.

Are you… perhaps…

“Going on a date?” He can’t help but ask. He sees as your gaze moves from the picture, to look at him, and you put the frame down, “How’s skid marks?” His tone is bored as he turns around to walk towards his kitchen island.

You take your heels off, and you follow him towards his kitchen with angry patters as your bare feet take steps on the hardwood floor. 

“Don’t call him that!” You bark, his nickname for Sungchan suddenly upsetting you, “Be nice, he’s helping us,” 

“Is he?” He asks, not interested in the slightest to hear your reply, “Is that why you’re going out on dates with him? Or is it because he’s your friend and I’m your client?” Suddenly he’s attentive like a vulture — he wants to hear your reply to this one question.

“Can you be serious for one moment?” You question, not wanting to bicker with him right now. 

His cocky smirk makes an appearance, “I’m a prosecutor, Y/n. I can see you’re stalling,” He retorts, and he takes pleasure in seeing you biting your bottom lip, trying your best not to snap at him. “But alright, gorgeous. To what do I owe the immense pleasure of having you here tonight?” 

You shift your weight from one leg to the other, and your hands go to your dress before you can control yourself. 

“I was promised a dinner,” You purr, matter-of-factly. 

Donghyuck wants to grin, but fights it. How did you manage to stay out of his life for so long? It’s beyond his understanding. You make him want to start howling at the moon like a depraved dog, which reminds him of how you called him a puppy before.

And remembering the way you looked up at him as you did so, touching him, talking down to him — it literally gives Donghyuck goosebumps. But he’s not ready to admit this to anyone other than himself so, instead, he does what he knows best — he acts like he’s unfazed. 

He gets ready, as you look around his place. Despite him being home ever since he was put on unpaid leave, the whole place is spotless. You think it’s because he’s been living off take out all this time, and that he’s used one or maybe two cups to drink from, but you’re impressed either way.

He shows up wearing a tux, and he steps out of his dressing room manoeuvring a bow tie.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You fake a gasp, “I didn’t know we were attending the fucking Oscars!” 

He’s in front of the mirror, styling his bow tie while looking at you through the mirror. His eyes are piercing, he doesn’t dare look away — eyes locked onto yours — and he smirks.

“You did it first,” He points at your dress, “You thought we’d be staying in with you looking like that?!” He exaggerates, wrinkling his nose, “No way, baby,”

“Don’t call me that,” You mumble, moving towards the door, but you grab him by the sleeve to get his attention on you, “But do you think this is a good idea? Going out right now… with you and your problems?”

“Y/n,” He sighs, quickly checking his pockets for everything he needs before heading out, “You have to know me better than this by now… to know that it’s been so long that I don’t give a fuck anymore,” He opens the door for you, and this time you wait for him by the door, instead of walking in front of him towards the lifts, “And I can get us a table literally anywhere. Name the nicest place you wanna go to, and we can get in,”

“I think that’d be the case if you weren’t a prosecutor who turned into a disgraced tv personality,” You ridicule him as you walk on the long hallway, but he doesn’t seem too offended by it. You might be right, anyway. 

“It’s worth trying, at least,” He shrugs, and then he turns around to look at you with that cocky smirk that’s so typical him.

“What?” You sigh, looking at the led arrows signalling where the lift is coming from.

“So basically you admitted to showing up looking like trouble, thinking we’d be staying home?” He rasps, stupid grin of victory on his face, and then he tsks, “You just wanted to seduce me,”

You punch him in the stomach, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, you step inside the lift before he can register what you’re doing, “Let’s see how seduced you get by me making you take the stairs,” And you press the button, urging the doors to close before he can stop them with his foot or hand.

“That wasn’t very nice,” He retorts when you’re finally out on the street. 

You discovered he has four luxury cars parked in the underground parking lot of his building, and given your dress code tonight, he went straight to the Porsche.

“But you did it nonetheless,” You point out, looking at the pedestrians crossing the street, “Just like a puppy,”

He doesn’t even fight it, because he knows you’re right. Instead, he chooses to ignore it for his own good. 

He looks at you, as the red lights from the cars ahead contour your pretty features. And to think that out of endless possibilities you got back into his life by being his lawyer makes him feel like becoming a disgraced tv personality really helped him in his destiny. If it weren’t for his big, problematic mouth, he would have been alone and miserable right now — in his luxurious apartment, with his four cars parked underground, with lavish dinners and a reckless dating style. Instead, you showed up.

He can’t and won’t take it for granted. 

“Where are you taking me?” Your voice is small, almost as if your mind is somewhere else.

“I have a few options, if they take us in,” He jokes, using your words, “Is there something you’re craving, gorgeous?”

You actually think about it. As you take your sweet time trying to think of something, your glance wanders around his car — and it finally lands on Donghyuck. 

He’s relaxed, even as he speeds. His tux brings a certain air to him, like he’s the most expensive and most untouchable man on this entire planet. Confidence oozes from all his pores, even as he does nothing but keep a hand on the steering wheel — and you feel your insides churning, but you desperately hope for it to be because of hunger.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” You speak up before you can control yourself. His curiosity makes him throw you quick glances before his eyes go back to the road, seemingly taken by surprise by your change of tone. This isn’t going to be about food, and he knows it, “You were too good at what you were doing for you to be remembered by the public as nothing but a fragment of a proper scandal. It actually upsets me,”

Donghyuck doesn’t know what to answer, mainly because he doesn’t see it as you. He’s sorry you’re upset about this matter, and he wishes he could take it all away from you. He also wishes he could speak up and have a proper conversation about this topic and why he thinks you’re wrong, but it’s like his lips are sealed when it comes to speaking up about the matter. 

He didn’t know you cared about him, or anything involving him — including his career — this much.

His silence feels heavy as your ears start ringing waiting for his answer, and it never comes. You’re left waiting as you listen to the purring of his Porsche’s engine, and at the way he breathes evenly — not rushed, not panicked, not even upset. He just breathes as he refuses to make any kind of comment to what you just told him. Did you really think that opening up about this to the guy with the biggest ego in the world was a good idea?

Too lost into your own worries and overthinking, you fail to notice how the car slows down, and then you finally notice him carefully looking for somewhere to park. You look outside the window, not recognising this side of the city.

“Do you remember the greasy, meat sandwiches we had on our last trip together?” He asks, and he actually sees how your gaze starts sparkling at the memory he just brought up, “It’s one of the things I’ve been craving the most lately, thinking about that day. And luckily for us, this guy right here seems to have the exact recipe,” 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be having sandwiches with Donghyuck at the outskirts of the city, bought right from a street food truck, while the grease trailed down your forearms as you tried to keep it away from your outfit. Because obviously, looking straight out of a fashion magazine, like you’re ready to go to a charity gala and eat the most expensive food ever served to you could ever compare to seeing melted cheese and grease smudged on Donghyuck’s cheeks as he chewed his bite.

The first bite taken from your sandwich almost got a moan out of you, while Donghyuck’s got a proper grunt out of him. 

It feels almost painful to admit that he’s right thinking this was something you’d end up enjoying. It helps you go back to the past, when his smile was more carefree, when his jokes were even more obtuse than nowadays, when the sparkle brought to his eyes during classes or fights with you was more prominent. 

You know he’s hiding something, and you wish he’d open up to you — at least a little bit. But you don’t want him to shelter himself behind a shell you never knew he had. He’s always been loud, proud, morally upright — and something took that away from him. 

“Tell me this sandwich isn’t so much better than sex,” He moans, mouth absolutely full to the point it’s difficult for him to chew. 

You nearly knock the tall glass of non-alcoholic beer you’ve been sharing with him, and you give him a quizzical look.

“What kind of odd experiences have you been having?” Your tone is high in pitch, full of disbelief. 

“Oh, c’mon,” He swallows his bite, “Like you’ve never had a bad experience? With a man? Hard to believe,” 

“Were your bad experiences also with men?” You pout at him sympathetically, almost on the verge of pinching his cheek and ridiculing him.

He lets out a howl of laughter, almost choking, “Touché,” He comments, licking his lips, all content with the progression of your conversation. 

The interaction quiets down, and you see him eyeing you curiously before going back to his sandwich. But you know him just too well, and as expected, he throws the ball in your court after taking a big sip from your shared beer. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” He smiles softly, setting down his sandwich on the aluminium foil on the high table. When he sees you nodding, he waits a few more seconds, “Why did you not become a prosecutor?” He asks, cleaning his hands with a wet wipe — definitely needed in order to get rid of all the grease.

When he sees your questioning gaze, seemingly not understanding the question — or where it’s coming from, he clears his throat. “I mean, you had the skills. You and I were unbeatable at what we were doing, so when I didn’t see you in the field as one of my colleagues, I got worried. I was thinking you wasted so much potential being God knows where, doing God knows what. I had no idea of your whereabouts because, God is my witness, I really looked for you as a last resort to try and reach out and make you change your mind,” He rasps, but his tone is gentle, and it brings you comfort, “So where the hell have you been?”

You guess this is a good start for the candid conversation you were planning on starting with him, but didn’t know how to approach him first. Almost because you opened a small door earlier, during the car ride, and he seemed like he closed it shut in the blink of an eye. 

You set your sandwich down on the foil, right next to his, and you grab one of the wet wipes he extends towards you. 

“Becoming a prosecutor was never my goal,” You admit, cleaning the corners of your mouth, “I always wanted to study law to help the underprivileged. Yes, prosecuting bad guys always seems like the best choice when you think of a career in law and the whole concept of justice. But what about the people who can’t afford to be represented in court by someone who’s actually capable and confident with their skills? What about the NPO’s and charities that need someone to represent them? What about the people?”

He looks at you, at the small crease between your brows as you get so passionate about your love for your job, and he has the next question he wants to ask you, on the tip of his tongue. Yet you beat him to it.

“Why did you throw out a successful and rewarding career? Just to become a tv host?” You ask him. This question has been bothering you ever since you stumbled upon his show on television, right after he gave up his career.

“It’s more complicated than that,” He gives you a tight-lipped smile, and you understand that it really doesn’t come easy to him to open up about this change. So it really wasn’t about him loving being in the centre of attention on television, and the shift to a career in this field that could mean fulfilling this crazy need for attention faster. You judged him too harshly, even if it’s just Donghyuck.

“Then open up to me!” You plead, because it’s something you need to understand about him, “I’m the one that can understand you on this, better than anyone else,”

You’re right. Donghyuck knows this, and as much as he would have loved to tease you a bit for your choice of words and wanting to get closer to him, he refrains, understanding this is not the right time for this, for neither one of you.

“Everything was going well, I was on a roll,” He starts, finally giving in. If he wants to get somewhere with you, anywhere near where he wants you two to be, he needs to open up and finally face his past. “My success rate was unbeatable and, as you might have seen, they even talked me into helping people on national television,” He looks straight ahead, thinking of the past few years and what he’s gone through, “They made me their product and I enjoyed the money and the attention, this is one of the truths,” He clears his throat, reaching for the cold beer.

So what? Is that all he has to say about this drastic change in his life? You wonder to yourself. Were you right from the beginning? Did he really do it for the attention?

“But another truth is that… I did something I can never forgive myself for, not even today,” His voice breaks, and he’s still avoiding your gaze, “One of the last cases I worked on was just… atrocious. We’re talking about abuse of the worst kind, and it all ended with murder. This motherfucker murdered his entire family… and he got away with it,”

Realising the gravity of the story he’s telling you, you keep your mouth shut. 

He takes a big breath, “Someone tampered with key pieces of evidence in the case, so he walked out of court almost trotting. That piece of shit was beaming with satisfaction, and for the first time ever I could do nothing about it,” 

Your weight shifts from one leg, to the other, “Any internal investigation that could find the culprit?”

He nods, finally looking at you, and you get to see just how affected he still is by the whole matter, even if it’s been a while since it happened. Something this big always stays with you. 

He licks his lips, “Of course! I started an internal investigation to find answers, but then after a while I got a call from my higher ups telling me to drop it,” He pauses for a few seconds, and then lets out a ridiculing scoff, “Of course I didn’t! What kind of prosecutor with a moral compass does that?!” 

You think you have a faint idea of where this story is headed. He’s getting upset, eyebrows furrowed as he recalls his past.

“It took a call from a politician to threaten me, for me to stop the investigation. That’s also when I decided to quit,” His voice is small, yet upset. 

He’s playing with a peace of foil on the table, wrinkling and then smoothing it, and your eyes fall on his crooked pinky.

“But!” He snaps, suddenly back to having a good mood, and the enthusiasm takes you by surprise. “My turn!” He picks up your sandwich, taking a bite of it. “Why did you quit your career to become a corporate lawyer?” His mouth is full, but you understand him nonetheless. 

He keeps his eyes on you as you pick up his sandwich, and you shrug, “I needed a change,” You avert your gaze, looking at where his teeth sank into the soft bread, “I needed to see if there were more exciting things out there,”

“And how did that work out for you?” He giggles, thinking of the irony of your choice. You wanted to help the underprivileged, yet you ended up working for a corporation straight out of hell. 

He looks at you, and he can’t believe just how beautiful you are. You features are so soft in the food truck’s lighting, your skin literally shines in the cold hues. 

He sees you taking a bite from the sandwich you’re holding — his sandwich, and a smirk plays in the corner of his mouth.

“You know we’re basically kissing right now, right?” He rasps, squinting his eyes at you while he sports a shit-eating grin.

You roll your eyes at him, “Your kiss is greasy,” You retort almost instantly, dropping the last bits of sandwich back on the foil, and you clean the corners of your mouth. 

“Yours is worse,” He mumbles, side eyeing you. 

“What are you even talking about?” You’re confused by his nonsense, eyes scanning him from head to toe as he takes another bite from your sandwich. 

You find yourself gawking once again. He seems so relaxed, so comfortable around you, so confident even to be in public making a mess on his face when literally anybody can see him — not just you anymore. 

And it hits you. Since when did you think you and him were close enough to imagine yourself as the sole person allowed to see him in all sorts of circumstances? Your long history of knowing each other has never properly allowed you to go there with your thoughts, and yet you did — and it makes you feel completely out of place. 

Yet for some reason, you’ve always felt comfortable around him. Thinking of it now that he shuts up and lets you be alone with your thoughts for a little bit, you think of the past. Never, not even once — not even when you wanted to kill him for starting a contradicting argument for his sole entertainment — did you feel like he repulsed you. 

“See for yourself,” He bursts your bubble, and your eyes get back in focus as you look at his tan forearms, while he extends your sandwich towards you. “I know you didn’t believe me. Take a bite,” 

You throw him a skeptical look, and you see his eyes studying your face closely, searching for something. But you give in, nonetheless. And you touch his hand as he directs the sandwich to your lips.

And then, he snatches his hand away, his lips smacking yours instead. It happens in a split second, and you don’t even have the time to register it happening, but it doesn't feel bad, or wrong. He retracts for a bit, the hand holding the greasy piece of bread far away from your figure, and he grabs your chin with his fingers.

His thumb travels, caressing his way up from your chin to your bottom lip, and he keeps studying your face for any sign that this might not be what you want right now. And the moment he feels your eyes on his lips, and sees you kicking your lips out of habit, he bends down once again.

His kiss is fervent, almost desperate, like he feeds off of it. His lips are just as plump and soft as you thought they would be, and you don’t even think twice before parting your lips, granting him access. It feels hot, something you’ve never experienced before — not from a single kiss, anyway. 

His free hand travels towards the side of your face, fingers combing through your hair to pull you even closer. His abilities are to be praised right now, as he gets to control you to get you to do anything he puts his mind to with one hand only, the other still kept away from your bodies. 

The kiss gets deeper and heated fast, while neither one of you feels like pulling away. This might be a monumental mistake, but it surely doesn’t feel like that right now. Right now, you think you’re exactly where you want to be — while Donghyuck is absolutely certain he is where he’s always wanted to be. 

Your hands go up his neck, which has gotten incredibly hot, and you keep him close to yourself as your fingers play with the longer strands of hair from behind his ears. He grunts into the kiss, and you suddenly become breathless.

He retracts slightly, eyes still closed as he keeps giving you small pecks, allowing the both of you to get your breathing back to normal, as gracefully as possible. 

“Was my kiss greasy?” He rasps, tone low sending shivers down your spine.

You gulp, keeping your eyes closed, “No,” You shake your head almost imperceptibly, but he feels you moving your face in his grip, “But your greasy hand is in my hair,” You open your eyes just a bit, looking at him through your lashes, and you see him smirking.

“Shhhh, don’t ruin our moment,” He nudges your nose with his, then going back to pecking your lips.

And you give in once again, feeling his fingers pulling you towards him.

Your leg bounces as you sit on one of the leather armchairs in the waiting room, right outside of your boss’s office. 

Anxiety is pooling in the pit of your stomach like never before, not even when you had stressful cases on your hands did you ever feel like this. It makes you sweat, it makes you want to throw up, especially because you know you’re in big trouble.

You woke up with a terrible headache, like your body was preparing you for impact first thing in the morning, like it was giving you a sign that a shit storm was coming your way and that the headache was just the tip of the iceberg. 

And then you checked your phone. Texts, missed calls from Johnny, articles about you and Donghyuck. Apparently all the times you warned him about the press being on his trails should have been a reminder for you as well, because you appear together in all the pictures published. 

Pictures of you and him strolling around the street, pictures of you and him spotted shopping together. Pictures of you two at the studio, when the two of you were bickering, except no one knows that. From the looks of it, it seems like you two are being very close, to the point of Donghyuck grabbing you — which is totally true, but the circumstances were absolutely different than what they’re being made to seem like in these pictures. And then, the worst of all, pictures from two nights ago, when you and Donghyuck made out in the middle of the night right in front of the food truck, and then in his car — and there’s no excuse or any other explanation for these last pictures, there’s no way you can deny it. It’s all out there for everyone to see, like a reminder that lines have been crossed and you acted recklessly. 

You didn’t even try to call him, to try and talk to him about this, to try to find a version of a story plausible as to why the two of you — a lawyer and her client — were eating each other’s faces the other night. 

Instead, you called Johnny and came to the headquarters as soon as you managed to calm down the erratic  beating of your heart. 

You’re sure everyone around has heard the news or seen the pictures, and you fear of what they might be thinking of you right now. You’ve never been a fan of judgement, and being in the limelight now makes you incredibly anxious. 

Your temples are still throbbing, your throat is dry, and it feels like you’re living a nightmare. And right as you think about this, the lift dings, announcing someone is about to come out, and then you see him — your real nightmare. 

The man that turned your world upside down with just a smack of lips and a foul mouth full of smart comebacks and obnoxious jokes. He spots you right as he steps out of the lift.

“Good morning, gorgeous!” He takes a seat right next to you, on the other armchair, “What brings you here so early?” 

You look at him, genuinely wondering what is wrong with him. He looks at you like an innocent puppy, eyebrows raised and lips pouting, all while he swings his leg from left to right as he sits leisurely. 

“Are you being for real right now? Did you not see the news?” You bark at him, ready to start punching him. You’re at your limit, and he’s on very thin ice right now. 

He shakes his head, shrugging with innocence, “Johnny called me in as soon as I woke up, so I didn’t really have the time to be on my phone,” He explains, and you believe him — knowing that he’s not the type to be on his phone, given all the times he hasn’t picked up your calls or replied to your work emails as proof of this. “Why? What happened?” 

“You and I happened,” You point your index finger, moving it between you two.

“Right,” He smirks, and you genuinely think he’s doing it to provoke you into hurting him, “It certainly is a good morning!”

“Hyuck!” You slap his leg, turning towards him. The crease on your forehead is terribly cute to him, and he feels an urge to kiss your worries away — even if it might put his life in danger. “This is serious. There are pictures everywhere! We’re in so much trouble, and Johnny has been on the phone all morning,” You explain, and then you sigh, “What do you think they’re gonna do to us?”

He looks at you like he doesn’t understand what it is you want from him, “I don’t know, gorgeous,” He shrugs, feigning innocence, “They might have to hang us right outside this building,”

“See?! This is exactly the kind of shit you end up saying that gets you in trouble!” You cry, getting upset with him not taking anything seriously. 

He can see you’re getting worked up over this issue, and even if he feels bad for upsetting you with his jokes, he finds it incredibly endearing for some reason.

“You’re right, but let me ask you a question,” He turns his body to face yours, almost sitting on the edge of the cushion, “Now that we’re addressing this properly,” He moves his hand between your bodies, “My joke from that night wasn’t that bad, right?”

You roll your eyes, looking the other way as you try not to snap at him, “No, it was pretty good actually,” You confess, remembering that after the initial shock of seeing him making such joke on national television subsided, you let out a howl of laughter, “Too bad some people have boundaries they don’t joke about,”

“Thank you!” He lets out a sigh of relief, relaxing into his seat, almost as if your last line didn’t make it to his ears, “I agree that I should have made that joke in a different environment, but the backlash was too strong for just a simple joke,” He concludes, mumbling as if he wants you to know he’s not that bad as a person. 

The office door opens, and a very stressed Johnny appears in the doorway, “Y/n, get in,” He calls your name, but his gaze shifts to Donghyuck, “Great, you’re here too,” He doesn’t seem too ecstatic, and Donghyuck certainly does not appreciate the coldness of his boss’s tone, “Get in,”

You enter the office, taking a seat on the velvety couch in the corner of Johnny’s office. He sits across from you, and gives you a smile.

“I’d say we have a problem,” He relaxes into his seat, crossing his legs.

“And I’d agree,” You reply, noticing with the corner of your eye how Donghyuck’s head snaps to the side to look at you.

Johnny nods in understanding, seemingly content that you’re on the same page regarding this issue, “But we’d both be so wrong!”

“What?” You squeak, getting on the edge of your seat. You’re so confused right now, you squirm your eyes while looking at your boss. 

“See, dearest… the dating scandal brought you into the limelight, and people seem to be talking about you more than Haechan’s controversial joke,” Johnny explains, and you still don’t understand what the good part is to all this, “People are going to be curious about your life, and truth be told Y/n, your record is impeccable. They’ll talk about you, they’ll say you’re the perfect match for Haechan, and everything will calm down.” He claps his hands, satisfied with his explanation, “See? Everything will work out perfectly! I talked to our PR team and, between us, this is the perfect move! How did you end up thinking of this? This was a genius move!” 

You look at him, still confused, and then your gaze shifts to look at Donghyuck, who looks back at you just as confused. 

“Erm…” You clear your throat, tilting your head, “We didn’t do it as a PR move,” You explain, still very much confused. So much that your words come out as a question. 

Johnny opens his mouth, surprised, and then points at you, “Oh well, in this case… Congrats!” He looks at Donghyuck, “And good luck to you!” He eyes you this time, still smiling.

After being dismissed from Johnny’s office, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. The headache is now gone, you feel like you can finally go back to relaxing after an entire morning spent thinking you’re three heartbeats away from having a stroke. 

You’re pretty much at peace with the fact that they’re going to focus on desiccating your past for a while, thus giving Donghyuck a bit of space after a long time. You’re not as problematic, you don’t make bad jokes, you’ve always been in your lane — and have always done your best to be respectful and good at doing your job, as best as you could. You’re sure that your life isn’t nearly as fascinating as Donghyuck’s, but you really don’t mind. 

Even as you walk inside his luxurious building and towards his apartment, Donghyuck follows your steps. He smiles at the thought that, even after weeks, he’s still following you wherever you’re going — and it doesn’t matter that you don’t have a key to his place. He looks at how determined your strut is, like the place is yours and not the other way around.

“What?” You ask him, not accustomed to having him silenced for so long. 

“Nothing,” He opens the door for you to walk in, still in front of him, “I might have to give you a key to my place,” He says nonchalantly, like it’s not a big deal.

You choke on air, and you turn around to give him a horrified look, “A key?! Already?” You’re in disbelief, and quite frankly terrified of this man’s pace, “We haven’t talked about this stuff yet,”

“What is there to talk about?” He asks, and he seems genuinely confused. He seems relaxed, very comfortable with your presence even if you haven’t even been able to define your relationship yet. 

“This,” You point your finger at him, and then towards yourself, “We haven’t even defined what we are. We have stuff to talk about, and steps to take,”

He snaps his head to look at you, shaking it all confused and with his eyes squinting, “Again… what is there to talk about? Just move in, gorgeous, we can talk at home,” He’s serious as he approaches you, grabbing you by the chin before he guides your face to get closer to his.

His lips capture yours in a sweet yet passionate kiss. They're soft on top of yours, and for a moment he gets lost in the taste of your lip balm, “Is this enough to label us?” He rasps, letting you go before he starts heading towards his dressing room.

When you fail to answer, he comes back, bare feet loud on the hardwood floor, “You’re stalling. Again,” He warns, getting closer to you once again, “I don’t like that. I want things to be quick, precise, orderly. And I want you, Y/n,” 

His confession sets a lump in your throat that’s hard to gulp down, words suddenly too difficult to get out of you.

“Years passed and regrets amassed, and not acting upon my desires at the right time made me miserable. I don’t want that for myself, and I thought my intentions were clear enough for you to understand that I don’t need a label to define us, because I quite literally want to put the world at your feet, Y/n,” He speaks, and you try to fight a smile from creeping up on your features, “You came back into my life and you rocked my world and knocked some sense into me, one that was long forgotten and which I ended up despising. I will not sit back and watch you slip through my fingers again,”

He looks silly, but it makes your chest fill with warmth as you see his pout while he concludes his statement. He’s standing in front of you, wearing his pyjama shorts which he managed to change into right before he felt the need to come back and chew your ears off, and he’s still wearing his light blue shirt, cardigan discarded of as soon as he stepped back inside. 

“This reminds me just how good you are with argumentation,” You grin, but he knows you heard him loud and clear, and you’re not out the door — so that must mean you’re not turning him down, “Is this gonna be our thing? We get off complimenting each other on our argumentation skills?” The thought seems horrifying, but it gets a snort of laughter out of Donghyuck, nonetheless.

He shakes his head, unbuttoning his shirt. “I have a few other ways to get us off,”

“Is that so?” You purr, desire suddenly making your insides melt. 

Your eyes fall on the tanned skin of his chest, trailing all the way down to your favourite spot — the V line. He gets closer to you with dangerously slow steps, like he has you exactly where he wants, where he’s planned to have you all along. 

Just one quick glance up to his face, with your gaze locking into his, and the look he’s giving you makes you suddenly want to avert your gaze. He’s confident, proud, standing upright, walking towards you like he’s literally going to take a bite out of you — not that you would mind, anyway.

He stops in front of you, his breath hitting your face as you suddenly feel small, shy to look up at him. His gaze feels intimidating, and makes your skin burn with desire, your flimsy blouse suddenly too clingy and too uncomfortable on your skin. 

“I need to know, gorgeous,” He mumbles, slender fingers playing with a strand of your hair, pushing it back behind your ear, “What about that spare key,”

You hum with delight, stretching your arms around his neck, glueing your clothed chest to his bare one, and his hands travel hungrily behind your back with a tight grip.

“I think I’ll have no choice but to agree. The prosecution side had a very compelling argument,” You sing, finally looking up at him, and he keeps his mouth awfully close to yours, but your lips don’t touch.

He hums, nose nudging yours, and you can feel his fingers traveling under your blouse, fingertips touching your ardent skin and giving you goosebumps.

It makes you literally burn up with desire. His fingers squeeze your sides and the pressure feels almost too good given the force with which he’s doing it, all because of how much he wants you right now. His arms are around you in a split second, and you don’t even realise he’s taken you off the ground, determined steps making their way towards where you suppose his bedroom is. 

Normally, you’d look around yourself, but right now your mouth is too busy on his, tongues clashing as he moans into the kiss. Your fingers travel around his nape, up all the way into his hair, pulling gently at his strands — getting a proper grunt out of him. 

He puts you down, bare feet planted on what feels like a rug right by the foot of the bed, and he plays with the waistband of your pants, pulling them down but leaving your panties on.

 You push him back on the bed, and you get on top of him — you can feel he’s already rock hard, and your mouth is literally watering at the thought of tasting him. His hot mouth is on your neck, tongue playing around and leaving wet trails everywhere it can get, one of his free hands travels to your back to unhook your bra, helping you getting rid of your blouse and bra in a split second. 

You feel like you’re on a cloud, high on desire and pleasure — he could literally manoeuvre you around and you wouldn’t realise. His hands keep you steady on his lap, on top of his hard-on, not allowing you to move because he’d quite literally lose his mind if you gave him even the slightest friction. 

He keeps his mouth busy, lips kissing the plush of your breasts before his mouth latches onto your nipple, and he grunts with pleasure now that it finally dawns on him that he’s getting all of you to himself.

“So, so gorgeous, my baby,” He breathes on your swollen nip, right before his mouth latches onto the other, and hearing his airy praise from him has you moaning, head tilted to the side as you get lost in the pleasure, and you can’t help but move your hips on top of his lap.

He moans, fingers digging forcefully into your hips to stop you, yet the force with which he’s doing it makes you even more aroused. 

His moan vibrates around your nipple, and you push at his shoulders slightly, clearly giving him instructions on what to do. All the bullshit he pulled a while back about being your puppy and not taking orders from you? Totally bluffing. The man would do anything you’d ask of him, no questions asked.

You look at him in all his glory, admiring every single inch of his skin. Your fingers travel to the waistband of his pyjama shorts, and your nails pull at it, trying to move them out of the way. With a tiny bit of help from him, you managed to discard of the clothing item right before your gaze falls back on him, and you nearly let a gasp escape you.

Perfectly girthy, one vein travels from the base of his cock all the way up to his leaking tip. Trimmed at the base, his happy trail travels up his lower stomach, and you can’t resist the urge to graze it with your nail — going from his belly all the way back to the base of his cock, where you gently grab him. 

You bend down on top of him, and he doesn’t hesitate to capture your lips in a messy, desperate kiss. But you don’t allow him to enjoy your lips for too long, as they move down to travel on his jaw and across his chest, breath fanning over all the wet spots your lips leave behind. You finally stop your journey on his chest, where you playfully graze his nip with your teeth, while your eager hand gets back on his cock, squeezing his base lightly before travelling further down, making him grunt at the feeling. 

“Stop,” He’s out of breath, and the sound of his voice — laced with desperation and lust — makes your walls throb around nothing, “Please,” He pleads, throwing his head back.

The image of him being totally at your mercy makes you feral, almost like you want to continue your ministrations just to get more out of him. But it’s too much even for you, at least for right now, so you take pity on both of you.

You bend down, kissing his tip quickly before you take him inside the warmth of your mouth.

“Fuck!” He bucks his hips up, “I don’t think you should do this,” He’s almost crying, and his hands go up to his head in order to grab strands of hair he can pull at. 

But you ignore him. Flattening you tongue as you take all of him, you indulge in the pleasure of finally being able to suck him off. Salty and heavy on your tongue as you move your head up and down slowly, you moan around him, and for a moment you think Donghyuck is going to throw you off and away from himself.

You touch him one last time after you release his cock with a pop!, and he lands forcefully on his back once again.

“I think you’ll be the death of me,” He mumbles, breathlessly as he lays unmoving, waiting to catch his breath a bit. He’s painfully hard, tip still leaking with precum, but he raises his head when he feels you getting on top of him. “No,” He shakes his head, “Wanna taste you first,”

You feel like you could cry. You want to have him in all the ways possible, yet it’s becoming unbearable for you to be deprived of any proper friction. 

“Maybe later,” You tell him, already sliding your panties down your legs, “I need to feel you inside of me,” You moan as you sit on him for a bit, and he swears he can feel your clit throbbing on top of his unmoving and hard shaft.

You align him at your entrance, throwing your soaked panties at his head — and he doesn’t even bother to catch them on time. They land on his face, and he only moves one hand to grab them and keep them close for just a tiny bit to be able to smell your scent.

His eyes become glossy the moment you sink down on him, painfully slowly, and he can’t help the moan that rumbles out of his chest. 

“Fuck, fuck, baby,” He curses through gritted teeth, sucking his stomach in a few times, “I don’t think I can- I don’t think I’ll last,”

He overestimates your willpower right now, because he’s not aware that your insides are melting with lust and pleasure, feeling the need to feel him all the way deeply inside of you.

The moment you start undulating your hips, walls squeezing him deliciously, he looks down at where your bodies meet, and he can’t help himself from bringing his thumb so you can get off faster. You moan at the friction his thumb provides you every time your clit hits against it as you move your hips, and he swears the sounds you’re making are not helping his cause right now, already feeling like he’s on the verge of spilling inside of you.

Instead, his thumb does the right thing, and you reach your climax fast, surprising him. It comes in powerful, delightful waves that are prodding you to go on and continue your movements, and Donghyuck is too lost in the image of you climaxing on top of him to remember to take his thumb away from your sensitive clit.

Your thighs are burning, everything below the belt feels like it’s about to melt, but you stretch your hands up to his chest as your hips keep rocking on top of his. He’s speechless, he’s feeling too many things, especially because he’s been on the receiving end all the time, and this way he found it easier to get lost in all the pleasure he’s been feeling. 

He raises his head a bit, in order to have a better look at you, and he opens his arms before his hands travel to your hips.

You bend down, teeth grazing his jaw before you remember something, and you smirk as you get right up. Your hand travels to his neck, hand wrapping around the sides of his throat and putting the right amount of pressure.

His eyes become the size of saucers as he looks up at you, trying his best not to let out all the moans catching in his throat.

You giggle, and the sound of it has Donghyuck throbbing, “What happened to my talkative puppy boy?” You pout, delighted at seeing him squirming.

The choice of words, your tone, your relentless riding, the pressure around his neck, and the way your walls are squeezing him too tightly, it all becomes too much for Donghyuck to bear, and you see him rolling his eyes back before he lets out the loudest moan from the pit of his ribcage — and that alone is enough to turn you on again.

But you give in, stopping your movements yet still keeping him inside of you, and you collapse on his chest. You’re too spent to keep yourself upright right now, and Donghyuck feels limp as he tries to gather his bearings. 

You place your hand on his chest, drawing soothing circles as you wait for him to catch his breath, an you giggle when you hear him cursing. His sweaty skin sticks to yours, and he grabs your hand to bring it to his lips.

He keeps you close, he’s literally where he wants to be — with your weight on top of him, he feels like this is the safest and best place for him.

He raises his head, looking at your intertwined bodies, right before a stupid but spent smirk shows up on his face, “Given our last activity, I think I just proved to you that I don’t need deodorant,”

You smack his chest when you register his words, but giggle nonetheless because only Donghyuck could get to ruin a moment by bringing this nonsense up.

“Pervert,” You move on top of him just slightly, but it’s enough to make him suck air through his teeth.

He smirks, voice already raspy as he mumbles out loud, “Oh, you have no idea!” 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: SPEAKING MY TRUTH: we need to see more of obsessed and pervert!hyuck around (◞‸◟,) thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting for me to drop fics from this series! this series means a lot to me and im not planning to abandon it, in case you were wondering — it's just that i have to be in the right place with my creativity <3 i hope you enjoyed this one, and i'll see you babies for the next one! ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶ ꒱ྀིა

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then you walk onto set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haechan’s jaw ticks.

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

Every head in the room snaps up—boom guy, focus puller, even the veteran makeup artist, who’s been boredly lint-rolling pubes off the sheets for the last twenty minutes. Chad, the male talent, straightens up like a scolded puppy, dick bobbing stupidly.

Haechan rises from his seat slowly. The room suddenly feels smaller. The whole crew tries to look busy, but everyone’s watching him from the corners of their eyes.

He crosses the set in three long strides, he doesn’t bother with the fake set stairs—just swings one leg up onto the platform and steps directly into the “bedroom,” the mock-up of a midcentury hotel suite they’ll probably tear down by tomorrow.

Haechan steps right up to the mattress, looming at the edge, and for a second you think he’s going to just call it—wrap early and go home. But then he looks down at you.

You stayed at your position: sprawled on the sheets, hair a mess already, thighs parted. Your skin is sticky with the glycerin spray they use to make people look “just-fucked.” Your chest rises and falls fast.

“Move,” he tells Chad, low, no room for argument. Chad scrambles off the bed.

Haechan doesn’t sit where Chad was. He remains standing at the edge, close enough that you can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, undercut with the faint salt of skin.

He doesn’t touch you. Not directly.

Instead he reaches for Chad’s hand. The one that was just pawing, ineptly, at your clit, dry and imprecise and barely tolerable. Haechan’s fingers close around Chad’s wrist. His grip is gentle but absolute. Chad doesn’t even try to resist.

Then, with infinite patience, he starts to move Chad’s fingers over your clit, guiding it in slow, deliberate circles. He moves it exactly the way you like it; not pressing hard, just... teasing. Perfect pressure. Lazy figure-eights that make your hips twitch involuntarily. Just shy of too gentle, slow enough to make you ache.

“Like this,” Haechan says, and his voice is all gravel and velvet, the kind of voice you can feel in your spine. Haechan’s eyes never leave yours.

You bite your lip. Hard. Trying not to whimper.

You try not to react. ‘I am a professional. I am being paid for this.’ you thought. But your body doesn’t get the memo.

Heat lances through your core, pooling there, making your thighs tense and your toes curl against the sheets. You force your breath to stay even, but it helps nothing. Haechan’s gaze is a hand all by itself, pinning you to the bed, and your body starts to betray you: nipples tightening, hips rocking up, a sound leaking out that was never in the script.

He watches all of it. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the brown of his irises.

He's still guiding Chad's fingers under his, but it might as well be his hand. The rhythm is his. The control is his. Every tiny hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes—he sees it. Drinks it.

Chad’s breathing gets weird and shallow, but Haechan doesn’t even acknowledge him. Chad might as well be a prop now—a toy in the director’s hand, moving exactly the way Haechan wants.

Seconds stretch. Haechan keeps Chad’s rhythm brutally consistent, never speeding up, never varying, until your entire lower body is shaking. You want to close your eyes, to escape the intensity, but you can’t look away from Haechan.

You don’t dare make a sound. You do anyway.

It’s a soft, broken whine. It feels like being split open under stage lights. You can’t remember the camera or the crew. It’s just you and him and the steady, inescapable pressure building inside your skull.

You’re trembling now. Not acting. Not really. The way Haechan’s guiding—precise, patient, almost tender in its cruelty.

Haechan’s throat bobs. Once. Hard.

He leans in just a fraction—enough that his breath ghosts over your knee.

“Better?” he murmurs. It’s quiet, like it’s meant only for you.

You nod. Barely. Eyes glassy.

There’s the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth before he finally releases Chad’s hand. Chad stumbles a little, like he’s forgotten how to stand on his own, but Haechan has already forgotten him.

“Good girl,” he says, so soft it’s almost sweet. Then louder, to the crew: “Reset. We’re going again. And Chad—” He finally looks at the guy. “Watch. Learn.”

Haechan steps back to his chair. Sits. Crosses one leg over the other.

But under the table, out of frame, he has to adjust himself. Discreet. Jaw clenched.

He’s trying for nonchalance, but his face—so carefully neutral a minute ago—is barely holding together.

Because fuck.  

He’s so hard it hurts.

And he knows—deep in his gut—that this scene isn’t going to end with just one take.

Not with you looking at him like that.

The cameras roll again. Reset. Lights adjusted just so—soft, warm, flattering. The room hums with low chatter from the crew, but Haechan’s world has narrowed to one thing: you.

He’s back in his chair, legs spread wide like always, one elbow on the armrest, chin in his hand. To anyone watching, he looks the same—cool, detached, the veteran who’s seen every angle, every fake orgasm, every scripted moan.

Except right now, his pulse is hammering in his throat.

Chad’s back between your legs, trying again. Better this time—sort of. He’s following the rhythm Haechan drilled into him earlier, but it’s still mechanical. Predictable. Your body responds anyway because you’re a professional (or trying to be), arching just enough, lips parting on soft, breathy sounds that hit Haechan like a punch.

He watches your face—the way your brows knit when the pressure builds, the flutter of your lashes when it almost tips over, the way your mouth falls open on a silent gasp before the sound actually escapes. Those little, real reactions. The ones no one else notices because they’re too busy staring at tits or ass or whatever the money shot demands.

But Haechan notices.

He notices everything.

“Camera two, tight on her face,” he calls out, voice steady even though his grip on the armrest is white-knuckled. “Capture the eyes. The lips. Make it intimate. She’s the star—sell that.”

The operator nods, zooms in. Haechan’s gaze flicks to the monitor feed beside him—your expression filling the screen in high def. Cheeks flushed, pupils dark, lips swollen from biting them. Every tiny hitch, every shiver.

Your eyes flicker to him.

Just once at first. Quick. Like you’re checking if he’s still watching.

He is.

Always.

You hold it this time. Longer. Your gaze locks with his across the dimly lit set—through the haze of lights and lenses and bodies moving around. It’s not acting. Not really. There’s heat in it. Question. Challenge. Need.

Haechan doesn’t blink.

His jaw flexes. He shifts in the chair—subtle, but fuck, the friction against his straining cock makes his vision white out for a second. He forces himself still. Professional. In control.

“Slow it down,” he directs, quieter now, almost to himself. “Chad—tease. Don’t rush. Let her build.”

Chad obeys. Your hips roll up instinctively, chasing the touch. A soft whimper slips out—real, broken—and Haechan’s breath catches audibly. He covers it with a cough, but his free hand drops to his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Anything to stop himself from palming over his jeans right here, right now, in front of the whole crew.

Your eyes find him again. This time they stay. Glassy. Pleading. Like you’re performing for him. Not the camera. Not the future viewers. Him.

He swallows thickly. Leans forward just a fraction.

“Camera one—lower angle on her thighs,” he says, voice rougher. “Show the tremble. The way she’s shaking for it.”

The shot changes. Your legs part a little more, muscles quivering under soft skin. Another sound escapes you—higher, needier—and Haechan’s control frays another inch.

He’s never been this hard on set. Never this invested. Never this fucking gone.

You arch again, head tipping back, but your eyes snap right back to his like a magnet. Your lips part around a silent word that hits him like a physical blow—his name, unmistakable even from here, the shape of those syllables burning into his retinas.

He exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled.

“Good,” he murmurs, low enough that only he himself can hear it. “Just like that. Keep looking at me.”

He draws in a slow breath, like he’s trying to breathe around something lodged in his ribs.

And he knows—deep in his gut, where logic has already left the building—that this isn’t just a scene anymore.

This isn’t normal.

He’s directed hundreds of girls. Thousands of takes.

But this is different.

You’re not performing at the camera.

You’re looking at him.

And the worst part—the part that makes something tighten low in his stomach—is that he doesn’t want you to stop.

That’s the problem.

---

The break is short—five minutes, tops. Just enough time for the crew to stretch, grab water, reset lights that don’t actually need resetting. Haechan uses it to pull you aside, away from the main set, into the little curtained-off “green room” corner that’s really just a folding chair and a folding table with bottled water and a half-eaten box of donuts.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, hoodie a bit low over his eyes like he’s trying to hide how intently he’s looking at you. Professional. Always professional.

“Hey,” he starts, voice low so no one else hears. “You’re doing good out there. Really good. But listen—I know this industry chews people up if they push too hard. Especially the first few shoots.”

You nod, heart already doing that stupid flutter thing because he’s actually talking to you like a person, not just talent.

He drags one hand across his jaw, the shadow of stubble catching on his palm. “Look—I know it’s your first real set. This place, the lights, being so exposed. It’s a lot. The crew’s always more intense than you expect. They can be…” He shrugs, searching for the word, “overstimulating. Even when they don’t mean to.” He looks up, and for a split second, you could swear you see his mouth tighten, like he’s angry on your behalf.

You nod, because he’s right—it is a lot. Your body is still humming, not from what Chad did, but from the before and the after, from the fact that you can still feel Haechan’s eyes on you from across the room, even now.

He licks his lips, eyes flicking to your face, then quickly away. “I know the expectation is—” He gestures, vague, like he can’t be bothered to say the words ‘orgasm’  or ‘squirting’ out loud.

“You don’t have to cum for real every take,” he continues, eyes flicking over your face like he’s reading a script he’s memorized. “Fake it. Sell the build-up, the tremble, the little gasps—most viewers can’t tell the difference anyway. And honestly? Forcing it every time strains your pelvis like hell. I’ve seen girls limping off set after a long day. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Your breath catches. He’s… thoughtful? Actually concerned? You’ve heard horror stories about directors who don’t give a fuck, who just yell “harder” until someone cries. But here he is, warning you about your own body like he cares if you walk out of here okay.

He must say this to every new actress, right? Standard protocol. Still, the way he’s looking at you—soft around the edges, almost gentle—makes your stomach flip.

“And if anything hurts,” he adds, quieter now, “even a little. You tell me. We stop. No questions. Got it?”

You swallow. Nod again. “Got it.”

He gives you the tiniest smile—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—then pushes off the wall. “Good. Take two in a bit. Drink some water.”

He walks away first, leaving you standing there with your pulse in your throat and a sudden, embarrassing rush of warmth between your legs.

Because fuck.  

He noticed. He cared. And now all you can think about is his voice saying “tell me” and “stop” like he’d actually listen, like he’d protect you mid-scene if you needed it.

By the time they call action again, you’re already slick. Not from Chad’s earlier fumbling. Nope. It was from Haechan’s five-minute pep talk. From the way his eyes lingered when he said “good.” From imagining what it would feel like if those careful, controlled hands were the ones touching you instead.

Chad slides back between your thighs, condom on, positioning himself. You spread a little wider, trying to look natural for the three cameras positioned around the bed.

He pushes in slow—standard porn entry shot, nothing special.

But your brain short-circuits.

You picture Haechan instead.

The way he’d hold your hips steady. The way he’d watch your face the whole time, cataloging every twitch like he did earlier. The low, wrecked murmur of “just like that” right against your ear. The way he’d probably tease you first—slow rolls, shallow thrusts—until you were begging without words.

Chad moves. Steady. Mechanical. Like a metronome with abs.

You close your eyes for a second. Imagine it’s Haechan’s weight pressing you down. Haechan’s breath on your neck. Haechan’s cock stretching you, filling you, owning every gasp.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

The coil tightens fast—too fast. Heat rushes low, thighs trembling for real this time. Your nails dig into the sheets. A broken whimper slips out, unscripted. Your thighs lock around Chad's waist so hard he grunts in surprise.

Chad keeps going, oblivious.

But across the set, Haechan freezes.

He’s watching the monitor, jaw slack for half a second before he recovers. Your eyes find his through the haze—glassy, desperate—and you don’t look away.

You come.

Hard.

For real.

Waves crashing through you, back arching off the bed, a choked sob of his name almost escaping before you bite it back.

Your walls flutter and clench around Chad (poor Chad), but behind your eyelids it's Haechan you’re seeing. It's Haechan destroying you, it’s Haechan you’re coming for.

The cameras keep rolling.

Haechan’s hand shoots up—silent signal to keep shooting—but his other fist is clenched so tight on the armrest the knuckles are bone-white. His breathing is shallow. Visible. He’s staring like he’s forgotten how to blink.

“Cut,” he finally rasps, voice wrecked. Too late. The take’s already gold.

The crew starts clapping—thinking it’s great acting.

You’re still trembling, aftershocks rolling through you, thighs slick, heart hammering.

Haechan doesn’t clap.

He just watches you.

And when your eyes meet again—post-orgasm haze and all—there’s no pretending anymore.

He knows.

You know he knows.

And the look on his face says this shoot just changed everything.

---

The set lights dim one by one, the crew packing up with the usual post-shoot chatter—someone laughing about how the take was “money,” another clapping you on the shoulder with a genuine “First gig and you killed it, girl. Natural. We’re booking you again for sure.” Chad gives you a fist bump and a wink that feels oddly hollow now. You smile, thank them, heart still racing from the aftershocks, thighs sticky under the robe you’ve hastily tied.

You glance toward Haechan’s chair.

It’s empty.

He’s already gone.

No goodbye, no “good work,” no lingering look like before. Just… vanished. The director who’d been staring holes through you for hours suddenly can’t even meet your eyes on the way out.

The disappointment hits sharper than it should. You tell yourself it’s nothing—he’s busy, he’s a pro, he probably does this every shoot. But the ache between your legs pulses in protest, like your body knows better.

Meanwhile, across the city, Haechan barely makes it through his apartment door.

Keys clatter on the floor. He doesn’t bother with lights. The hallway is dark, just the faint blue glow from the streetlamp outside bleeding through the blinds. He kicks the door shut behind him, back slamming against it for a second as he drags in a ragged breath.

His cock is still painfully hard—has been since that last take, since your real, broken orgasm rolled through you while staring straight at him. The memory is burned behind his eyelids: your lashes fluttering, lips parted on that choked little sound, the way your hips jerked like you couldn’t help it, like it was *him* making you come apart.

“Fuck,” he hisses, already fumbling with his belt.

He doesn’t even get the jeans all the way down.

They catch at mid-thigh, boxers shoved just low enough to free himself. His hand wraps around his length—hot, leaking, so sensitive the first stroke makes his knees buckle. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold floor, legs splayed, head tipped back against the wood.

He doesn’t tease himself. No slow buildup. He’s too far gone for that.

He starts fast. Rough. Fist tight, twisting at the head on every upstroke, thumb smearing the pre-cum that’s been leaking since the second you locked eyes during that final thrust.

His mind replays it in filthy, high-definition detail.

Your face on the monitor—close-up, just like he’d ordered. Brows pinched, mouth slack, eyes glassy and fixed on him like the cameras didn’t exist. The way your tits rose and fell with every shallow pant. The tremble in your thighs when Chad pushed in deeper. The exact second your walls must have clenched—because your whole body arched, spine bowing off the sheets, a soft, wrecked whimper spilling out that wasn’t scripted, wasn’t fake.

He groans low in his throat, hips jerking up into his hand.

“Fuck—look at you,” he mutters to the empty hallway, voice hoarse. “Coming so pretty for me… weren’t you?”

He imagines it’s him between your legs instead.

Not Chad’s clumsy rhythm. His.

He pictures pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. Slow at first—teasing, shallow rolls just to watch your frustration build, to hear you whine his name. Then deeper. Harder. Bottoming out every time until your nails dig into his back, until you’re shaking, begging, “Haechan—please—don’t stop—”

His strokes speed up. Sloppy now. The wet sound of his fist echoing in the quiet apartment.

He replays your eyes—those little glances you kept throwing him between takes, like you were performing just for him. The way they went wide and hazy right before you tipped over the edge. The way your lips formed that silent, desperate shape—his name? A plea? He doesn’t know, but he pretends it was both.

“Wanted it to be me, didn’t you?” he growls, hips snapping up harder. “Wanted my cock stretching you open… fucking you until you couldn’t breathe… until you came all over me like that again—”

His free hand fists in his hoodie, yanking it up so he can see himself—thick, flushed, veins standing out, slick shining on every downstroke. He imagines it’s your wetness instead. Your heat. Your tight, fluttering walls gripping him so good he can barely think.

He pictures flipping you over, face down, ass up—grabbing your hips and slamming back in while you muffle your cries into the sheets. Or maybe on your back, legs over his shoulders so he can watch every inch disappear inside you, watch your face crumple every time he hits that spot that makes you sob his name.

His balls draw up tight. Heat coils low and vicious.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he pants, voice cracking. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days… gonna make you come again just watching me lose it inside you—”

The first pulse hits like a shockwave.

He chokes on a moan, head slamming back against the door as he spills over his fist—hot, thick ropes streaking across his stomach, dripping down his knuckles. His hips jerk through it, riding the waves, imagining it’s your cunt milking him dry instead.

He keeps stroking through the oversensitivity until it hurts, until every last drop is wrung out, until he’s trembling and gasping against the wood.

When it’s over, he slumps there on the floor—jeans still tangled around his thighs, hoodie rucked up, cum cooling on his skin—and lets out a long, wrecked laugh.

Because he’s fucked.

Completely, irreversibly fucked.

He just came harder than he had in years… to the memory of a girl he’s directed for one single day.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow there’s another shoot.

With you.

He drags a hand down his face, still breathing hard.

“Shit,” he mutters.

 Last night’s party is still hanging around in his skull like a bad song he can’t skip. Every step feels like it’s happening underwater — students rushing, bikes clattering, the faint smell of coffee — but Mark barely notices

 “—and then he—ugh, I can’t even—” she huffs, flopping her arm dramatically against her tote bag.

 “Mm,” Mark mumbles, focusing on nothing in particular, willing the throbbing to ease.

 Out of the corner of his eye, movement. Someone rushing. Head down. Bag bouncing. Textbook late-for-class energy.

 “Giselle!” a voice calls, sharp but friendly.

 Mark freezes. Head still fuzzy. He glances over—and it clicks.

 Y/N. Shit. What the actual fuck. No way.

 His chest stutters in a way that’s both familiar and alarming. Two years ago. One night. One too many drinks. Memories creeping in before his brain has a chance to protest.

 Giselle, oblivious, smiles warmly. “Oh! Y/N, hey!”

 Mark blinks, still stunned.

 “Mark,” she says, gesturing to him, “this is Y/N. We…uh, go to the same Pilates class.”

 Simple. Casual. Like nothing else exists.

 You raise an eyebrow, calm, clear recognition. “We actually know each other,” you say lightly, voice teasing but neutral. “Small world, huh?”

 Mark’s throat goes dry. Words stick. Coffee threatens to slosh. His hangover doesn’t help. He wants to say something witty, something—anything—but his brain refuses to cooperate.

 You glance at your phone, already in motion. “Sorry, I’m actually so late. Catch you later Gi!” You pause for a moment. “Good to see you.” That last bit is directed at him and all Mark can do is bob his head like an idiot.

 “See you tomorrow!” Giselle exclaims, her chirpy voice penetrating his throbbing skull.

 You dart off without another word, back straight, long strides taking you in the opposite direction from the library.

 Mark stands frozen for a second, watching the familiar sway of your shoulders disappear down the path, stomach twisting, headache forgotten.

 Giselle nudges him. “You good?”

 Mark snaps back, clutching his backpack strap like a lifeline. “Yeah…yeah, fine,” he mutters, voice rough. But inside? His heart refuses to behave.

 This must be some kind of joke.

 “Dude.” Mark’s voice comes out in a whisper. As though he’s wary of people hearing.

 Giselle takes an inquisitive look at him. “Why are your eyes so big?”

 Great, now he looks insane.

 “How do you know her?” Mark asks, completely ignoring Giselle’s valid question. He needs to know.

 “I literally just said Pilates?”

 “Oh…right.” He keeps walking and Giselle quickly follows. Her expression nothing short of baffled.

 “Umm. What am I missing here?” She speaks in a rushed manner as she tries to keep up with Mark’s quick strides. Who is he even running from?

 “Nothing.” Mark deflates as he quickens his step. The library couldn’t feel any further.

 “Oi, spaz!” Giselle grabs onto Marks elbow. “Slow down and fess up.”

 Her demands get through to him. He halts his pace and turns to face his friend properly for the first time since you walked away from them. With a heavy sigh he accepts that even the slight attempt of hiding something from her, would be futile.

 “We slept together first week of uni.” The words come out so jumbled, he’d be surprised if Giselle caught them.

 “Pardon?”

 “We fucked. Two years ago.” He rephrases. Slower this time.

 “Sorry. What?” The question more of an indication of shock than a demand of clarification.

 “Ever heard of sex?” He tries sarcastically.

 “Uh-huh.” Giselle’s frown almost resembles an animated character’s.

 “I’ve had it. With her.” He points a thumb towards the direction you earlier walked off to and he can’t help but feel amused at Giselle’s flabbergasted reaction.

 “How-”

 “A party. Fresher’s week. C’mon dude, switch on please.” He’s embarrassed. Maybe even slightly irritated that his reckless escapades from freshers’ week have become such a big matter of attention.

 “Okay. Sorry, I just- I pictured it and now I need someone to reset me.” Giselle pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closing as if trying to erase the picture from her brain.

 Marks rolls his eyes at his friend’s exaggerated gag. “I could flick your big fat head.”

 “Okay, okay. So…” She trails expectantly, completely dismissing his irritation.

 Mark doesn’t really know what more he can say. He’s elaborated enough.

 “Yeah..?” He gestures his hand for her to continue.

 “Well, what happened after the…you know.” Giselle’s eyebrows shoot up suggestively.

 “The sex?” Mark points out on purpose and snorts a laugh when his friend scrunches up her nose in disgust. He might as well make her feel as uncomfortable as he is.

 “Yeah, that.” Giselle nods, the pained expression still on her face.

 “I haven’t seen her since. Well, hadn’t.” He admits simply. It’s the truth.

 “Shit, so you quite literally just fucked.” It’s a statement but it comes out more like a question.

 “Pretty much.” Mark shrugs, struggling to keep an unbothered front. “She sneaked out in the morning and I just never saw her again.”

 “You didn’t get her number or…?”

 “I mean, I didn’t really get the chance. Plus…” He pauses to think. Or more like reminisce.

 It was his first night out on campus, and you? You were the first person he noticed when he stepped foot in that house party. The first girl he brought back to his tiny, undecorated dorm at the time.

 He didn’t really expect anything more than what he got. That’s what he approached you for initially. But he also didn’t expect you to disappear without so much of word after the night you had together.

 Mark still thinks about it sometimes. Not because it was magical or anything of the sort. If anything, his performance could easily be described as bang out average.

 What he really thinks about is how you two stayed up for hours. Naked. Talking, kissing, fucking then talking and kissing, then fucking again. He thinks about how he felt so comfortable. So at peace but also confused at the same time. How you’d only known him for a few hours but still trusted him enough to fall asleep on his chest, in that small first-year dorm bed.

 Mark, never having been the naive type, he knew he couldn’t just date the first girl he met at the first party he went to on campus, but spending days typing your first name in his instagram search bar definitely wasn’t on his bingo card. Not only that, but unintentionally searching for you at pubs, bars, parties, uni corridors for weeks? Yeah, that certainly wasn’t on his bingo card.

 “Plus, it wasn’t anything serious.” He concludes, sounding almost defensive.

 “Aww, Markie poo. Did she break your heart?” Giselle pouts performatively.

 “Tsk.” Mark kisses his teeth in annoyance, adamantly refusing to succumb to her mocking, as he resumes his quick steps. Giselle, of course, unfortunately for him, isn’t one to let things go. So she matches his pace.

 “Oh, come on. I’m just playing-

 “Wait. So, if you’re, like, friends,” Mark abruptly turns, index accusingly pointing at her, his steps coming to a halt again and Giselle exhales in relief. “How come you’ve never mentioned her?”

 “I literally met her a month ago. She was on a year abroad last year.” Ah. Well, that certainly explains a lot.

 “Damn, that’s cool.” He utters in surprise, as though he was hoping you were some kind of loser who was hiding out in a library. Meanwhile, you were out in god knows what country, doing god knows what and god knows who.

 “Damn, you falling back in love already?” Giselle coos annoyingly and Mark starts walking again, dismissive of her teasing. “Wait! I’m sorry! At least tell me if the sex was good. Oh my god, is she like the best you’ve ever had? Is that why you’re hung up on her?”

 “You’re a nuisance.” He mutters grumpily.

 “Awh, really? I mean I could invite her to Chenle’s on Saturday but if I’m such a nuisance then I guess I won’t bother-

 “Wait. Actually?” Mark’s head snaps toward his friend a lot quicker than he can comprehend, sounding too hopeful and probably a little pathetic, and Giselle’s sinister grin makes him realise his slip up.

 Damn it.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Mark’s patience started to waver about two days ago. Now it’s close to non-existent.

 There’s no way you’re not toying with him. You’re everywhere. Wherever he goes. The library? Tick. The park? Tick. The main building cafeteria? Tick. The psychology building cafeteria? Tick. His favourite café? Tick.

 How can someone go from not existing to occupying every corner of this plane earth?

 He’d gotten accustomed to not worrying about bumping into you, but now he’s always wary. Always alert. He’s even started putting more effort in his outfits, just in case you see him. Even though, he’s pretty sure you never notice him. At least not like he notices you.

 And however wary he is, he still feels taken aback each time he comes across your presence.

 And now, Mark is annoyed. Because he simply can’t enjoy his Saturday night like he always does.

He can’t get absolutely plastered with his friends like he always does to forget about deadlines and assignments. Because what if you’re here, at this very party? Yeah, Giselle did invite you and of course, you gave a very vague response — something along the lines of ‘yeah, that sounds like fun’ — and of course, you’re allowed to do as you please, but what if you turn up out of nowhere while Mark is blackout drunk? What if he embarrasses himself in front of you? Or worse, what if his big gob utters something stupid? God forbid.

 And so, he takes it easy tonight. Small sips. Slowly consuming whatever his cup contains. He thinks it’s vodka with some kind of tropical mixer. Not really his cup of tea, but he settled anyway.

 “What sort of pace is this?” Chenle asks, sounding almost offended.

 “Huh?” Mark looks up from his cup, one hand swirling the liquid in his cup, the other splayed on the back of the sofa behind Chenle’s shoulders.

 “Your drinking pace is embarrassing.” The younger boy explains. “We got no practice on Monday, so the whole two-day hangover excuse ain’t gonna save you this time.”

 “I got other commitments too, you know.” Mark side eyes his friend. “Basketball isn’t my only worry, I’m in final year.”

 “Blah blah blah. Don’t give me that shit, you’re acing all your exams. Pretty sure you’re on for a first class.” Chenle babbles loudly, definitely tipsy by now and Mark can’t help but wrap his arm around his friend’s shoulders, playfully trapping him in a headlock. Chenle doesn’t even fight him off, comfortably resting his head on Mark’s shoulder.

 “Since when do you worry so much about me, huh?” Mark teases, squeezing Chenle into his side.

 “Since when are you so affectionate?” Chenle questions suspiciously.

 “I thought you said being a little gay for your bros is acceptable.” Mark defends, referring to the time they spooned while having a drunk, deep meaningful conversation about their childhood trauma and then fell asleep.

 “Don’t remind me. I’ll get hard.”

 “Get off me.” Mark shoves a giggling Chenle away, squishing him against a random girl sat next to them. And just like that, in the midst of apologising, Chenle’s already compromised attention span works in Mark’s favour, because a few minutes later, the younger boy is entrapped in a flirty conversation with the girl that laughs a little too loud at his bad jokes.

 Thankfully, Mark’s gaze catches Giselle’s, who’s stood by the kitchen counter. She excitedly waves him over, holding a shot of clear liquid in each hand and he can’t help but scrunch his nose in disgust. The tilt of her head along with the disappointed expression on her face does enough to convince him.

 Fuck it. One shot won’t hurt. He’s a big boy.

 He spills a bit of his drink as he squeezes through the swamp of people that occupies the living room. Pitbull blares through the speakers and Mark realises that shot is definitely needed. He’s too sober for this chaos, so he rushes for the kitchen.

 “Honestly, how the fuck does Chenle get girls so-

 Mark is pretty sure the colour drains from his face the second he steps in the kitchen vicinity. There you are. Again. Like his fucking shadow. Haunting him. Only this time you’re mid-laugh, perched up on the counter, a filled shot glass in your hand and Mark realises that he’s walked right into Giselle’s trap.

 “Hey, loser.” Giselle interrupts his trance, casually shoving the spare shot glass in his free hand. “Here. Do a shot with us.”

 “Umm. Yeah, okay.” Mark doesn’t have the time to ponder his actions. As though he’s on autopilot, the second you and Giselle down your shots, he tips his head back, doing the same. He doesn’t even flinch at the burn, probably in need of it and the second his eyes land on yours, Giselle starts violently coughing.

 “Jesus.” He mutters, quickly grabbing an empty glass from the counter, filling it with tap water before passing it to his struggling friend. “Down it, you idiot.”

 And Giselle starts doing just that, but before she can finish the contents of the glass, she’s covering her mouth in panic. Mark steps closer, and the second he touches her shoulder in concern, she’s running out of the kitchen and down the hallway where the bathroom is.

 Fucking brilliant.

 “Do you think she needs help?” Your voice penetrates his ears, urging him to turn around and face you. As always, taken aback by your presence.

 “I- um- nah. Nah don’t worry. She’ll be fine.” Mark tries to sound reassuring, but his voice has a slight tremble to it. Get a grip, dude.

 “I can go check up on her if-

 “Honestly, she’ll be fine. The woman can never stomach shots. Trust me.” His words are rushed. Partly because he’s telling the truth, and partly because he refuses to miss the opportunity of whatever this is.

 “Are you two together then?”

 “What? No.” He shakes his head so fast his neck slightly cramps. “No, we’re not. Just friends. We live together.”

 He relaxes a little when you nod. A tight lipped smile adorns your pretty face and for the first time in what feels like forever, Mark finally gets the chance to take you in.

 Here you are, again. Right in front of him. So close. Looking at him. As pretty as he remembers you. Albeit looking different in a way, still carrying the same calm aura.

 “What?” You ask softly, smile a little lopsided.

 “Nothing. Just — don’t worry.” He shakes his head again, eyes drifting down to his hands, twirling his drink in his cup again to distract himself from his fast heartbeat. “It’s weird.”

 “I like weird.” You’re still smiling when he meets your eyes again.

 His eyebrows raise a little when you pat the spot next to you, silently asking him to join you on the counter as more people crowd the kitchen.

 His shoulder brushes yours briefly when he hoists himself up, the warmth hard to miss. He does his best to steady his breathing but feels like he’s miserably falling when he breathes in your sweet perfume. “I dunno. Just weird seeing you. Feels like I’m seeing a ghost. Kind of.”

 God, that sounds so lame. He almost winces in pain.

 “Wait, how do we know each other again? I know we do, but I’m having trouble placing you.” You say in genuine wonderment and Mark feels his heart drop to his stomach. He miserably prays that you’re playing a horrible prank on him, but your perplexed eyes tell him otherwise.

 “You don’t re- we- um- freshers week? C’mon. Surely you remember.” He tries subtly, hoping he won’t have to spell it out for you.

 You shake your head in denial. “I honestly have no clue what you’re on about.”

 Fuck. You have actually forgotten. Were you that drunk or was that night so insignificant to you?

 This is fucking horrifying. A nightmare he's hoping he can wake up from. “Yo, seriously?”

 “Remind me?” You suggest lightheartedly, with the most innocent smile. “I have the worst memory, I’m sorry.”

 What the actual fuck.

 “Wha- you actually don’t remember? Like no recollection whatsoever?” He checks one more time, hating that he sounds so desperate. He really finds it hard to believe that you’ve forgotten a night he remembers so vividly. A night he often has to lock up in the back of his mind.

 You snort, a short laugh escaping as your face shows nothing but amusement. “You’re really gullible, you know.”

 Jail. You belong in jail for that. He’s suing you for emotional damage.

 He scoffs loudly, hating that he almost fell for it.

You laugh a little louder this time and he can’t help the little smile that curls on his lips. “You fucking- are you having me on?”

 “Sorry, it was just too easy.”

 “Dude.” He whines, hiding his face in his hands. “That is actually vile behaviour. You’re going to hell.”

 “For being too funny?” Your comical expression would have normally pissed him off if you weren’t this captivating.

 He doesn’t have a comeback. He just stares straight ahead, jaw clenching to retain a smile, hands struggling not to squish the plastic cup in them and he almost flinches when your foot kicks his. Intentional, playful, soft as ever.

 “Of course, I remember.” Your gaze burning his side profile is so difficult to ignore. So he succumbs. Head turning to face you, eyes finding yours. “Kinda hard to forget.”

 “Really? That bad?” He jokes, although, he’s worried he might be right.

 You breathe out a cute laugh, eyes dropping to your fumbling hands, fingers playing with the rip on your jeans. “I’m not insulting your performance, Mark Lee.”

 He’s positive he’s blushing. His face and neck feel hot, hands are sweating and he’s very aware of your proximity. The music is loud enough for you to lean closer to speak.

 “What are you insulting then?”

 “I could be praising you know.” You side eye him for a reaction he refuses to offer. “Unless you’re not into that anymore.”

 He can’t help the shocked laugh that escapes his throat. How can someone be so forward? Bringing up a kink of his you clocked back then? Outrageous. Uncalled for. And honestly? Kind of sexy.

 “Well, this is embarrassing.” Mark nervously downs the remainder of his drink in a big gulp at a failed attempt to cool down as he’s pretty sure steam is coming out of his ears that don’t fail to pick up at the loud snort you let out.

 “See? I remember a lot more than you think.” You tap your temple with your index finger. A harmless gesture, which Mark finds inexplicably attractive.

 “Why hard to forget?” He redirects the subject, refusing to have a nervous breakdown before he finds out what’s important.

 You seem skeptical, as though you’re assessing your words before you utter them and Mark’s nerves resurface. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you now.”

 “What?” He presses impatiently.

 Did he get you pregnant or something? Oh god, is that why you disappeared? Does he currently have a two-year old child running about?

 “Okay, don’t make it a big deal.”

 “Shit. Do I have a kid?” He accidentally thinks out loud.

 “What? No, Mark, what the- no!” Your loud laugh helps him relax a little and he can’t help but notice the way you lightly shove him by the shoulder as you throw your head back. At least one of you is amused. “I was just gonna say— that it was my first time.”

 Oh.

 OH.

 “Huh?” It comes out louder than intended. He can’t help it. You’re definitely lying. “As in you never— before that?“

 “Yes.”

 “Really?”

 “Yes.”

 “Shit.” He can feel his eyes widening to the max as he looks around in shock. “I’m sorry.”

 “What for?” You’re clearly holding back a laugh and Mark feels like he desperately needs air. Or a whole bottle of vodka. Yeah, that would do.

 “I don’t know.” He panics. “I just— I mean, your first time is— you know, important. It should mean something. No?”

 You narrow your eyes at him for a second and Mark decides he’s going to die. Here, tonight, in Chenle’s fancy kitchen. “First of all. That couldn’t be more of a stereotype. Second of all. Who said it didn’t mean anything?”

 “I mean, it was pretty obvious it didn’t.” The words roll out like waterfall.

 “What?”

 “How much could it have meant if you just…left?” That seems to shut you up, your eyes wider than before, mouth slightly open. “Without a word.” He adds. He had to say it. After all this time, he finally gets to complain about something that bothered him long enough and he feels relief. A weight lifted off his shoulders.

 He expects you to argue. To defend yourself, and the little nod you give, somewhat shocks him.

 “Fair point.” Your attention returns to the rip on your thigh, your fingers pulling at the loose threads.

 “I didn’t do anything weird, right? Like, I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable in any way, or…?” He can’t help but worry that maybe it was all too much for you, considering you hadn’t been with anyone else prior to that. Maybe that’s why you quietly escaped in the morning?

 “No. Not at all.” You quickly shake your head with a sweet smile. “If anything, I don’t think it could have been any better.”

 Mark feels relief wash over him, his limbs instantly relaxing. He nods with a satisfied pout on his face but inside he’s proudly gloating.

 “Well, I’m glad I—ummm, you know.” He realises that whatever he’s about to say, could easily be misconstrued.

 “You’re glad you took my v-card?” You ask with an amused frown and he can’t help but roll his eyes. Mostly at his stupidity, but also at your relentless teasing.

 “No.” He gives you a pointed look. “Just glad I didn’t ruin it for you.”

 Your fond smile makes him feel warm. In a good way this time.

 “Can I ask you something?” He blurts out, curiosity getting the better of him. You simply give him a small nod as you take a small sip of your drink. “How come you didn’t say anything? Not that you had to obviously. I just feel like I would have been more careful if you had.”

 “That’s exactly why I didn’t.” Your purse your lips in thought. “I would have. But, with you, I figured it was unnecessary.”

 “Oh, sorry, was I a little too vanilla for you?” He complains sarcastically.

 “I’m not gonna give you feedback.” You retort with a grin and Mark swears your cheeks weren’t as flushed a minute ago.

 “I didn’t ask you to.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

 It could be his delusion, but Mark feels tension brewing, and he wonders if it’s just him. Maybe it’s the alcohol finally catching up to him, but your silence betrays something he can’t quite decipher.

 “Was it not obvious then?” You interrupt his inner thoughts, the question simple, easy to answer, but Mark’s brain short circuits for a moment.

 “I mean, I wasn’t that experienced myself.” He clears his throat once. “I just thought we were both shy. Clearly that’s not the case for you anymore.”

 “That a problem?”

 “Nah. It’s been what? Two years? And you’ve spent a year in a foreign country. I’d be surprised if you were the exact same person.” He explains and he circles the rim of his cup slowly, suddenly a little bashful, but content at the same time.

 “What about you? You think you’re still shy?” You slowly reach over, hand gently wrapping around his wrist gently before you bring his hand to your lap. Mark is about to question your actions but your fingers delicately untying the knot of his bracelet make him hold back his protest.

 “At times.” He responds as he watches you fix the knot carefully.

 And when you’re done and he’s about to remove his hand, your hold tightens, preventing him. His breathing stutters and so does his pulse. The heat of your skin on his, too much for him to handle, but he still obliges, letting his hand rest limp on your thigh, palm facing up, unable to properly touch you, but still enough for his brain to remember things. To remember how he touched you that night. How you touched him.

 “What about now? Feeling shy?” You don’t meet his gaze when he looks at you, your eyes still on his hand as your thumb traces his pulse point. Goosebumps litter his skin, the tiny twitch of your lips telling him you’ve noticed.

 “I don’t know. Do I seem shy?” Answering with a question is the only way his brain can muster.

 “Hmm.” You finally eye him, carefully inspecting his face, and he feels exposed. “Maybe a little. I kinda think that’s part of your charm, though.”

 His eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. “My charm?”

 “Mhm.”

 “You think I’m charming?” He can’t conceal the stupid smile that erupts on his face. Weak man. Maybe he does have a praise kink.

 “You managed to get me in your bed. I’m not that easy.” You say with a casual shrug. Too casual. And Mark has to look away. If he could, he’d run away, but your damn hand is still wrapped around his arm, locking him down. It’s your fault he can’t escape and definitely not the fact that he doesn’t want to ever pull away from your touch.

 “Dude, are you, like, flirting with m—“

 “Do you wanna come back to mine?” Again, you’re too casual. No ounce of hesitation, just plain expectation.

 “Now?” It’s the only word he can come up with.

 “I mean, at some point tonight would be ideal, yes.” Your smirk irritates him. He wants to kiss it off your face. Maybe he can if he agrees to go back with you.

 Should he?

 “You want me to fuck you again?” He only realises he’s said the lewd words out loud by the widening of your eyes. Why does he always end up putting his foot in his mouth?

 “To put it plainly, yeah, I guess I want you to fuck me again.” You say with the most demure smile.

  The contrast scares him. You scare him. He should have been wise and ran for the hills the second he laid eyes on you two years ago.

 “I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He rushes to apologise but you cut him off with a squeeze around his wrist.

 “Yay or nay?” You ask, a hint of impatience in your tone that makes Mark bite his lip to hide a smile. You’ve got one eyebrow raised, expression almost offended at the delay in his reply.

 He quickly hops off the counter, empty cup forgotten on the surface, the skin on the arm you were touching only seconds ago, already tingling. But he’s made his decision.

 You seem taken aback, the crease between your eyebrows betraying your confusion. And if Mark were to take a guess, he could say there’s a trace of disappointment in your eyes.

 You’re about to hop off the counter when he cages you in. Almost in panic at the thought of you walking away from him. Your ass is on the edge of the surface and he can’t help but smile at the way you quickly grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself.

 “Where you off to?” He asks quietly, only for you to hear. His hands settling on each side on you on the counter as he steps closer.

 “Nowhere.” You match his tone, legs parting, allowing him to take up the space between them as your hands trail down to his chest. Your touch soft on his jumper, but he can still feel the weight of it.

 He’s positive you can feel his insane heart trying to jump out of his rib cage. He doesn’t mind. Not when he gets to have you this close and feel the heat radiating off your body.

 “Do you think about it?” His voice comes out in a whisper but he knows you hear him. “That night?”

 “Sometimes.” You admit. Eyes anywhere but on his; avoidant.

 “Are you embarrassed?” He leans down a little, levelling with you and you smile bashfully as you finally meet his gaze.

 “More like flustered.” Your hands travel down to his stomach as your knees squeeze him in and he moves even closer, his torso flush against yours.

 “Tell me. What do you think about?” He whispers, his lips brushing against the bridge of your nose as your hands slowly slide lower, until your fingers hook into his belt loops.

 “Not here.” Your breath hits his chin and he desperately wants to lean in, but he refrains, enjoying your squirming a little too much.

 “Why not?” He tilts his head, your lips just millimetres away. His hands decide to move on their own, finding their way to your waist as you inhale deeply. “Whatever it is, I’ve probably already thought about it.”

  Your cocky expression annoys him. “Do I often occupy your mind?”

 “You used to.” He admits openly as he delicately strokes along your ribs, thumbs smoothing over the undersides of your bra, your thin top making the touch more intense.

 You smile smugly as you let your fingers slip under the hem of his hoodie, finding the bare skin of his lower abdomen and he hates that the simplest of touches affects him so much. It’s all effortless. Just a trace of a finger has him weak in the knees, his breath unstable, lips aching to be on yours.

 “Mark?” You lean closer, your forehead dropping on his shoulder as you exhale a trembling breath.

 “Hm?” He traces his knuckles up and down your spine, his other hand splaying on your lower back, where your skin is uncovered.

 “I’m so wet right now, it’s fucking embarrassing.”

 “Jesus.” He whispers, lips touching your ear and he feels your shudder as his hand slithers in your hair, lightly tugging to get you to look at him.

 Your hands clutch at his belt, not really initiating anything, just holding. It’s enough for his blood to rush where it shouldn’t, heart pounding. Your hooded eyes don’t help either, and if it weren’t for the people occupying the kitchen, he’d be bending you over this counter right this second. The scandalous thought very unlike him.

 “There’s a spare room here. I stay in it sometimes after basketball practice.” He suggests carefully, not really possessing the patience to go back to either of your apartments. Fuck being in an uber with a hard on.

 You seem skeptical for a moment. “You ever fucked anyone in it?”

 “No.” He answers quickly. “I don’t really do one ni—“

 “Okay, yeah.” You nod, teeth trapping your bottom lip as you not-so-subtly stare at his mouth.

 He knows what you want. He wants the same thing. But when he kisses you, it’s going to be private. No people staring or interrupting.

 So he pulls away. Your shaky exhale makes him smile proudly. He made you nervous.

 “Come.” He takes your hand in his when you’re back on your feet and he feels giddy at how easily you comply, how you follow him, naturally clinging onto his arm as he guides you through the crowd.

 You squeeze on his bicep with the hand that’s not in his to get his attention and he slightly leans down to hear you over the music. You point your chin over to the occupied sofa, cheeky smile taking over your face as you take in the sight of a perfectly healthy Giselle, laughing her lungs out at something Chenle is so passionately rambling on about.

 Mark shakes his head with a smile, but mentally makes a note to later grill his friend about the totally fake throwing up incident. He doesn’t even say anything, just keeps walking down the hallway, where both bedrooms are.

 When you both enter the neat spare room, he shuts the door behind him and sighs at the loud crowd and music becoming nothing but a background noise.

 “Is this Chenle guy rich or something?” You ask curiously as you look around, inspecting the spacious room.

 Mark lets out a quick laugh, eyes following you around, observing you. “Yeah. His parents are loaded. Pretty sure his dad owns this whole building.”

 You nod with an approving pout and all Mark can think is how adorable you look as you fumble with the bedside lamp, trying to figure out how it works. The second it illuminates, you let out an exaggerated gasp, your eyes widening and Mark doesn’t know what takes over him but he flicks the main lights off, surprising both of you.

 He leans back on the door, resting his weight there, hands at the small of his back as he patiently waits for your next move.

 “Smooth.” You comment with a small grin as you place the small lamp back in its spot.

 He just shrugs, mirroring your expression as you slowly retrace your steps, walking back towards him. It’s difficult for him not to blush as you get closer and closer; his heart threatening to beat out of his chest again and again and he awkwardly lifts a hand to rub against his jawline. His eyes rake over you unintentionally, taking in the outfit you’ve got on tonight. It’s simple; an off-shoulder crop top and light-washed baggy jeans. Pretty. Easy to remove.

 He feels hot at the thought of undressing you. What if he’s too clumsy? What if your earrings get tangled in your top? What if he accidentally pulls your hair?

 “Are you just gonna stand there?” You speak tentatively, as though you’re enjoying the silence. You seem a lot more composed and calm than him. Not like someone who not too long ago uttered the words ‘I’m so wet right now. It’s fucking embarrassing’, but then again, maybe you’re always like this. Fluctuating.

 “Where do you want me?” He asks, not intending for the words to sound sexual, but somehow, they do, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Composure slowly slipping away.

 “To be honest, you look pretty good just like this” You halt in front of him, but still out of reach. “But for tonight’s purposes, ideally, I’d want you on the bed.” Fuck. “Unless you have any other ideas.”

 Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 “Dude.” He exhales a pained augh, hand covering his eyes in frustration. You simply just giggle at his misery.

 Without him seeing, your hands are suddenly on him; one touching his chest, the other peeling his hand away from his face, forcing him to look at you. And he’s definitely not complaining. Before he has time to take in your pretty face, your palm is engulfing the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level.

 He’s not sure who finally closes the gap, his mind too occupied with the softness of your lips and the way they slot with his. So effortlessly. Deja vu is inevitable when your arms wrap around his neck, holding him closer, and his limbs suddenly come back to life; the sliver of skin between your top and jeans so soft under his touch and so are your hands trailing from his hair down to the sides of his neck.

 The kiss is slow, sensual, almost romantic and the little noise of satisfaction you let out goes straight to his already hardening cock. The way you kiss him, contrasts the demeanour you've held up until now. You’re going along with the pace he sets. You’re not leading and he wonders if it’s deliberate. Can he just do however he pleases with you or will you eventually take the upper hand?

 He decides it’s worth a try by slipping a hand into your hair, tilting your head to the side so he can easily slip his tongue into your eager mouth and he’s rewarded with a low moan of yours, your lips parting for him, allowing him to taste you properly as you lazily glide your tongue with his.

He moves on autopilot, slowly walking you backwards. One hand still in your hair, the other hovering above your ass, keeping you close.

 “Shoes—mph—off.” He mumbles against your lips before you obscenely lick into his mouth and he can’t hold back the grunt that escapes his throat.

 It all becomes messy so quickly. His hands clumsily unbutton your jeans as you rush to kick your shoes off without breaking the kiss, both of you gasping and laughing as you stumble over your feet. You’ve somehow managed to turn the situation around and he only realises when the backs of his knees hit the mattress.

His back hits the covers with a push from you and within seconds, you’re straddling his thighs; bare legs on either side of him as you go back to kissing him. He surprises himself with the noise he lets out when both his hands grope your ass. Not just because it’s your ass he’s touching, but mainly because of the lack of underwear, and he’d love to comment on your hastiness but at this point he doesn’t really care. As long as he’s got you naked and in bed, he’s a content man.

 “Take your top off.” He instructs in a whisper, and you oblige without a question, sitting up in a heartbeat and removing the last piece of clothing you’ve got on. No bra underneath and he mentally thanks the heavens. “Fuck.”

 His hands caress your thighs absentmindedly as he takes in the sight above him. There’s something about the fact that you’re fully naked, while he’s not removed a single article of clothing. And you’re not rushing him either, patiently letting him enjoy the view, hands on his chest, ass directly above the very prominent bulge in his jeans. You seem comfortable in your nakedness and that turns him on even more, cock twitching in its confines.

 “C’mon. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” Your voice is sultry, patience clearly wearing thin as his hands remain on your thighs and he abruptly sits up, crashing his mouth onto yours. One hand holds the back of your neck as the other slips between your bodies, shamelessly cupping your entire pussy, the heel of his palm rubbing against your undeniably swollen clit.

 “Fuck, you’re…” He’s not able to form a complete sentence, interrupted by the loud moan you let out against his lips.

 “I told you. It’s embarrassing.” Your fingers thread in his hair, desperately pulling, driving him insane.

 “It’s fucking hot.” He’s corrects, completely enamoured with the way your body responds to him. You’re literally grinding on his hand, seeking relief, kissing him like a starved woman, spit coating both of your lips as he sucks on your tongue, earning a cute whine from you.

 “Feel like I’m dripping on your jeans.” You complain, breathing harshly as the pads of his fingers slide between your drenched folds, spreading your arousal, making a mess between your legs.

 “Cause you are.” He whispers with a smug grin.

 He purposely avoids your clit, in the mood to tease you as his lips drag from your jaw down to the base of your neck. His tongue makes contact with your sweaty skin, tasting salt, your scent engulfing him as his hold on your hair tightens, pulling your head back to gain full access to your sensitive skin.

 “Please, I really need you to fuck me.” You murmur weakly, the hoarseness of your voice causing his heart to quicken and his cock to throb painfully.

 He’s so fucked. Beyond salvation. And you’re so fucking needy. But he doesn’t want to give into you just yet. It’s his turn to torment you a little.

 “In a bit.” He dismisses your pleas with another suck on your neck, your crazy pulse delicious on his tongue.

 “Mark—“

 “Shh. You can wait a little longer.” Two of his fingers tease your entrance, slowly circling, dipping shallowly before slipping out and repeating the action.

 He almost feels bad when your body starts trembling, so he snakes his arm around your middle, holding you as close as possible. Your messy kisses on his neck are cut short the second his fingers ease into you, following the curve of your cunt until they’re knuckles-deep. And when he curls them slightly, your walls tighten and so do your arms around his neck, face burying in his neck as he starts to slowly pump in and out, making sure to repeatedly hit that spot that made you tremble.

 “This feel good?” He whispers against your shoulder, arm tightening around you, the pads of his fingers almost reaching your side boob.

 “Yeah.” You sigh, sounding wrecked already and that urges him to quicken the pace. He starts jackhammering his fingers into you, cunt greedily sucking them inside, your slick dripping down his wrist, smearing on his jeans and the sleeve of his jumper. The filthy thought of never washing his clothes again crosses his unhinged mind.

 You’re both sweating unimaginably, and now he wishes he’d at least taken a layer off, but he pays no mind to that as your body tenses. “You close?”

 “Yeah. Don't stop.” Your nails dig into the skin of his nape, most likely leaving crescent moons and he desperately needs you to come before he combusts in his trousers.

 He starts slamming the heel of his hand into your clit, making sure you’re being stimulated to the max and your whiny exhale reassures him. “Cum.”

 And you do. Body tensing up for a moment before you start trembling against him, the secure arm around you helping you stay upright as you gasp for air.

 “Oh my god.” Your hips buck up, pussy spasming violently around his fingers as he fucks you through it all.

 “You’re okay.” His knuckles caressing your spine, attempting to calm you down as your body gradually goes limp on him.

 “I think I just saw god.” You mumble half-conscious, causing Mark to let out a little laugh.

 “Did you say hi?” He steals a little kiss off your cheek as he slowly pulls his fingers out. Your shudder makes him smile fondly and he lets his fingers lazily caress your slit, before they gently circle your swollen bundle of nerves.

 “You’ve definitely been in at least one relationship since l last saw you.” The statement catches him off guard, and he pulls back a little to look at you.

 “What makes you say that?”

 You blink lazily, sweat dripping down the sides of your face. “You found my g-spot. Real fucking quick as well.”

 “I need a girlfriend for that?”

 “Well, someone’s taught you.” Your smile is teasing and so is the light touch of your fingers on his jaw.

 “Situationships, I guess. No girlfriend though.” He takes in your expression, heart beating a little quicker at your silence. “Red flag?”

 You give him a sweet smile. “I just came. All your flags are bright green right now”

 He mirrors your expression as he leans in, silently asking for a kiss, which you easily give, slowly dragging your swollen lips against his.

 “Wanna keep going?” He speaks softly, praying for an affirmative response.

 “Yes, please.”

 He moans at your words, hands trailing up your sides until they’re cupping your tits, tongue sloppily licking into your mouth. The whine you let out as he pinches your nipples, spurs him on, and he squeezes the supple flesh a little harder.

 “Can I just fuck you? Please? I promise I’ll go down on you later.” The begging tone his voice carries almost makes him cringe. Pitiful.

 You let out a yelp when he flips you over, your back on the mattress now, and he can’t help but notice the way your tits bounce a little as well as the slippery mess between your spread thighs.

 “Yeah, no more foreplay.” You sit up as he stands between your legs that hang off the edge of the bed. “And take that stupid jumper off right now.”

 He chuckles lightly at your frustration but obliges anyway. His jumper and t-shirt are off in one go and he quickly kicks his shoes off as you start unbuckling his belt, lust-clouded eyes gazing up at him.

 “Don’t look at me like that.” He rasps as his hands join yours, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping.

 “Like what?” Your seductive tone clouds his head and the kisses you start leaving down his happy trail make his hands shake.

 You don’t give him time to answer, immediately shoving both his boxers along with his trousers down, deeming him incapable of thinking properly. Your warm exhale hits him straight where it hurts, his throbbing length twitching the second you wrap a hand around the base.

 “Get on your all fours.” He instructs, tone purposely devoid of any warmth. He’s had enough of your games now. But still, his hands engulf each side of your face, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks. “Or I just cum on your face and we call it a night. Up to you.”

 Your smirk is sinister as you scoot up the bed until your head hits the pillows and you swiftly turn on your front, knees spread wide, supporting your lower half as you arch your back like a pro, tits squishing against the mattress.

 “Holy shit.” He exhales in awe.

 You’re on full display. Ass up in the air, cunt staring right through his soul, inviting him in, and who is he to decline such an invite? As though the mental breakdown he’s experiencing isn’t enough, you shamelessly slip a hand between your legs, two fingers sliding through your dripping folds.

 “Markie, please. It hurts.” You briefly look over your shoulder with a performative pout, shamelessly putting on a show for him.

 “What the fuck.” He’s lost for words, standing there butt naked, staring at your fingers circling your clit before they slowly trail up, catching at your clenching hole and easily slipping in.

 You’re an evil evil woman. He decides right there and then. And the moment you start fucking yourself, he sees red, any resolve left, completely forgotten.

 He’s on his knees behind you within seconds. Hand ripping your fingers away before shoving your face against the pillows by the back go your head. His cock slips inside easily, walls vacuuming him in and he doesn’t wait for you to adjust; his free hand grabbing your waist as he starts slamming into you.

 “You’re fucking filthy, you know that?” He grunts through your high pitched moaning. “Been torturing me since day one.”

 Your muffled voice sounds like a song he’s been trying to find for a long time and he’s finally succeeded.

 “M—markie,” You sound like you’re crying and he loves it. “Fuck, it's so good.”

 “Shut up.” His thrusts become more intense, balls harshly slapping against your pussy, the wet sounds of your walls suctioning around him each time he pulls out, sending him into a frenzy. “I bet this is what you wanted—fuck—to piss me off. Huh?”

 “N-no — I just wanted you.” You mumble in your delirious state, and of course, it goes straight to his head.

His eyes focus on the way his cock slips in and out of your sopping hole. A white ring of slick has already formed at his base and he’s afraid he might finish sooner than expected.

 So he buries himself to the hilt to take a much needed moment. His head dips back in ecstasy, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he tries his best to compose himself and when he looks back down, your droopy eyes are already on him, neck twisted as you stare over your shoulder, face half-hidden.

 You look nothing short of ethereal. Your skin glowing in sweat, back still arched beautifully, eyes glistening with want and unshed tears as they roll back briefly the second Mark experimentally grinds a little too deep.

 “Mark?” Your voice is broken, his name sounding like a prayer.

 “Hm?” He leans down, nose nuzzling against yous jaw as he keeps grinding his hips slowly, relishing in the mewls you let out.

 “Want you close.” You whisper into the pillow, a little whimper adorning the end of your sentence. Your desperation breaks him.

 “I’m here.” He reassures you with a sweet kiss on your cheek. “D’you wanna change positions?”

 Your tiny nod pulls at his heartstrings in a way that’s foreign to him. He’s always been gentle by nature, soft spoken, sensitive. But this is untouched territory.

 “Alright,” He leaves a kiss on your shoulder as he pulls out. Gentle hand patting your thigh. "C’mon, turn around."

 With rushed movements, you eagerly flop on your back and his hips find home between your parted legs, the soft skin of your inner thighs dragging against his sides, making him shudder as he slowly slips back into you with a choked moan.

 “You can still be rough. Just wanted to touch you.” You admit bashfully, eyes blinking up at him, eyebrows tensing as he bottoms out with a loud squelch.

 Your hand delicately brushes the hair off his drenched forehead, your fingers threading through the strands and the clenching and unclenching of your velvety walls cause his eyes to flutter closed —the intense feeling of contentment clogging his brain up.

It’s unholy. The effect you have on him. It’s fucked. It makes no sense to him. He barely knows you, yet he welcomes everything you give him. Gives into everything you ask for, like it’s some sort of ritual. Something predetermined. A done deal with the universe. Like he’d burn in hell if he resisted.

 “Do you actually want me to be rough?” He searches your face for a sign, but he only finds conflict.

 “I dunno. I’m confused.”

 “About what?” He carefully settles his weight on top of you, arm by your head, free hand caressing your ribs delicately, barely cupping the underside of your breast.

 “I um—I liked it just now. How you were. But I kind of just—“ You sigh in frustration, hips slowly raising for some friction.

 “Want it slow?” He matches your rhythm, grinding into you, going as deep as he can as he awaits for a verbal response. He doesn’t need it. Your bent legs spreading even further is enough confirmation, but he wants to hear it anyway. “You know I don’t mind vanilla.”

 His joke lands. Your breathy laugh, hard to ignore as it hits warm on his shoulder.

 “Don’t make jokes right now.” You scold with a little whine.

 “Why not?” He gives you a chaste kiss before setting a slow pace; deep languid thrusts, his fingers fisting the pillow by your head as he tries to hold back from giving into the sensation of your warm, gummy walls enveloping his sensitive cock.

 “You’re literally balls deep inside me.” Your hands pull his face closer, connecting your lips again, small pants mingling as you kiss him as slow as he’s fucking you.

 “Whatever.” He mumbles dreamily in your mouth, palm finally engulfing your boob, gently squeezing the soft flesh and he involuntarily delivers a harsher thrust. “Shit, sorry.”

 It’s not his fault. Your pussy tightening every time he does something new, has him reeling, losing the little control he’s got over his actions.

 “No, keep going, it feels good.” You kiss him harder, holding both of his cheeks desperately as he quickens his movements a little, hips lightly slapping against yours, the lewd, squelching sounds of sex, loud enough to echo alongside your wet kisses and intense breathing. “Fuck—Mark—you—oh shit—right there.”

 “Yeah?” He pants, unrestrained.

 It’s pathetic. Beyond pitiful how your incoherent but praiseful words turn him into a whiny mess. He feels dizzy, and he’s pretty sure he’s drooling on your lips as his jaw goes slack, tongue slipping out a tiny bit, attempting to taste you in the hazy mess. His eyes roll back in raw bliss as your nails scratch down his back, arms trembling on either side of your head.

 He feels helpless.

Your legs lock around his hips, only allowing him to pull a tiny fraction of his cock out before thrusting back in; quick short pumps seeming to do the trick for you both.

 “Shit. You gonna cum?” He asks in awe. Your suffocating walls and trembling breaths a clear sign, but he still asks, needing to hear you as he looks down, taking in your flushed body. Your bouncing tits, a sight for sore eyes.

 “Mhm.” You nod quickly, eyebrows tensing in a cute frown before your face nestles in his shoulder, your hot breath hitting his damp skin as he starts scattering a dewy mess of kisses up and down your neck. “Oh my god, I'm-”

 “I know, I know.” He gasps as he puts extra effort in keeping up the same rhythm as your cunt squeezes him, his impending orgasm clouding his brain.

 You go completely quiet for a few moments, before becoming a trembling mess beneath him and he knows you’ve reached your peak. He relentlessly pushes past the tight grip your walls have around him, desperate to keep your pleasure going as he starts fucking you harder through it, the cry you let out against his shoulder, a reward to his efforts.

 “Shit—I’m close.” He feels lightheaded, breathing laboured as he tries to hold on for a little longer.

 “You have to pull out.” You utter in panic, a thread of sensibility still holding onto one of you at least.

 “Yeah, I will.” He rasps, hand grabbing onto your thigh, fingers digging. “If you fucking let me.”

 “Shit, sorry.” You mumble in realisation.

 You quickly unwrap your legs from his waist, the tremble in them still noticeable as he sits up a little, delivering three more stuttering pumps before dragging his sensitive cock out with a grunt, his release immediately spilling all over your pussy, a spurt landing on your inner thigh, a few on your tummy, while some of it drips on the comforter. He pumps himself empty, until he’s got nothing more to give.

 You hold him close when he collapses on top of you with a tired huff, not even caring about the mess between your bodies.

 It’s quiet for a few moments. Just muffled music and heavy breathing. Just your hands combing through his damp hair. Just his cheek squished up against your chest. Just his fingers tracing random patterns on your ribcage.

 It’s only when his index accidentally brushes against your sensitive nipple that you whine, breaking the silence and causing him to breathe out a small laugh.

 “My bad.”

 “You’re good.” You pet his head gently. “Dude.”

 He snorts at your mocking tone. A little surprised at how not awkward this feels.

 “My guy.” He says casually, still a little out of breath, but joining the silly joking session regardless, and your chest vibrates under him in a giggle that makes him feel giddy.

 “You got a really peachy ass you know.” Your unexpected comment makes him raise his head to look at you in question.

 “Thanks, I guess?” His eyebrows furrow in a funny expression as his hand sneaks beneath your weight, playfully squeezing your asscheek, forcing a cute screech out of you. “I prefer yours.”

 “Ah, of course. An ass man.” You state with a playful roll of your eyes. He likes it.

 “Hmm, I dunno. I like your boobs just as much.” He drops his gaze to your chest in a very unsubtle manner. Intentional. An action which, of course, earns him whack in the head. “Yo, that hurt!”

 “Stop being a guy.”

 “I am a guy!”

 “And for that, you’re suffering.” Your tone is sweet and so is your smile, but there’s an edge hidden.

 “I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” He retorts, making sure to add some smugness in his voice, though, it’s become abundantly clear that you’re not one to back down. Your free hand sneaks down his back, nails harshly digging into the muscle of his ass, making him yelp in pain. “Ow! Watch it with the claws.”

 “I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” You imitate his tone, mocking him.

 “What kind of twisted way of flirting is this?” He hides his face between your boobs, nuzzling against the soft skin of your sternum as he allows his arms to circle around you, the gentle thump of your heart easing his nerves.

 “Who says I’m flirting?”

 Mark is aware of how oblivious he can be when it comes to girls, but he also knows a thing or two. And it’s the way your fingers scratch the back of his scalp soothingly that betrays you. Maybe even the goosebumps on your chest, just under the spot he kissed a few seconds ago. Or maybe it’s your legs tightening around him, holding him right where he wants to be. Could be the slight twitch of your hips under him as he moves to get more comfortable. Can it be the whimper you accidentally let slip when his lips start kissing across your chest?

 “My bad, my bad.” He murmurs as he presses a wet smooch just millimetres off your clearly hardened nipple. “I must be losing the plot.” He continues, sarcasm intentional, and so is the light flick of his tongue against the erect bud. “You’re not flirting.” His words sound mindless, but he’s definitely aware of what he’s doing to you. And he’s loving your cute little squirms as his release from earlier smears between your lower halves. “You’re just being a brat, as per.”

 “Don’t remember you being this annoying.” You complain breathlessly, back arching as you chase his tongue when he pulls back a little.

 “Mm, things change.” He feels himself getting hard again, but he ignores it. He’s got other plans. Teasing you seems to have become his priority and you don’t seem to mind either. “I don’t remember you being this needy.”

 “Fuck you.” There’s not an ounce of a malice laced with your tone.

 A deep moan escapes your chest the second his lips wrap around your wet nipple, sucking lazily as his tongue licks obscenely. He releases it with a lewd pop before letting the tip of his wet muscle flick, forcing louder sounds out of you.

 He hopes the remaining people in Chenle’s living room can hear you, discretion the last thing on his mind.

 He lifts his body a little, creating space for his hand to slip between your legs. The wet mess even worse now, but perfect nonetheless, and he doesn’t hover this time. Two of his digits find your clit in no time, circling the same way his tongue circles your abused nipple. Slow. Gentle.

 He can tell you’re still sensitive, overstimulated. But he wants more. Needs more. So he takes it. And you give it.

 It’s sloppy, the mixture of both your essences making everything slippery and he feels the subtle pulse of your bud under the pads of his fingers as he rubs with a little more precision; your laboured breaths nothing but an encouragement. His mouth hangs open against your chest, lips dragging aimlessly, your skin covered in his spit and he can’t help but moan lowly when you tug at his hair a little too hard.

 He really needs to feel you unravel again. The desire might as well be engraved in him by now.

 “Can I go down on you?” He looks up, gauging your reaction and you’re nothing but hooded eyes and flushed cheeks.

 “If you feel like tasting your own cum, go for it.” You respond casually, a lazy smirk forming on your lips.

 “I’m an introvert, Y/N, not a fucking prude.” He mumbles carelessly as he descends kisses down your body, no hesitation behind his actions when he reaches parts painted in his release. He just licks it all up, like he’s done it a million times. And Mark realises he actually never has. Sure, he’s kissed girls right after they’ve given him head, but eating his own cum off someone’s skin is something he’s never explored before.

 He greedily makes out with your pussy the second he settles between your thighs, tongue gliding gently up and down your slit, dipping a little when it reaches your entrance, your taste combined with his own, intoxicating him. The more he teases, the whinier you get.

 You get so restless he has no choice but to wrap his arms around your thighs to hold you down — one hand splaying just above your pubic bone to ground you, the other just settling for your thigh — and when his fingers pull the hood of your clip up, just a tiny bit, revealing the cute but, he sucks. Hard. Then he flicks. Mercilessly. And he keeps interchanging between the two, letting your sounds guide him. Hard sucks and vigorous flicks just where you ache the most. He doesn’t need to do much more.

 Within a few minutes—maybe two, maybe three—he feels the quaking of your legs, hears the intensifying cries, relishes in the hard tugs on his hair and when you’re cumming on his tongue, just like he wanted you to, he’s moaning with you, helping you ride the high for as long as possible.

 “Fuck, s—stop.” You beg helplessly when it gets too much and he delivers one last kiss on your swollen bud before climbing up your body again.

 Your tongue is in his mouth, tangling with his before he can process what’s just happened, arms wrapping securely around his neck, as though he would escape otherwise. You flagrantly lick in his mouth, tasting everything like you need it. And maybe you do. He doubts you need it as much as he does though.

 You don’t seem to have a care in the world that his chin is smearing your combines fluids on yours. It’s dirty. Filthier than anything he’s ever experienced. And he feels corrupt. You simply have corrupted him. Ruined him without even trying, like it’s some daily routine of yours. And he’s gobbling it all up like a much needed fix.

 He needs air. Needs to breathe. But all he seems to be able to do is kiss you again and again and again, until you release him.

 “Do you think we’ll have to wash the bed covers?” You ask with a sincere look of curiosity, albeit out of breath.

 It takes a second for the random question to register due to his hazy state, but when it does, Mark can’t help but let out a weak laugh.

 “I think we might have to buy new ones.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──  

It takes you a second to realise why you feel so warm when you wake up. At first, you assume it’s the sun slipping through the curtains and hitting the skin of your back where the covers have fallen off.

 But then you shift slightly. Your eyes flutter open, looking for the real source of heat.

 Mark.

 He’s on his side, facing you, his face tucked gently against your bare chest like he drifted there without thinking. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, heavy and warm, hand resting at the small of your back. Not gripping. Just there. Like holding you is something he does without effort — even unconscious. Like even in a deep slumber he’s decided you’re something to hold onto.

 You stay still. Still taking it all in.

 He looks unfair like this.

 Sleep has softened every sharp edge he usually carries. His brows, normally expressive and quick to knit together, are smooth now. His lashes rest against his cheeks — longer than they have any right to be — casting faint shadows in the morning light. His lips are slightly parted, relaxed, the corners tilted just enough to make him look younger. Gentler.

 Pretty.

 The word slips into your mind before you can stop it.

 There’s something almost innocent about him like this. No teasing smirk. No knowing glances. Just warm skin and steady breathing and a boy who trusted you enough to fall asleep pressed this close.

 The faint stubble along his chin brushes against you when he shifts, softer than it looks. You trace it lightly with your fingertips, watching the way his mouth moves in response — a tiny unconscious reaction. His nose nudges closer, breath fanning against your skin. It tickles a little.

 Your heart speeds up.

 You hate that it does. Why would it?

 You hate that it isn’t just physical. That it isn’t just leftover heat from last night. It’s something else. Something quieter and far more dangerous. It’s odd. The way your chest feels tight just looking at him. The way you’re memorising the exact shape of his lips, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek in the sunlight.

 He’s too handsome first thing in the morning. Too warm. Too real.

 Your pulse thuds harder than you’d like, and you swallow, trying to steady yourself.

 This isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s too simple for it to feel like this. You’ve slept with the guy twice over the course of two years for crying out loud.

 His fingers flex faintly on your skin, tightening for a brief second before settling again. Even asleep, he pulls you a fraction closer, like he’s afraid you might slip away. Just like you did last time.

 Your heart betrays you again.

 You brush his hair back gently, letting your fingers linger in the softness. He stirs at the touch, lashes fluttering before slowly lifting. His gaze is unfocused at first, hazy with sleep, and then it lands on you.

 He freezes.

 You watch awareness dawn in real time — the slight widening of his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. A faint flush creeps up his neck.

 “Hi,” he murmurs, voice rough and small in the quiet room.

 It’s so shy, it almost doesn’t sound like the guy from last night.

 You don’t answer. You just keep looking at him, taking in the softness that hasn’t fully faded yet.

 His lips press together briefly before he adds, quieter, almost unsure, “Still here?”

 The way he says it makes something in you constrict.

 Before you can respond, he ducks his face back into your chest, hiding like he regrets letting you see that vulnerable edge. His arm slides a little tighter around your waist, pulling you in closer. You feel the warmth of his cheek against you — and then, softly, almost absentmindedly, he presses a small kiss on the skin between your breasts before settling there again, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 You should say something. Make a lighthearted comment. A joke. Something. Anything.

 You don’t.

 Instead, you tilt his face up gently, fingers brushing along his jaw. He looks startled for a split second, brows lifting slightly.

 And then you do something that you shouldn’t feel that comfortable doing. You kiss him.

 It’s soft. Slow. Not teasing. Just your lips pressing against his like you couldn’t not do it.

 He makes the tiniest sound of surprise against your mouth — a quiet, breathy little noise that’s so embarrassingly cute. His hand flexes at your waist like he forgot what to do with it.

 But he kisses you back.

 Careful at first. Shy. Still waking up into it. Then a little surer, lips moving softly against yours, warm and unhurried.

 When you pull back just enough to breathe, he’s looking at you differently. Still flushed. Still flustered.

 Still holding you close.

 “You can’t just do that,” he mumbles, even though his thumb is tracing absent patterns against your waist now.

 And your heart, traitor that it is, keeps beating too fast.

 “Do what?” you whisper back, close enough that your lips almost brush his when you speak.

 He hesitates. You feel it — the flicker of nerves beneath the warmth. His gaze drops to your mouth like he’s debating something with himself.

 It doesn’t take him too long to decide, it seems. His lips are on yours in not time again.

 Not shy this time. Not startled.

 Just slow. Sensual.

 His hand tightens slightly at your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin as if to anchor himself. It all starts soft — just the gentle press of his lips to yours — but there’s intention behind it now. A quiet hunger that wasn’t there seconds ago.

 You feel the shift immediately. The undeniable throbbing between your legs. Your breathing matching his quickened one.

 His mouth moves more deliberately, head tilting to deepen the kiss, nose brushing lightly against your cheek as his tongue grazes your bottom lip, asking for permission you instantly give. Mouth parting for him without a thought, too excited to taste him. The faint rasp of his stubble grazes your skin when he adjusts closer, and you can’t help the small inhale that slips out of you.

 He hears it, of course. You feel the corner of his mouth lift against yours before he kisses you deeper.

 Your fingers slide into his hair again, nails barely grazing his scalp, and he exhales into your mouth — warm, shaky, almost reverent. His arm around your waist pulls you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, the warmth of him suddenly impossible to ignore when his skin drags against your sensitive and already wet cunt.

 The sound of it — soft breaths, fabric shifting, the quiet press of skin on skin — fills the room and it all feels… different compared to last night. Unrushed.

 Like he’s not trying to impress you. Not trying to prove anything.

 Just kissing you because he wants to.

 Your heart pounds harder than you like. Harder than it makes sense. You barely know him outside of dim lights and late-night tension and shared heat — and yet the way he’s touching you now, feels careful. Thoughtful. Like he’s memorising the shape of you through his hands.

 No one’s kissed you like this.

 Not like they could do it for hours. Not like it could become routine.

 His hand slides slightly higher along your spine, slow enough to make you aware of every inch it travels. Your body reacts before your brain can catch up, leaning into him, hips shifting unconsciously closer, grinding, looking for release against the muscle of his thigh.

 He makes that soft sound again — the small, surprised hum you’re starting to recognise — but this time it’s deeper. Less startled. More affected.

 The kiss grows wetter, heavier, until breathing becomes necessary. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, lips parted, eyes darker now as they take in your lips. You can only imagine what they look like, judging from his swollen, glistening ones.

 The innocence of it all has disappeared as his hand travels down your back, settling when it’s reached your ass, kneading softly. Once. Twice. And then just resting there. Intentional and comfortable.

 Dangerously comfortable.

 You realise, with a slow creeping clarity, how easy this would be. To wake up like this again.

 To fall back into this again. Into him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──  

Next time you sleep with Mark, it’s in your bed. The one after that, is in his bed. And the one after that, in your bed again. And the one after that is memorable because he makes you cum in any position you can think of. The time after that, he’s rougher than he’s ever been; manhandling you like it’s his job, fucking you so hard, pain mixing with pleasure, your tears blinding you, your cries deafening you, until his hand is around your throat, shutting you up.

 It gets to a point where the nights (and mornings) you’ve spent together, blur into one. It all easily becomes a habit. Calling him, texting him, meeting with him between classes. It’s all normal. Like it would be with a close friend.

 For you at least. You’re not really sure how he feels, but the fact that he’s never complained, comforts you in a way. Other times, it makes you doubt everything. You try not to dwell on those thoughts.

 Random hang-out sessions, that turn into lazy movie nights, become a frequent occurrence between the two of you.

 Much like right now.

 “What the hell?” You exclaim all aggravated, sitting up a little from your lying position on the sofa. Your feet shift on Mark’s lap and you can’t see his hand under the blanket, but you feel its warmth around your calf, through the cotton of your sock. It’s comforting. “Is that it?”

 Mark chuckles lightly.

 “I mean, yeah.” He shrugs casually as he pops a piece of pop corn in his mouth. “Thoughts?”

 “I’m fucking sad.”

 “Aww, dude, why?” He sits up a little too, getting more comfortable so he can look at you better as the credits keep rolling. “They said they’ll meet again.”

 “Yeah, but we don’t actually see that.” You complain loudly, making him chuckle again. At least one of you is entertained.

 “That’s the whole point.” He squeezes your calf once. “It all ends before sunrise for them, hence the title, but they get to experience so much in just one night that they don’t really need to know if they’ll actually meet again.”

 “Is that why it’s your favourite movie? You’re into the whole soppy, enigmatic love trope?” You tease with a smirk, loving his flustered reactions a little too much.

 The cute roll of his eyes makes you smile wider, without realising.

 “I guess we’re not watching the second one then.” He says with a playful pout and you can’t help the excited yelp you let out.

 “There’s a second one?”

 His eyes widen a little at your excitement, tiny amused smile taking place on his face. “And a third one. But I’ve never seen it.”

 “Well, we have to watch them.” You catch yourself moving closer. His hand slips higher on your leg, just below your knee, the warmth seeping through your comfy sweatpants.

 “Oh, we have to?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, making your heart skip a beat at his subtle way of teasing you.

 “Yes, we.” You say stubbornly, refusing to let him have his way. “You’re the one who suggested this ridiculously sad shit.”

 He stares at you for a moment, in thought as he spreads his legs a little, letting your own dangle between them, bent knees hooked over his thigh. You instinctively move even closer, one of your arms stretching behind his shoulders, against the back of the sofa, as your free hand starts playing with one of his hoodie strings.

 The familiar scent of his after shave mixed with a hint of detergent engulfs you. It’s distinct. The kind that could traumatise you if things ever went south with him.

 “Did you not like it then?” His voice comes out quite this time.

 You purposely avoid eye contact, though, you can feel his gaze on you, and you have to actively force yourself to not focus on the way his hand caresses your inner thigh. It’s nothing but innocent, but that does something to you. It feels domestic. Absentminded.

 “No, I did.” Your eyes are still on your finger twirling the string on his chest. “Just hoped for a happier ending is all.”

 “Hmm, you can’t always have a happy ending, though.” He says skeptically and for some reason the words sit heavy in your chest.

 You ignore the unpleasant feeling and force your eyes onto his. “When did you become so wise?”

 “Tsk, I’ve always been wise.” His cute nose scrunches a tiny bit as his eyes narrow in a challenge.

 You try your best to mirror his expression as you tickle his chin with your index finger. “Sure, you have.”

 Your teasing gets interrupted quickly. A giggle erupts from you as he playfully tries to bite your finger off. His pearly whites making an appearance; a silly imitation of a cat making you act all giddy.

 He’s too cute for his own good.

 And so you give into the urge to drop a very sweet kiss on his cheek. Your hand cradles his jaw as he tries to pretend an escape.

 When you pull away, you have to bite your lip to hide your smile, your cheeks hurting.

 He looks away, attempting to hide his own smile from you, tongue poking the inside of the cheek you just smooched a little too loudly.

 “You’re still so shy with me.” You observe quietly and his frown makes you let out another giggle.

 “No, I’m not.” He pouts adorably.

 “It’s okay.” You lean closer as he sulks. Another kiss on his cheek, this time a tiny bit closer to the corner of his lips. “I like it.”

 “Do you really think I’m shy with you?” He searches for a reaction in your eyes as he wraps a hand around your wrist, urging you to wrap your arms around his neck.

 You give in too easily. It’s too difficult not to with his face so close to yours.

 “Not always.” You admit, as you start playing with the hair at his nape. “You’re shy, like, maybe fifty percent of the time.”

 “Fifty?!” He shrieks with an offended tone. “Dude, that’s still high.”

 “And I still like it.” You scold, arms tightening slightly around him as his hands rest on your thighs, still draped across his lap.

 “You just like being a pain in my ass.” He states with a knowing smirk, and you can’t even deny it.

 “See? You’re not shy now.” You deflect, enjoying the back and forth dynamic you have going on with him.

 “Stop flirting.” He scolds, hand squeezing your thigh softly.

 “Mm, no.” You cradle the back of his neck gently with one hand as your other arm drapes casually around his shoulders.

 “No?”

 “No.”

 “Just like that?”

 You simply nod. “Just like that.”

 He nods back with an approving pout. “Fair.”

 The second he leans in for a kiss, a dull pain in your lower abdomen reminds you of your state and you panic.

 “You can’t stay tonight.” You blurt out. The surprise evident on his face as he pulls back.

 “Umm, okay?” His confusion pulls at the strings in your heart. “Is something wrong? Like, did I—“

 “No.” You interrupt him, before he can make things even more awkward. Arm still around him. “I’m just on my period. So, we can’t…you know.”

 Realisation downs on him. Eyebrows raising slightly, lips parting. “Oh.” He nods once. “Right.”

 “Mmhm.” You give him an awkward, tight smile.

 You could have cancelled tonight. Should have. But you hadn’t seen him in almost a week due to a stupid essay you had to focus on. And you hate to admit it even to yourself, but you missed him. A little more than you a friend misses a friend. But that’s another story.

 “Are you feeling okay?” He asks a little too casually, but still concerned.

 The way he sneaks an arm around your middle, is too smooth. It’s with effort that you manage to maintain your composure as he pulls you closer into his side, his hand resting on your lower back. Gentle and reassuring.

 Your heart does something weird at the intimate gesture. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s the third day, so, it’s not too bad.”

 He nods understandingly. “Okay, well…I don’t know if I’m being too slow, but why exactly can’t I stay?”

 The question definitely catches you off guard, but you manage to stay grounded. “I mean, you can. You’re welcome to. We’re just not having sex.”

 “Yeah, fuck that, I’m off.” He moves to playfully shrug you off, but laughs at the way you childishly whine, refusing to move, stubbornly clinging onto him. He settles back with a huff and you bashfully hide your face in his shoulder. “Y/N, I obviously don’t care. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

 His voice is too soft. Too sweet.

 You exhale loudly, feigning annoyance. “Fine. Stay then.”

 “Ugh. Fine, I will.” You feel the delicate nudge of his nose against your forehead and, inevitably, you look up at him, still tucked safely in his side with your legs comfortably resting on top of his spread ones. “So, like, is kissing out of the question too?”

 You snort at the silly question. “No. Kissing’s allowed.”

 You’ve realised over time that you have a soft spot for his cheeky side. It’s rare that Mark Lee drops his serious stance, but you’ve managed to break through a few times now and each one of those has felt like a special reward.

 His lips find yours for the first time tonight. The hand cradling your jaw shouldn’t feel that good on your skin and the arm around your waist shouldn’t feel as safe as it does. But you savour everything, matching his slow pace.

 The kiss becomes less innocent with each drag of his lips against yours, but you can’t bring your self to pull away. Blame the raging hormones, blame the way he’s holding you so close, blame the universe.

 You need him to keep kissing you.

 The whiny sound you unintentionally let out, betrays said need, but Mark doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he deepens the kiss. More intent behind his touches.

 “Come here.” He mumbles against your lips as he tries to manoeuvre you, and you quickly oblige, throwing a leg over him, straddling his thighs without a second thought.

 He doesn’t seem to approve of your hovering as he shamelessly pushes you down by the hips, encouraging you to properly sit on him. And you do.

 He lets out a delicious sound, which you hungrily swallow as your crotch meets his. Hard length familiarly nestling between your thighs, nudging against your needy clit, and you’re glad you opted for a tampon instead of a pad earlier.

 “Are you comfortable?” He asks, pulling away slightly, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.

 “Yeah.” You nod as you allow your hands to rest on either side of his neck.

 “Is there anywhere I’m not allowed to touch?”

 You smile at the cryptic question. He’s clearly testing the waters, while trying to be respectful of any boundaries. You can see right through him.

 “My boobs are a little sore still, so be gentle.”

 He nods. “Anything else?”

 Your breath hitches as his fingers sneakily slip under the waistband of your sweatpants, eyes silently asking for permission.

 You give him a chaste kiss. “You can’t finger me, if that’s what you mean.”

 “Not exactly what I meant, no.” He murmurs as his hands completely slip inside your bottoms, cupping your ass over your underwear, deliberately urging you to drag your hips against his, fingers slightly digging into the flesh of your bum.

 He devours your lips in another kiss. Heated, but lazy. Slower than ever.

 Your tongues gliding languidly makes you unintentionally grind a little harder, allowing your sensitive clit to drag against his clothed cock and you feel your underwear slipping between your folds messily. He’s got you all wet and needy when he really shouldn’t.

 “Fuck, I really want you naked.” He whispers in your mouth, hands travelling up your back, taking the hem of your baggy t-shirt with them.

 There’s nothing else to do other than give him what he wants. So you reluctantly break the kiss, letting him remove your top before you rush to do the same for him.

 Your sports bra is gone in no time, both your top and his hoodie are somewhere on the living room floor and the second your tits are free, he’s got both his arms tightly wrapped around your middle, biceps flexing deliciously. Your nipples feel extra sensitive as they rub on his skin; breasts squished against his warm chest, the sensation comforting and arousing at the same time, you can’t help the sigh you let out against his lips.

 “Don’t really know where we’re going with this.” You speak all muffled as he eagerly tries to lick into your mouth, lips a little uncoordinated but you love it.

 You’re more than aware of the double meaning your words carry, and the hesitation in his eyes when he pulls away, tells you he is too. You both seem to ignore the complicated side of the statement.

 “I can still make you feel good, no?” His fingers splay in between your shoulder blades as his eyes inspect your face, lingering on your spit-kissed lips for a little too long.

 He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls you by the back of your neck, his mouth finding yours in another wet kiss, lips parted wide as tastes you with a quiet hum, and you feel more wetness seeping out of you, drenching your panties.

 A buck of your hips forces a moan out of both of you as your hands bury in his hair, gripping tight, searching for an anchor. You lean your head back with a soft exhale when he starts leaving wet kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. He licks, sucks, bites your flushed skin, tongue swirling on each mark he leaves behind, turning you on more than ever.

 This is so fucking inconvenient.

 He takes you by surprise when he licks a stripe from between your tits to your collarbones, painting your skin with his saliva.

 “Ah, shit.” You tighten your hold on his hair and he lets out a little grunt that vibrates against your sternum, his quick breaths hitting your damp skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your nipples harden uncomfortably, asking for attention and he must notice as his hand cups one of your breasts, gently massaging the underside.

His lips find the raised peak, kissing around it, teasing you, forcing needy sounds out of you, and when he softly sucks it in his mouth, tongue swirling, you can’t help but grind down harder with a loud whine.

 “Careful.” You whisper weakly when his tongue flicks a little too hard, making you jolt.

 “Sorry.” He apologises with a sweet kiss between the space of your tits, and for a few moments, he gives all his attention to your slightly swollen mounds. Licking and sucking, carefully massaging them in his palms until you pull a little too hard at his hair, singling that it’s too much for you.

 You force him to lean back as you trap him between your body and the back of the sofa. The sound he makes when you wrap a hand around his throat, exhilarates you, and you give into another make out session as you let your fingers lightly press on his pulse points, loving the effect you have on him.

 You’re completely lost in his kisses and the way his firm chest feels on yours. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time and you really just don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just try to relax on top of him, arms loosely wrapping around his neck as you relish in the wet smacking sounds of your lips.

 It’s his hand that sneaks between your crotches that urges you to pull away, but he holds you there, his other hand on the back of your head.

 “Can I try something?” He mutters as his fingers slowly start undoing the knot at the front of your waistband. “Stop me if it’s weird.”

 Fuck Mark lee and his persuasiveness. “Okay.”

 You probably shouldn’t. It’s too intimate. Too vulnerable. And you normally wouldn’t let anyone else, but when Mark slips his hand past the front of your waistband, you let him.

 He’s careful. No rushed movements as he holds you close, lips brushing yours as he gauges your reaction and your mouth parts against his when you feel the warmth of his palm, engulfing the seat of your underwear. He rubs lightly over the drenched fabric until his fingers find your clit, pressing a little harder, evoking a half desperate half surprised sound out of you.

 You self-consciously wonder if he felt the thin string of your tampon when his fingers brushed past your entrance, but whether he did or not, he doesn’t really let on.

 He starts rubbing you in slow tiny circles, the gentle friction making you breathe harder, fingers shaking in his messy strands.

 “Can I touch you properly or is that a bit too far?” He must sense your contemplation as his fingers come to a brief halt. “I’ll stay here.” His fingers press on your clit, signalling what he means. “Won’t go anywhere else.”

 You pull back a smidge, the need to look at his face getting the better of you. His pleading eyes, full of adoration, overwhelm you and you cowardly hide your face in his neck, arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders.

 “What if I bleed all over your hand?” You whine dramatically. The thought of that actually happening, too embarrassing.

 He breathes out an amused laugh. “I’ll live.”

 “Yeah, well, I won’t.” You joke halfheartedly, but inhale sharply when he presses against the swollen bud again.

 “At least you’ll die happy.” He giggles at the warning bite you leave on his shoulder, playfully shrugging you away, but his arm around your middle holds you close. “You wanna cum. I wanna help. So let me.”

 “Fuck sake.” You sigh in defeat, forehead dropping against his shoulder. “If you touch anywhere other than—“

 “I won’t. Promise.” He seals it with an intimate kiss on your shoulder, making you shiver.

 “Okay.”

 He slips his hand inside the front of your cotton panties, quickly finding your pulsing bud and you instantly melt against him with a relieved whimper, the skin on skin contact already feeling a million times better. His two fingers send you reeling, making you moan in his neck, your jaw slackening when he speeds up a little, rubbing harder, more precise circles on the bundle of nerves. His hold around you tightens when you start slightly shaking on his lap and you feel dizzy when he starts flicking from side to side, bringing you closer and closer to a dangerous high.

 It’s addictive. The way he touches you, holds you, breathes on you like he’s the one being pleasured. It’s all out of this world. Too good. Too mind-numbing.

 “Mmph—f-fuck—right there.” You beg, all out of breath and flustered. His fingers keep brushing a spot on your clit, too sensitive, the pleasure so intense, you can barely handle it.

 “Yeah? Feels good?” His breathy tone adds to the hot sensation between your legs, your toes and fingers tingling as your eyes inevitably roll back.

 “So good, Markie.”

 He grunts when your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder. “Fuck, baby. Wanna see you cum.”

 “Oh my god.” You whisper with a tremble, mouth ajar against his shoulder, your saliva smearing on his skin as you struggle to breathe, to keep a little bit of your sanity intact. “Mark. Ffffuck.”

 Your release crashes into you with force.  A muffled shriek erupts from your throat, resonating in the silence of the living room. You sound broken as he keeps rubbing fast and hard. Until your whole body shakes in ecstasy. Until the overstimulation is too much to endure.

 Your walls are spasming so hard you’re worried they might accidentally squeeze the tampon out, and you have to grab his wrist in panic, forcing him to stop his torturous ministrations on your abused clit.

 You slump forward. Body completely spent. Weight dropping on him in surrender as your brain floats somewhere unknown.

 The gentle scratch of his blunt nails against your scalp, helps bring you somewhat back to the surface.

 “Fuck, that felt—” You pant, struggling to form anything coherent. Your throat feels dry when you swallow.

 “Intense?” He finishes your incomplete thought for you.

 He has a tendency of doing that. Understanding you better than you can understand yourself sometimes. Unveiling thoughts and feelings you didn’t know you were capable of carrying.

 You don’t like it. The grip he has on you — you feel it most when he's not even touching you. When he's not even with you.

And it’s too intimate. More than you can handle.

 You often feel scrutinised under his gaze. Especially in raw, unfiltered moments like this. It never feels transactional. Whatever you have with Mark. It’s never just about fleeting pleasure. There’s always something underlying but undeniable at the same time.

 Something undoubtedly there, but difficult to define in your head.

 Something you wonder if his complex mind has been able to translate into words you always fail to find.

disclaimer: this is purely fictional; in no way am I condoning this behavior, trying to offend anyone, nor is it meant to place such image on the idol, these are only characters. read at your own discretion.

an: happy belated valentine's gift

For an awfully chilly winter day, a cozy warmth radiates off you. Those around you have always known that cold environments are wicked against your presumably ill form. It takes one slight breeze — let alone the prickle you now feel in your skin — for you to shrivel and hunch over in pain. Wailing over frozen toes and the ache in your joints. Exaggerating that if you move a bone, it will snap in half from how horrible this cold treats you.

Jaemin had once told you the spirit of Satan that incubates in your soul was reacting and thus punishing you — as is his nature. He’d say that hell was freezing over and that Shaytan couldn’t handle the pain he inflicts. He couldn’t reap what he sowed like most people.

To Jaemin, it didn’t matter because he’d reassure you he would always be there to aid. Even through jests and laughter, because no matter the wickedness, he loved you and would strip down to the bone if it meant you were warm and safe.

You’d laugh and tell him neither of you would survive the Garden of Eden if he succumbed that easily. That within seconds you’d both be influenced by the wretchedness of that conniving snake and devour all the sacred fruit that the rest are too scared to eat. Even the snake itself because your hunger was insatiable.

Now he can be sure of how true your statement had been all those years ago, as you show no signs of frostbite and look like you do on summer eves. And the reason you both find yourselves in this predicament.

Your giggles are melody to his ears but a stake to his heart. They boom within his eardrums, louder than the galling crunch of shattered crystal glasses under both your soles and the vivacious psychedelic music that oozes through the cracks of this newly built mid-century home.

Jaemin smiles at you with adoration, hand itching to take yours but retrieves the instance both pair of feet come in contact with the transported east coast pebbles. Those that make both of you waltz and wobble until reaching the first step to avoid falling on the treacherous shards. Much like one trapped in malicious waves and surrounded by sadistic boulders.

That’s without mentioning the starved and slabbering bodies watching this young couple approach the property like trusting fawn searching for comfort and solace in the arms of it’s eventual predator. It will all lead to the consumption of one’s most vital organ at the end of the day.

There’s many things going through yours and Jaemin’s head but neither speak. He knows words and sentiments will be different but if there’s one thing he’s sure of, is that he’s just as happy as you with only the smile on your face.

Your head turns to the windows above, the slew of bodies dancing and the lack of clothes let another giggle out. Jaemin shrugs, a dry chuckle while he pulls out the nearly empty cigarette case. He thinks their movements are silly and anything but provocative but you’re amused. As amused as a pup discovering new things.

Thinking of it, Jaemin concludes that this is new for you. Before him, your only sexual encounters were self-gratification. You had gone in detail over dinner at an upscale restaurant as he ate raw oysters, it had been your fourth date.

He studied the way your eyes tentatively watched his mouth, your own twitching every time he consumed the meat and the lemon juice glossed his lips. He knew a salacious grin is what wanted to display on your face. Yet you over and over again covered it with self-effacement.

Jaemin hadn’t let you off the hook that night, rather he grinned like you had wanted to while sliding to your side of the circled booth and placed his cold hand on your exposed thigh. He asked if you had ever tried oysters to which you denied and he would only let you taste if you’d tell him a secret.

You had never wanted to try them and the deal was stupid. The look of an oyster disgusted you but Jaemin loved them and his hand against your warm thigh sliding up the mini dress reminded you of your own hands in between your legs.

With details and only for his listening, you explained the way your fingers felt on the bundle of nerves and how your fingers — plunged within you — had only brought satisfaction to you once. Explained to him how often you touched yourself trying to reach a high that you always brought yourself to but have grown restless and they weren’t doing it anymore.

He touched you for the first time that night, his hand underneath your satin girdle and panties pushed to the side while he taught you step by step how to eat the disgusting bivalve. He had opened your eyes and thighs that night to the pleasures of the flesh, discovering how insatiable you are.

If only Jaemin knew how dangerous oysters are if not careful.

The music had grown louder the instance you both reached the front door, opening without either of you knocking as Jaemin lit his cigarette. He unconsciously sighed the second he released the smoke, turning to the older woman with a huge beehive covered in a silk scarf that patted your cheek animatedly while you showed her the invitation. She laughed sardonically while looking at him, or so he thinks. Nowadays, everything is treacherous.

“Keys, pretty boy.” She purrs, pushing the crystal punchbowl closer to him. Jaemin gives it one look, one look to her, and back to the bowl before fetching his car keys. In a sea of single keys or neutral toned keychains, he frowns at the colorful keychains on his.

The instance they clink among the others, she fetches his face for a pat like she did to yours. Jaemin avoids it, turning to blow the smoke. Only the light scrape of her finger nails are felt over his hair.

The scene doesn’t seem foreign to him. While he has never tried swinging, he has been young and single with philandering friends and coworkers that strung him into their quests. Nearly naked women in their ripped girdles and their drunken laughter while playing among themselves is the least of his interests.

“Modern, aren’t they?” You ask, voice undulating exultantly. His head turns to look at you, handing you a drink from the open bar that he notices you hold back to finish in one go. “We can simply watch for now, we don’t have to join them.” You add at his lack of response, your excited shakiness warmed down with the drink; finally some signs of the cold corroding you.

It causes a smile to form on his lips, his own frozen chest warming up with your words and the smoke he inhaled, chasing it with the warm whiskey. Jaemin stops refraining himself and opts to let his arm slither around you waist, a slight squeeze as he exhales the smoke. He hasn’t spoken throughout the night but you figure his expertise has made him grow desensitized to these type of things.

Although, this sweet moment is cut short when the lights dim and the music turns erotic. Lulling all guests towards the conversation pit covered in red velvet. The transition from erotica to burlesque works to rowdy the guests. Whistles and hooting as their glasses clink with any hard surface. Hands cusped around their mouth as they scream for the same woman that greeted you both to take off the robe.

A silent giggle as the feathers of her skirt fly when she takes the red silk robe off. It matches with her wrinkled lips and the gemstones on her corset. It’s tightly cinched that her waist appears nearly non-existent. Concerning, even, but no one seems to care when her breasts are flying loosely with the tassels covering her nipples.

Her once tight curls, covered by the scarf are now loose and stable with pomade, only swinging when she gyrates her her hips and jumps slightly to make her bum bounce along the sound of trumpets and drums.

You had never gone to a night club, not even with Jaemin but he has. He’s explained what goes on in them and this seems similar to what he has detailed to you. While he remains unphased, you giggle, praising her as she moves on to the feather skirt and removes it, tossing it for anyone to catch it first.

With every shimmy of her shoulder, yours twitch feeling the same rhythm that courses through her body. She’s expressive and fun; beatitude noises leave her every time she meets the eyes of a guest, resembling a moan — sex without touching.

Nearing the end of her show, she lets her hands roam her corset cladded waist. Squeezing hard enough to make the top of it leave marks below her breast. She laughs and smiles comically the second she swings her upper body, not taking long before her tits encircle with the heart-shape pasties and tassels following suit. She lets one hand stop the assault of her own person to bring it up to her lips and blow kisses at guests. The song mellows out, followed by a fairly recognizable voice.

The whine of it makes your eyes close, lulling you into a state of delirium as you hear his words and that memorable chuckle. The pitch is as high as you remember, but also sultry and easily makes your thighs press together. Your brain makes you recall the one call that sold you to this idea. How dirty and adroit he had been, laughing at your timorous behavior.

You remember it being very erotic, nearly touching yourself inside of a phone booth. Had it not been clear, you probably would have and also had kept the call longer. But guilt had been eating you away. Jaemin’s face had popped up the second you let your hands graced your chest and rapidly hung-up on this stranger. The guilt and love you felt for Jaemin is what led you to ignoring the happenings for a month, yet this stranger’s cajole won and here you found yourself with your loving fiance who did everything to please you.

“You want that?” Jaemin had asked calmly, stopping his annotations on a colleagues research paper. “I want whatever you want.” You replied, an expectant smile that told him yes. He simply mirrored it, kissing your forehead, “I want whatever you want.” He concluded.

As cheering and clapping die down, the host smiles, bowing as if he had been the one to give this show. He scans the room, going down the steps into the conversation pit. He gives every single one of them a smile, nodding when reaching your and Jaemin.

“I’m glad you all enjoyed the beautiful tricks my wife offers. Perhaps one of you will be lucky enough to gain a private show tonight.” He winks, the other guests laugh but Jaemin doesn’t so neither do you. “It’s a special night for all of us lovers. It’s Valentine’s day! A day for love and friendship… Which is why we are all celebrating it together.”

Jaemin swirls his glass, from his peripheral vision he looks at how starved these guests are. They’re all fairly older than both of you, two other couples, and this man speaking. To an extent he wants to frown and feel pity for him. How can someone so young be entangled and in charge of something so lewd? But he’s the host overall, it’s obvious he’s nothing but a deviant himself and Jaemin is in no position to judge as he finds himself under the same roof. The reasons may differ but he’s here nonetheless and prior, he philandered himself, as well.

“We find ourselves some fresh faces,” The man scans the conversation pit for the millionth time this night, his hands move to the front. All the while his gaze lingers on you and your husband. Jaemin remains indifferent to the circumstances, finishing the drink he had been nursing this entire time. On the contrary, you don’t let your gaze linger for too long. His own is heavy and driven enough for the both of you that even his grin creates a force within you that you try so hard to restrain. At least with Jaemin beside you.

“That being so, I will go over the rules again.” He goes over the basics of this meeting. Comically as is his nature, the while his wife in the background acted out his every word. They treated it all like a joke but his voice was stern enough to let everyone in the room know that safe sex and boundaries were not to be ignored within these walls or ever. No matter how taboo contraception is.

“Boundaries are not to be crossed, these walls are thin and we will intervene. Protection must not be removed no matter what, only to dispose and replace if the fun continues.” The host nods, clasping his hands as his wife approaches him with the punchbowl filled to the brim with new and, or barely surviving car keys.

He frowns at the neutral array, quietly beaming when his eyes catch the colorful hues that belong to you and Jaemin. Melodic and animated noises similar to his wife’s leave his lips. Some expression you find goofy but ignore the while he swirls the keys around as if it was a delicacy he was to eat and not metal dirtying his hands.

“We should start with new couples. Right, dear?” His head tilts, his wife still exposed to the world within these walls. She hums with that same whine he has; her eyes wander, landing on the couple on the opposite side of the pit.

She shakes the punchbowl slightly, making sure keys flip around with every move. “Close your eyes, hun.” She coaxes, elongating her words with a cheeky smile as the woman digs her fingers through the pool of metal. Her partner had covered her eyes, egging her to keep digging and wincing when her fingers curled around multiple keys. His free hand itches to dig for her.

In that instance you figure he was more aroused at the idea of watching her have sex with another man hence his hesitance on her choosing just any keys. It’s most likely he already has someone in mind for her but the frown on his face as she pulls out a beat up scuffed Chevrolet key says enough.

In that instance an older man, gray haired and hanging belly stands up. You mimic the partner’s frown, merely upset yourself. The man’s forehead was lighter than the rest of his face, hands rough and calloused. It’s likely he’s a countryman that made a great effort to come this far for this night alone. He seemed kind… the kindness reserved for grandfathers and old men at diners. Not a man willing to wife swap with another.

The woman on the other hand didn’t seem to mind much. She laughs pleasantly as she takes the man’s hand, going up the first step out of the conversation pit. They don’t leave and she seems impatient but the veteran in this duo seems to halt waiting for orders from the hosts like dogs waiting to be given permission to feast among their favorite treat.

“Great… Louie is a tender lover. Wouldn’t you say, love?” The host turns to his wife, she doesn’t speak but creates and okay sign and kisses those same fingers with a loud smack. You think she would be a great sales model at the local department store. Or a more luxurious department store, taking into consideration this lavish lifestyle…

“Alright now, our next lovely lady.” Her husband’s body sways your way, nerves finally settling within your gut.

You’re sure if you get a man like the first one you’ll probably bail out and beg on your knees for Jaemin to fuck the disgust out of you. He would, you’re sure of it but he would also taunt you for wanting to try something as crude as this without thinking of the type of couples that could be involved. He wouldn’t do it out of anger or jealousy. He would do it to scorn.

But Jaemin’s gaze is anything but teasing or patronizing. His expression is neutral as if this was just another nuisance for him. His eyebrows lift and signals with his gaze for you to stand up. His lips purse, slicked by the syrup of whatever that drink had in it. He looked so pretty, you should probably leave with him now and continue the lifestyle you both carry…

“Don’t be shy, I won't bite. Unless you want me to…” The host grins, his gaze hasn’t dropped from you. His eyes shimmer with every move you make to stand up and when you reach him, he chuckles to himself like he achieved something by having you near.

Like Jaemin, he orders you to dig through the pile of keys without a word, only expressions. The sharp edges of keys and keychains make you wince, pondering on how the past woman was digging through like nothing. You could feel the scrapes from metal key chains, worried for it’s sanitation if they even made any damage. But ultimately you stop your search of Jaemin’s keys. Keys that you had dropped every time you grasped.

Steadily, you pull the lightest ones that bring the familiar sound of hooting and hollering. Your eyebrows furrow seeing their excited faces. Women among men laugh and the first woman’s partner looks at you with a pensive frown. Jaemin on the other hand seems to mimic the man’s emotions and not your confused ones.

The host takes a look at the keys in your hand, letting his eyes rake your face before taking them within his grasp. This being the first point of contact between both of you. His hands were awfully cold, a cold only you have been able to produce. His glossed lips part, demonstrating those pretty teeth.

“First night and we’re starting strong,” he nods, stretching his hand for you to take. Hesitantly you do so, allowing for a wolfish grin to spread across his pretty face. “Perhaps it’s faith?” He rhetorically questions, handing the punchbowl back to his wife.

Jaemin’s presence felt very dear to you, enough so that your facial muscles spasmed to not smile at the arousal you felt with the touch and words of this foreign man. His voice was huskier speaking to you than to the group that watched the interactions from behind you. His fingers caress your skin without making it seem like you’re to start your activities in front of everyone here. Your only suppressant was the painstaking force of your teeth on your bottom lip that allow him to know it would be a fun night.

Whether he felt pity for you or he was doing his job as a host, his gaze tears from you. Giving you enough time to breathe and turn to Jaemin who only smiles at you encouragingly. It was simple, nothing wide like all his smiles but he also didn’t seem hurt and especially not jealous. Jaemin was… himself. Calm, indifferent, and poised. Smoking his second cigarette of the night, this one matching the man’s that took your spot beside him. Salems, menthols at that.

You’re unsure of whatever was brewing in your chest watching the image, Jaemin didn’t give you much to go from and your facial expressions were beginning to shift. Had it not been for the cold touch against your jaw that drew your attention back to the man you’re to share a bed tonight — well, you’re not too sure what you were going to do anyways.

His thumb is soft against your skin, such a delicate touch that you hadn’t felt how he swept you off your feet and slid across the velvet up the steps of the conversation pit. Jaemin and guests all forgotten when the digit swipes your bottom lip. He inhales deeply, quivering when he exhales. “Smooth.” He claims, smudging the lip stain that clung to his thumb against his own lip. You reckon this is your first shared kiss.

Titillating, your eyes force themselves shut when he pulls fully away, his taunting grin engraved in your brain as he turns back to the guests.

“Oh, and before I part. A reminder: Those who cannot follow through will go into the cuck tabernacle and watch their partners that did. We respect your reluctance or desire to only watch but that isn’t all that fair to the willing party, is it?”

The finality of his voice leads you into the main hall, leaving the remaining guests while the first duo are lead into a different hallway before the four of you part ways. Within a few steps and with the keys he took from your hands not long ago, he unlocks the door he pushes open for you to enter first. His hand places itself on the small of your back, guiding you through the dim, spacious room. Only illuminated by the city lights entering through the curved glass wall.

Overlooking the hill, your breath hitches seeing how beautiful the city looked from here. You nearly forget you’re not alone as you approach the glass, amused by how small and bright everything looked from here. To an extent you understood why all the other guests had stood by the glass wall when you and Jaemin arrived. It felt great to feel bigger than everyone else.

“Do you like it?” He asks, approaching you with a glass of whiskey. Heart shaped ice cubes barely floating. You don’t let your words free just yet, nodding with a smile as you sip on the drink. Wincing at the harsh taste when it smoothly runs down your throat. He doesn’t comment on it but merely chuckles at your lack of expression regulation.

In the instance that he takes off his clunky belt off, your eyes shift around the bedroom. There’s some pictures of him with his wife on the walls. They’re nothing erotic like one would think, but they’re also nothing demonstrating warmth. On the contrary, the room looked very lived in with multiple items that belonged to either of them. Or perhaps both. With the shaggy hairstyle he has, her lavish up-dos, makeup, and the thick eyeliner on his waterline, you’re sure the products are shared.

You attempt not to dwell on the idea of having sex on another woman’s bed. It’s not like she cares to begin with but you put yourself in her shoes and you know if Jaemin had done something like this, you would have grieved for as long as you could.

Then again, Jaemin didn’t seem to care and had been on board with this idea when you first suggested it. He had also had multiple partners before you, in comparison. Perhaps he missed the exhilaration of sexual encounters with others as much as you enjoyed having sex. With him you have been able to discovered what you liked and have experimented everything under the sun. You love Jaemin, you’re going to marry him soon. But you also can’t quench this carnal thirst no matter how good he fucks you to the point you’ve gone numb before.

You both needed this.

To drown your inquisitive mind, the suave instrumental that greeted you not long ago drags the man in the room closer to you. Humming along the instruments as he seductively approaches you. You don’t have to turn around to feel his movement. You’re also able to see him undoing the loose knot of his muslin poet’s blouse through the glass.

The delighted grin you’ve held off for too long finally shows itself upon feeling his arms around you, pulling your exposed back closer to his now exposed chest. Bare skin to bare skin, the while his mouth ghosts over your neck. Hot breath taunting the awaited contact. His wavy hair tickling the neck he should be kissing by now.

His labored breathing is heard the longer he remains in that position. His hands roam whatever he can touch without giving you much pleasure. “You haven’t spoke once since seeing me. It’s very important for you to tell me what you want in these cases.” His head tilts slightly, nearly teasing you with the graze of his lips against your neck. You’re sure he’s doing it on purpose. You don’t need to look to know he’s grinning ear to ear at your shiver.

“I don’t know…” Is all you can muster. It’s nonsensical but also concrete enough as an answer. He doesn’t push for more right now, seemingly aware of what you mean. He’s rather engrossed in the swaying of your body against his, lead by his hands with the rhythm of the playing record.

“I found the invitation in the powder room at Marty’s a month ago. I thought someone left their brooch and peeked the contact number.” You speak, feeling his hands ease down your hips. Examining and studying every reaction to his touch. “I called only a few days later and— ah…” Your eyes flutter shut, head thrown back to land on his exposed shoulder, the lack of support from the knots making the black fabric slide down the bone.

He grins successfully, malicious even. Satisfied with how easy your body was. He hadn’t even touched any vital points. All he had done was add pressure to your upper thigh for you react so lewdly. So utterly needy…

“I knew I recognized that pretty voice.” He says, finally rewarding you with a tender kiss to your neck. So tender and wet; slow enough to drive you mad. Whimpering petulantly when he refuses to deepen it.

Ten days. It had only been ten days since New Years arrived and a tragedy had already occurred that had shaken Jaemin up enough to talk about it over dinner with his boss.

“It’s a calamity, I tell you! And it’s unconstitutional to deny Bond his seat... Dr. Wayne, you’ve seen the horrors of war. You’ve experienced them. I’m sure some members of the legislature have been veterans themselves. You know how much of an injustice this is.” Jaemin claims, the passion and sincerity in his voice drawing your hand to squeeze his thigh in order to ease the anxiety.

The older man of the two shakes his head upon finishing his old fashioned. “I bear the scars of war, son. So do you. But you will never make this country open its eyes to calamity. Whether we’re witnesses or the ones inflicting it. And it will only worsen…”

The doomed finality in his words threaten the night much to Dr. Wayne’s wife’s displeasure. The woman shakes her head, earrings clanking with her disgust. “You men and your wars… We’re having a nice night. Let’s not dwell on matters that don’t belong to us.” But it did belong to you. All of you. It simply has never occurred to her that there’s a privilege that only she and her husband bare.

“Come, Y/n. Let’s powder our noses before they continue.” She giggles, taking your hand and forcing you up — removing your comforting hand from your fiance that simply turned back to his boss.

You enjoyed the company of Mrs. Wayne. If you didn’t think about how ditsy and out of touch she was, she could easily remind you of your aunt. Fun, witty, and caring after all.

She had told you her entire life story when first meeting. Having grown her entire life as a socialite, her mother was strict and kept her away from men. Marrying Dr. Wayne had awaken her sexuality much like Jaemin had for you. Despite not telling you explicitly, she was good in masking the meaning of her message.

But now they’ve been married for over thirty years and she had once scolded you for trying to bring up your sex life with her — explicitly and not like her. She had told you that good women never performed fellatio and only performed sexual acts when procreating.

She was quite honestly upset that neither you and Jaemin had waited for marriage to fornicate. And far worse that it was a filthy game to both of you that you felt confident enough to bring it up to her as if she would enable your lecherous acts. For someone with seven kids and still trying for more, it had made you think it was a joke. Yet, she was serious and perhaps projecting.

That’s the first time she had shown disappointment in you. Reminding the both that despite your backgrounds only being similar in how adult figures treated sex around you, both of you threaded around it in completely different ways.

On the way to the powder room she had chewed your ear off about men’s nonsense and her own. You had drowned it out when she went into a cubicle and kept rambling. Only responding with hums and one word answers knowing she was looking for enabling, not communication.

You had no business in there; leaning against the pink marble shell shaped sink, you sigh upon noticing your reflection. You know much hasn’t changed but you have aged while your brain hasn’t as much.

Jaemin had once told you about arrested development. He had joined Dr. Wayne on a week long trip for a study and Jaemin had come back ecstatic. It’s not that he found a cure or needed to because truly no one was treating this as something fully serious. Not even your sweet and intelligent boyfriend (at the time). Rather, they had only gone to hear the stories of what led these people to this stagnation for their own amusement and half-bullshitted notes knowing they had already made up their minds on the matter.

Despite so, their stories felt reminiscent and coincidental that it had angered you. Jaemin and Dr. Wayne hadn’t cared for these patients. Blissfully ignorant to the fact that their partners were somewhat mirrors of those they heard and ignored only to use as pawns to scream ‘I told you So's’ to whoever had first discredited their initial thesis.

And truly despite it being years since then, Mrs. Wayne still had the emotional maturity of a fourteen year old with the conservatism of one taught by their equally ignorant privileged mother.

You weren’t too far behind, you had known since the day Jaemin introduced the term to you. You knew you were naive and sheltered as a child is. Your family had gone to far lengths to keep it as such and despite Jaemin’s introduction into your life cracking some of that down, you still felt a shell of that girl they had created.

Therefore, perhaps spotting that brass oyster brooch resting against the sink’s drain had been faith, a step into mental stimulants to rid you of this stagnant immaturity.

And so was your piquant 11:00am call with a stranger that as far as you knew could have been a disgusting pervert.

It doesn’t go to say it didn’t make you feel guilty for a month straight. Hiding from your fiance that you had enjoyed the verbal ravishing of a man you had never met, in cajoling efforts and enjoying it.

Guilt for betraying his trust and love despite never touching the other man. Guilt for thinking about his voice when Jaemin was gone for work and you felt needy. All until you had asked Jaemin if he was willing to follow through with this and like the loving devoted fiance he is… of course he did.

“The world is your oyster.” Haechan recites.

Haechan… You now remember clearly the name he had introduced himself with when he picked up the phone.

“You left me aching to hear more from you after that call.” He claims, lips finding their path down to your shoulder. “I kept thinking of it too…” you confess in a whine, his teeth nipping the marks Jaemin left last night. Arousal reaching you quicker at the thought of Jaemin being part of this despite not being present.

“Thought about it for too long, don’t you think?” he hums against your skin, lifting his head to kiss the shell of your ear. “I didn’t know how to bring it up to—” You hesitate, despite both of you wanting this; guilt gnaws no matter what. “To your husband?” Haechan answers for you.

“He’s not my husband.” “Not yet.”

His grasp around your hand is harsh enough to make your fingers squeeze around the stone of your ring and imprint it’s form on the flesh. It’s not surprising how delicious you find this punishment. If you knew him better, you’d think jealousy had driven him.

“Does he mind?” Haechan questions, no longer holding back in ravishing your exposed skin. His hands knead your back, sighing contently with your shake of head. “He seemed awfully indifferent back there.”

“He’s a psychiatrist. I think he’s grown accustomed to react neutral in any situation.” You attempt to justify. Unsure yourself as to how calm he has been. You were thankful about it, he wasn’t upset and didn’t reproach you. Completely leaving his trust in your hands and compliant to your needs. But the twinge of guilt is what made you want more from him. You think, at least.

“So he’s okay with this?” Haechan asks, his fingers fiddling with a rose on your dress. “Yes,” you assure, “He said he wants whatever I want and I too want whatever he wants.” The finality and semi-confidence in your voice makes him hum in acceptance.

Despite it, Haechan is human and feels bitterness far more than anything else. It didn’t take a genius to understand Jaemin loves you. His body language was lax as his expressions were. He had shown no discomfort upon seeing another man touch you in the slightest because he simply loves and trusts you.

It makes Haechan bitter in a sense that a kid is when he can’t have what he wants. He wants to feel the comfort Jaemin feels with you and the weight of your love. He wants to dig into his mind and see what it feels like to love someone so much that they have no reason to be jealous of even a fly.

Yet, you were of no help either because you had given Jaemin the confidence to not fear for his love. You’ve given everything of you to him to the point that he’s not able to take care of it all and the reason you find yourself in this room. You had asked Jaemin for permission and one that he granted because he knew it meant nothing.

And it will mean nothing. Haechan is fully aware of that and bitter about it. Because he should mean everything to everyone, that’s what he’s grown to know.

It’s not common for him to feel this attached within the first meeting but every body that has passed the threshold of this home lacked love and security. They all used these meetings as a last resort to keep their relationship from falling and using the philandering as a crutch to seem normal to the exterior.

Everyone he’s met throughout this period no longer loved nor trusts. He’s aware you’re here for lust and repressed nymphomaniac tendencies; he decreed so during the phone call a month ago. But despite that, he had studies your expressions when the first woman pulled the keys and the obvious repugnance presented on your face told him that you truly were not cut for this. It had only been his suave talk that drew you here.

For him and only him…

Haechan feels gratification with this conclusion, smiling as he turns you around to face him. His hands have warmed up against your skin, dragging them to your face and cupping it as he leans in. The taste of berry sangria on his tongue that intrudes your mouth. Velvet against yours that tastes similar enough to make him moan.

“Beautiful…” He whispers against your mouth, enamored as he pulls back slightly to look at your face. “I’m glad my volubility did not scare you away.”

“On the contrary… it made me horribly wet. I nearly touched myself in public for you.”

Your confession makes his strained cock twitch freely against the taut leather. He moans louder than before, leaning to kiss you further in attempts to swallow all the words you had not granted him that morning.

His kisses grow frantic and needier. Your lips slot against his, turning from contained to dirty and wet. His fingers don’t attempt to hide the fact that they are caressing your nipples over the fabric of your dress.

His greed increases, recalling the delicious taste of your skin minutes prior, leading his mouth down the slope of your neck to the skin over your sternum. His tongue laps at your collarbones, savoring the smell of your scented powder and the taste of it.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of your meek voice… Your heavy breathing as I explained how you would get fucked if you came…” His words and teeth force you to pant, the tingle between your legs forces your knees to buck. He laughs mockingly as he presses his teeth further into your skin. “I could hear your whimpers that day. It drove me mad all day when you hung up suddenly. I couldn’t get myself to finish.”

You take the initiative to kiss him this time. Tugging on his shaggy hair enough to draw out another moan. He grins at the sting, mouth fetching yours and it’s not until you kiss him that he calms down. It returns to being clean and passionate, much more forceful but it’s all in the name of deprived arousal.

The instance his skin begins to burn, he pulls away. Dragging the muslin shirt off his torso, showing off caramel skin. Dewy from his grown arousal that finds no other way than to manifest through perspiration. He smiles upon catching your sight, bringing your hand to his soft peck, squeezing for you.

Your fingers twiddle his dark nipples, biting your lip seeing how they perk.

Jaemin had done this many times to you before, always managing to bring them erect. You now understand the delight of bringing someone to this state. So you’ll reward Haechan the way Jaemin does.

A sweet lascivious smile forms before dipping your head against his chest. Teeth clinging to the perked nipple before allowing your tongue to swirl around it. To finally allow your lips to stick, raking your hands over the other one and scratching enough to hurt but leave wanting more.

Throughout this ministration, Haechan withers and whines. His right hand patting your covered bum while his left teases himself. Touching the strained mound and rubbing for some relief just to stop when it begins to feel good.

You attempt to do the same to the other abused nipple, a delicacy he denies you. His hands tug at your hair like you had done earlier to his. Kissing you to get a taste of himself even if minimal.

He revels in the gasps and whimpers rooting from your throat. Pulling away only to look at your ravished lips. He grins wolfishly, biting his swollen lip, taking this opportunity to look at the pretty dress you wore tonight.

For him…

“This is too pretty of a dress for an occasion like this, don’t you think?” His fingers glide over the silk roses, pale blushed and soft against the pads. “Or am I this important to you?” His taunt holds sincerity.

You quietly laugh, taking his hand into yours. An intimate gesture that hitches his breath before masking it with a hum. “We went to a banquet before this. Jaemin’s team have been awarded for their research on Child psychology… The effects of events during their infancy which bleed into their adult life.” There’s a fondness in your voice that guts him; your belief and doting on your fiance. One he’s not sure has ever belonged to him through anyone he’s encountered.

There was no obligation to justify your attire nor give him context. He would have preferred if you hadn’t told him what you did prior to this and he surely wasn’t interested in your fiance’s line of work. But you still told him because you’re in love with and proud of Jaemin, even in the arms of another man.

He clears his throat, eyes lift to yours. “Jaemin... That’s your fiance’s name.” He utters with ascertain. To put a name to the face you love mars his mood, not gravely to stop but enough to feel the need to be punitive towards you due to his inhibitions.

He sighs calmly, pulling mere millimeters away to look at you and the dress again. The shape held by the petticoat lining of ivory faille and linen. He smiles at the ribbed touch, kissing your cheek when he meets with the roses and silk vines that spread from the straps to the hem of the skirt. Met at the peak of the plunged “V” back that displays two larger roses at the cinched waist. He twirls you like a ballerina in a music box, stopping when you’re facing each other again.

“Is this an invitation to deflower you?” He jests, cradling your face before his fingers dig into the center of a rose. “I don't see that possible. Must I remind you I'm engaged?” You entertain, mirroring his action, thumb caressing the softness of his cheek. He turns to kiss the pad, an airy chuckle when your nail slightly scrapes his upper lip.

Haechan shrugs, slipping the straps down your arm. Holding your hand like a debutante at her inauguration. Your stage in the shape of a circular bed and a heart-shaped velvet headboard.

“But it is your first time without Jaemin.” He justifies with sly sharpness, laying you down once fully stripped down to your girdle and panties.

His hands don’t caress your breast for too long, opting to pet them delicately before trailing off your body onto his. Your lips part, words that haven’t formulated wanting to cascade from your mouth. Your eyes track his movement, yet your focus is on the discarded dress Jaemin had bought for you.

A dress he spent long enough saving for you to wear at this night’s banquet. There was pride in the way guests complimented both of you and one that you would’ve liked for him to express behind closed doors the way Haechan is doing now. Ravishing your body and enjoying the fruits of his hard labor.

But it’s not him that enjoys what he worked hard to obtain. It’s another man that you have only talked to once and who isn’t treating the delicate custom piece the way Jaemin would have.

“Donghyuck,” He interrupts, unzipping his burnt amber leather pants. “You can call me Donghyuck, or Hyuck.”

“Hyuck…” You try out, muted and whisper like as your eyes rake his nakedness. By nature, your teeth take your lower lip, clinging hard enough as your restless hands unclasp the garters from olive stockings, leaving them hanging on your satin girdle.

He smiles with a nod, kneeling before your feet. The action blowing your pupils; his hands were cold again, a delightful coolness to your warm thighs as he parts them, further pushing the girdle over your hips.

“Precisely like that.” He answers giving no time for you to react or respond as he pulls down your matching panties. Slick and warm from your arousal that has been brewing since before you left the banquet. Anticipation from his words during the phone call replaying all night.

Hyuck isn’t soft nor a clean eater. He’s rough and famished like a predator that hasn’t been satisfied in centuries. If he was Dracula, he thinks you would be his Elisabeta.

Frenzied, he tugs harshly at your stockings, ripping the fabric off your legs despite your complaints. Those he overturns into pleasured mewls while his tongue intrudes your hole and scoops further slick that he spreads over your cunt.

If he thinks you’re too quiet, he nips your clit. Sadistically laughing against you when you yelp in pleasure. Simultaneously tugging his hair and pushing his face further into your core. Rewarding him with mewls and chants of his name, “Hyuck… Hyuck, Hyuck, Hyuck!” — As much as he rewards you with more stimulation.

Delighted, Donghyuck looks up at you, eyelids heavy and lower half of his face smothered in nothing but your arousal. He sighs heavily with a smile that you’ve seen only on Jaemin’s face before. “You’re so sweet… You taste so sweet, Y/n.”

Whether it’s from the feeling of his fingers intruding your walls — thick enough to stretch you with the first intrusion — or his salacious use of your name. But what you’re sure of is that you want more of what he’s giving. More so when you know this is only the start.

His plump lips are swollen from this ministration and his natural plush, coming in contact with your scathingly hot cunt. Encircling the mound as his fingers revel in the tautness of your opening. The muscles flexing around his digits to grow accustomed to the plunging. It stings in a way only a masochist could enjoy and a sadist could appreciate.

It helps that his lips and tongue generously alleviate the fever of your cunt. Velvet kitten licks that turn flat on the vulva as a whole. Reaching your clit, he sucks on the nerve like you had his nipples. The action concomitantly makes you writhe in pleasure, displayed through shrieks of joy and laughter at his audaciousness. One that he replicates when you caress his shaggy hair. Locks turning curlier the further he sweat and they stick to his forehead.

You grow restless the further he continues his assault against your cunt. Moaning and wailing his name to let you release. But he does not relent; his hips jut against the bed, fingers curling within you with each thrust. His mouth seeks to consume every drop of arousal produced by you while punitively forbidding you full pleasure.

Like a pained martyr wanting to be in the hands of God, you writhe underneath his mouth. Begging and imploring for him to let you finish and thence give him the same pleasure he’s brought to you.

“Donghyuck, please! I can’t hold back anymore.” You cry, tugging at his curls with every jolt from his tongue flickering your clit. He feels the need to laugh at your misery but it’s also very endearing. Heartfelt enough, he opts to wrap his lips around your clit once more, lightly sucking while his fingers caress your accustomed walls.

He pats your thigh, indicating that it’s fine for you to come. Fortified when rather than sucking, he kisses your cunt and his fingers no longer thrust. With such, you moan loudly, holding his head between your thighs while you writhe from expelling such pleasure.

“Donghyuck!”

You cry, panting heavily. Your legs shake, scathing around his head and even if he’s suffocated he doesn’t let go. Instead, he helps you push them further until both of you are satisfied and you’re left spent on the bed. With a heaving chest and a sore cunt that has not yet received everything he promised you that morning.

Satisfied with his accomplishment, Hyuck smiles up at you. His head on your thigh, heat easily could have merged your skins if it was merciless but it’s fond due to his care. His eyes cannot move elsewhere, stuck on your face as you try to calm yourself down.

He blows cold against your cunt, hoping that helps your new found pleasure. It doesn’t, it makes you twitch under the slight graze of his breath and makes your eyes open to look down at him. To witness how beautifully consumed he looks.

Swollen pink lips, glossed by your come. Teeth showing themselves when your eyes meet his, teeth that tortured and enamored you at the same time with their sadistic caresses on the most vital organ of your cunt.

Your hand shakily reaches for his face in attempts to caress his delicate features. Those full cheeks that you could possibly spend long enough touching for comfort and amusement. Hyuck must have read your mind and did not seem to share your sentiment. He allows his smile to softly falter at the weigh of reality that you much rather ignore, patting your thigh as he stands up. His strained red raw cock springing when no longer restrained by the bed.

Your eyes instantly draw to the phallic, quivering at how it twitches under your gaze and its dire need for release. You feel your mouth salivating, pooling within your closed lips wanting to be felt all over him. He lets you watch, allowing his fingers to softly rake his torso in a manner of restraint. Only the layer of tension makes this even more excruciating and it truly doesn’t help that when your hands can no longer remain to your sides and reach for him, he takes two steps back to leave you hanging from the bed. Just like with your attempt to caress his face.

Hyuck doesn’t smile tauntingly nor does he let out an airy laugh like he does when he mocks you. He leaves you in silence through his course towards a vanity to pull out a rubber. You think this is worse than his playful taunt. Because it’s simply that, playful but this is uncertain and silent, and you’re not sure what it could possibly mean after only being eaten out.

It could be your inexperience? Jaemin was the only man you’ve been with and he’s always been more than worshiping after every single act. Hyuck had been doting during the act and kind enough after but he wasn’t Jaemin and you don’t know what to think after rejecting your fellatio and touch.

“Let me,” You beg in a whisper, crawling on the bed in his direction. Your knees sink onto the mattress, following his every move. From his fingers grasping the carton box of Trojans, to them ripping the rectangular foil open and letting the red piece lay over a jewelry box.

“Please…”

Haechan doesn’t let your pleas distract him from the action. He stares into your eyes as he rolls the prophylactic, letting you know that he won’t grant you the satisfaction of pleasing him. Of touching him…

As if it was the biggest tragedy you’ve ever encountered, a heavy and pained sigh leaves your throat. Your hands don’t hesitate to cover your face. Dizzy from this denial and lack of gratification. Perhaps you are insatiable and greedy, but you are not satisfied with only his mouth. You want to feel him, taste him, touch him.

The action creates a flutter within his being. A warmth bigger than that of your legs around his head, one that makes him feel as feverish and dizzy as you. Seeing you so upset and sickly over not being able to consume him. It was pride, he’s sure of it. Arrogance and pride, something he knows all too well and that he’s reveling upon right now.

Yes, this is how he wants you. Craving him and only him.

It brings back the tease that he is, his laugh increasing in volume while your face is buried in your hands, desperate for him to move onto the following step. To give you something now that your cunt feels empty and needy again. You would like to think that if you weren’t this hot and bothered, his patronizing would upset you. But no matter how you look at it, you’ll always take whatever is given no matter how degrading as long as you get your fix.

“It won’t feel good with a condom,” He justifies despite his harsh grasp on your hair, forcing you to look up at his goading pout. He could be berating you and you’d still want to kiss those lips. “Maybe next time.” He adds before you can beg again, his grasp on your hair aiding his handling to get you to lay back on the bed.

It’s harsh and punitive, the kind that creates adrenaline in you that you wish for more. It leaves your chest heaving, grinning at him as he gets on the bed, crawling between your legs. Hyuck simply responds with that smile and chuckle you’ve grown to like more and more this night. Pushing your shoulder down as he takes your legs, parting them further and around his hips.

Jaemin had always been soft since the beginning. He’s experimental, audacious, an adrenaline junkie when it comes to locations, and open to any desire of yours. But there’s a softness in his touch that leaves you restless and far more insatiable than you think you are. There’s been multiple cases where he breaks the mold and becomes as rough as you want him but it doesn’t take long for him to return to what he truly is and it leaves you hollow, yearning for the thing that comes once in a blue moon.

Perhaps if Jaemin was rougher, you wouldn’t be here. On the brink of coming with the bruising shove of fingers on skin by a stranger.

Haechan is a tease in the manner he grabs his cock and presses the tip against your opening. Giving you hope and taking it away when he doesn’t penetrate you. He plays around, rubbing his latex clad penis over your warm and wet sex. Smiling wider every time he thinks of something snarky to say, yet he keeps it in his head before teasing your entrance once more until you’re clinging onto his arms, begging and begging.

“Please don't,” You whine, nails digging into his scalp when you bring his head closer. Tears pooling on your waterline, eyebrows upturned in despair. “Stop teasing, I need you.” It is then that he lets out his thoughts, using your gesture of proximity to plant his lips on yours. A languid tender kiss in which one hand held your hip and the other his cock, rubbing slowly to not excite himself furthermore. Wanting the pent up need to be used on you and not himself.

His tongue intrudes your mouth, you can slightly taste yourself. His tongue is sweet and silky against yours. The nectar of your arousal interlaced with his already saccharine saliva, flowing in between your mouths as he slowly but surely penetrates you like you had begged.

Though he had prepared you, the girth of the shaft was larger than that of his fingers. It stretches the muscles of your cunt as he goes in. Donghyuck was no cruel man, sadistic and somewhat of an ass, but not cruel to not let you adjust to the stinging stretch. Allowing you periods of grace until you’d nod to let him know to continue this pattern until he was able to bottom out.

With every move, your lips part allowing his tongue to deepen in the cavern of your mouth. It brought a great pleasure in Donghyuck to have you so pliable for him. So ready and accepting of whatever as long as he brought you the promised pleasure.

Something else to envy your fiance for…

“I can tell he doesn't fuck you well if you’re this tight…” his words force your hand to cover his mouth, moaning when he begins to thrust in retaliation. His now free hand attempts to pry yours off his face, some muffled words here and there along the lines of:

“Admit it,” “I bet I’m bigger than him, there’s no other reason for you to be this tight.”

Or, “Hm, maybe he doesn’t fuck you. Maybe he does. Maybe he simply doesn’t know how to do it well so you lie. You lie to keep your perfect boy happy.”

Donghyuck only got meaner and rougher, enough that it made vexation mix with your strangled moans as he thrusts into you. Truly in your head there was no reason for him to bring Jaemin into this. Matter of fact, you’re sure this was meant to make you forget about him for an hour or so while you enjoy the pleasure inflicted upon you.

But he’s all you’ve thought about and you’re not appreciative that Donghyuck is manifesting him in this instance. Not this despective, at least.

You stop struggling with Hyuck, freeing your hand and connecting it with his mouth again. This time a little too harshly, comparable to a slap. Your eyes widen slightly as he halts his thrusts, boring into yours. “I’m sorry…” you begin, apologetic that you had grown rougher without intent.

“I’m sorry, just… don’t bring him into this. He’s more than satisfactory.” The gradual change in tone from repentance to assertion didn’t ease Hyuck’s resentment. It fueled and frustrated him further. He’s well aware he shouldn’t care, you haven’t done anything special for him to feel this way but that same doting sentiment you brought when it came to your fiance egged him further into this bitter pit.

Donghyuck ignores your words, his hands sliding down your arms, thumbs caressing your breast until they reach you hips all the while he fucks into you again. Grunts that turn into moans, reaching down to kiss your neck. This position forces his hips to jut, enough to grant a different feel when he thrusts and force moans out of you.

His kisses are tender, nipping when he thinks back to seconds prior. You wince when it does happen but forget when he hits your sweet spot and your pained expression turns to one of pleasure. It’s when your hands reach his head, holding onto him for dear life knowing you couldn’t hold back longer that he took this opportunity to speak again.

“Does he let you do that?” He asks against your ear, nipping the lobe. Moaning into it when you clench around him. The mention of Jaemin turning you on despite your insistence to not bring him up earlier.

Donghyuck is unsure how to feel now. If he mentions your fiance you get turned on but if he doesn't, then how is he meant to spit out his venom? It’s a double edged sword and he loses each time.

“Do what?” You ask panting, your sweaty hands slide down his equally sweaty back and he grips your upper body. Groaning when he helps you sit over his lap. The new position helps you sink on his shaft, feeling yourself shake slightly when you feel him to the hilt.

“Take your anger out on him.” Donghyuck mentions so calmly like it means nothing. He did it in a manner that felt so normal while he didn’t seize his movements, burying his face in your neck while holding you close to him. As if he wanted to merge your atoms together and make one out of you both.

Your hands clung to his body, hugging him tight against you while your own hips began gyrating against his. You wanted to make him forget what he had brought up but you knew it wouldn’t be enough. Not when his fingers dig into your skin practically begging for you to vindicate him.

“I didn't mean to be rough with you.” You explain in between labored breaths.

“I don’t care. You can do it again if it makes you feel good.” Hyuck justifies, kissing your neck in the process. “Soft or rough, I want to make you feel good, Y/n. Come on,” Donghyuck pulls back, letting your arms slide from his body despite his thrusts not seizing.

He takes your hand into his, placing it over his cheek. “Please,” he begs in a whisper, groaning when your hips continue moving against his in hopes bringing him to a climax will make him forget this foolery.

It doesn't. You should've guessed when it comes to someone as adroit.

“Do you want that?” You ask cautiously, holding onto his shoulder with your free hand. Donghyuck looks at you, eyes as glossed as his lips when he begins to speak.

“I want whatever you want.”

Your breath hitches, pupils dilating at his words, and your lips part while your breath comes out shakily. It doesn’t take long for your to let your hand fall against his face like he had begged. Feeling the skin vibrate against yours, stinging your palm deliciously.

While he relishes in the impact and the wonderfully hot sting, you relish in your climax. Moaning shakily as you come around him, your hands searching for his and clinging to them hard enough despite the tickle.

Donghyuck doesn’t come but he does feel gratified with your compliance in making him feel needed and heard.

You pant, smiling to yourself as you rapidly come down from that high. Haechan replicates your expression, your smiles turning to laughs that mute when he kisses you. It’s messy and rushed, lips barely slotting, yet making sure your tongues meet. Playfully, he nips the muscle before sucking on it and swallowing your surprised moans.

Jaemin has never done this… His kisses are tender and if ever feverish, they’re still neat and painless. Never obscene.

Both of you last for minutes in that position, kissing to no end despite your lungs begging for air. Yet, if there’s one thing they should’ve learned tonight, is that neither you or Hyuck are opposed to self-inflicted pain.

He’s still hard and you’re on your second orgasm but this works to heighten that exigent pleasure. Your hips jut slightly, forcing a moan out of him that reminds you that he hasn’t come not even once. His self-restraint far stronger than yours will ever be.

Swiftly as he has been this entire night, Donghyuck helps you off his cock. He shudders at the loss of contact and compression. It twitches under your gaze and it reminds you of how much you want to taste him. While he’s still on the bed and you’re settled before him, you reach forward. Hyuck doesn’t hesitate to catch your wrist, preventing you from even feeling the weight on your palm.

There’s no other way than to whine, lunging forward even if it’s to just settle your face on his thighs. It doesn’t matter, you kiss the skin while imprinting your orisons on it. Lips burning with the touch of his flesh when they fall against it. Every time you attempt to move further up his thighs, he shoves your head.

“Fuck, please… Just a touch.” You whine, salivating at the sight of his heavy red cock mere inches away from your face. You feel delirious, as dizzy as someone stranded in a desert only at arms length from a pool of water, their ultimate salvation. Salvation that he keeps denying while he gets off the bed.

He struggles to steady his breathing, grasping your arm to pull off the bed and drag you willingly towards the window. Donghyuck kisses you hungrily like a starved man that hasn’t ate throughout lent, taking fasting as seriously as Jesus had done.

But Donghyuck was anything but holy and his years of believing were past him. Instead he’s in these four walls as a married man corrupting a closeted nymphomaniac that’s months away from marrying the love of her life. Someone that Donghyuck has grown an agenda towards without knowing him nor you. His only basis stems from having you. Someone so willing and sweet. Someone that should be meant for him, and things like this remind him why his heart harbors no more space for higher beings and their promised universal love.

Donghyuck sighs shakily when you separate, kissing the side of your head before leading you to the glass wall. His lips trail onto your neck and shoulder blades, groaning softly with every grace of his erect cock against your backside. Pushing you against the glass and letting the cold bite onto your skin, receiving the feeling with a squeal but no attempt to push back. To an extent it felt like a cool balm to your excessively scalding body.

“Look how pretty the night is.” He nudges your ankles to part your legs. You hum a response, dumbly nodding as if the words hadn’t processed. Haechan laughs, amused at how easy you falter. How easy it is for you to turn docile and willing. “It seems neighbors are having some fun of their own.” He points out, houses on far lower levels demonstrate a group of people having a lovely get together. Nothing like the one him and his wife are hosting.

He takes advantage of your distraction to push through your aching folds, forcing a guttural moan out of you while your knees buck. Your hands are too sweaty to hold onto the glass, but he makes sure to hold you by the waist, clinging tightly to your still kept girdle.

“Wouldn’t it be fun if they saw you like this? So open and pretty for me…” He sighs contently, throwing his head back at the image. Their appalled (or perhaps pleased) looks seeing how he pistons into you. Rough yet pleasurable that you wail for more and more while you press against the glass, leaving the imprint of your body against it.

“You would want that, right? To have someone look at you being fucked and exposed.” He moans against your ear, kissing the outer shell before gripping your chin, forcing you to look back at him. You’re so far gone and he’s enjoying it like the little shit he is.

Enough so that he grasps your inner thigh, bringing your leg around his torso and letting the muscle burn as long as you both feel good. All to bring down a bucket of ice cold water that you can only respond to by pushing back on him.

“What if it was your fiance down there watching how good I fuck you? Would you want him to see that I make you come fast?”

His thrusts are relentless, he mouths the words to provoke you but all he’s doing is turn you on and anger himself further. Either way, you’re on the receiving end and you don’t care if he’s roughly intentional or not.

Donghyuck is frustrated. With himself and with you. He’s known you for only a night and like in true selfish manner, you’ve enamored him. If someone was to keep such a delicacy and diamond in the rough of a woman, it should be him. Not Jaemin and most definitely none of the other men in attendance.

It’s faith! He’s called it, it’s faith that led you to him and for such his frustration grows more and more. How is he meant to claim his days of believing are gone when he’s convinced faith is what led you here. Maybe you were God sent for him to recover his faith. Yet he knows if that’s to happen, he’ll be blasphemous and find religion within you in the chapel between your legs…

His thrusts don’t seize and his noises become louder than the prior activities. Donghyuck’s grasp on you is harsher, imprinting his fingers on your thighs and upper body. Lips ravishing your neck and shoulders like a death row inmate, savoring their last meal.

Donghyuck can only express these frustration through his words and harsh grasps. “Do you want him to see how you’re begging to have my cock in your mouth knowing you can’t? To see how hungry you are for another man you won’t pledge eternity to?”

It’s the latter that causes you to throw your head back onto his shoulder, moaning loudly like he had dug a dagger into your heart with such cruel words. Cruel but truthful, because you truly did want to taste and feel him in your mouth. And you won’t deny that having Jaemin experience that would make you flood. Not for Haechan’s cruel intentions but because you’d experience this debauchery with your lover.

This time Hyuck can’t hold you up when your knees give up. He slides down with you, grunting as he holds his hips from fucking into you until you’ve reached the carpeted floor. He doesn’t speak again, he’s run out of things to make your emotions thither over the precipice but nothing does it and it’s more probable that he breaks than you.

But the words replay in your head with every thrust, every kiss to your skin. Specifically to those to your temple, like the ones Jaemin gives when he fucks you from behind. It’s all so familiar and warm that for your third orgasm, you’re not able to verbalize your pleasure. Instead your body does the talking, shaking while clenching around him. Your breath fogs up the glass, the most sound you make is that of panting while you come down from your orgasm and the squelch between your thighs as he continues his plunging.

He lets you spasm beneath him while his movement grows languid, exerting little to no force. Simply holding you up knowing you’ll turn into putty if he drops his touch from you. Donghyuck allows his words to be soft and caring now. Uttering pet names that make you smile stupidly against the glass wall and let tiny pleased noises with each one. He’s so sweet… when he wants to be.

When he no longer feels any movement from you, he sighs to himself while pulling out. The action makes you groan, so accustomed to the feel of his penis plunged into you and secreting the cavern in the most wonderful way. What was once warm now feels cool with the breeze passing by and it reminds you that it is yet another winter day. Not the scalding summer that you experience with Donghyuck.

Through the reflection on the glass you watch him. His pained expression when he attempts to touch his cock. It’s swollen and sensitive, having suffered eons in restraint. He pants heavily, removing the not yet soiled condom but one that suffocated him. You muster whatever strength is left in you, crawling his way and catching his attention when your hands grasp his calves.

Donghyuck turns startled, breath hitching in the back of his throat while you look at him. Calming his thumping heart, Donghyuck looks down at you. Right hand cradles your cheek, burrowing into it and kissing his palm while looking at him like your Lord and savior. Having you before him like Mary Magdalene asking for forgiveness for her adultery. But Hyuck knows he’s not the one you should ask if you’re going to. He’s farther from Jesus of Nazareth.

“Please… let me feast upon you.” You whisper against his thigh, kissing it softly. Peppering kisses over the skin, tasting the saltiness on your lips. Reminiscing on those lovely beach days where all you could taste was sea salt even if you didn’t submerge in the murky waters. But this night you did and will continue to do so if he allows you a taste of the phallic that’s brought you pleasure more than once this night.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” He swallows, eyes fluttering shut to avoid the lewd image before him. He’s sure if he allows you to, you’ll consume him whole. If you do, he’s unsure how much he can restrain himself from not holding you captive and away from the world.

Donghyuck grunts, shaking his head with the words ‘Jaemin, you lucky bastard.’ repeating over and over in his head as you continue to make out with his thighs.

“Hyuck… Hyuckie, please…” You beg softly, licking a long stripe within his inner thighs. His breath shudders, holding onto your hair as a warning. Yet it’s becoming increasingly harder for him to gulp down his strained arousal. If he doesn’t come soon, it’s likely he’ll never do so again and that sounds more painful than anything he’s ever experienced.

“No. I can take care of myself.”

But he is stubborn and if he wasn’t so pained, he’d laugh at your petulant groan and expression. Seeing in your blazed eyes how you want to tug at his cock and make him ache for keeping himself away from you. So close yet so far. You can feel him but can’t taste him and that only frustrates you further.

“Don’t be so greedy!” There’s so much frustration and entitlement that if it wasn’t for how much the words affected him, he would’ve found you cute.

“Greedy?… Greedy?! I’ve been fucking you all night and you’re still not satisfied!” His voice booms throughout the room, his grasp on your hair turns rough. It stings ever so deliciously that it bothers Donghyuck how cock hungry you truly are.

No matter the situation, you’ll be both satisfied and de-satisfied like the nympho that you truly are.

It doesn’t help that you nod hungrily, lips parting and slowly sticking out the red muscle lathered in saliva that little by little trickle down from it. So hungry, so needy, so insatiable…

“No! No I’m not. I will never be until you let me taste you!”

You. Until you let me taste you.

Perhaps it’s the greed and selfishness. The dire need to be desired and have attention be solely on him that sells him on it. Because in Haechan’s head, you had confessed your dire devotion to him. A devotion eternally strong enough that nothing will rid you of lechery but the taste of his cock and come in your mouth. Very much like communion bread and wine.

He scoffs a laugh, that beautiful grin that you have missed within these minutes. That’s what he receives you with before answering once and for all.

“Fine. If that will soothe your soul."

And like a depraved fiend, you mimic his pleased grin reaching forward while he grips his cock. Pumping once, then twice, then thrice before slapping it over your lips. Instantly painting them with droplets of pre-come that he lathers over them before letting you kiss his tip.

You smile at him like this is the most divine meal. Your tongue pokes out, taking some of those droplets into your mouth to get a taste of his essence. Your eyelids to flutter, gripping his thighs and bringing him closer to your face before slowly easing the phallic into your mouth.

Donghyuck moans and eases into it like the first time he penetrated you. His hands feel antsy, tingling with restraint to not touch you while you sink further down his length. Your tongue swirls around the shaft, savoring the feel of every vein and taste of him. To rile him further, you moan around him, the vibration from your throat forcing him to unconsciously thrust. You gag, curses leaving his lips apologetically while his hand caresses your face.

When your nose reaches his pubic bone, Donghyuck can’t hold back. He grasps both sides of your face. Guiding your bobs until he takes over and begins thrusting into your mouth. The squelching from your throat, your tongue swirling around his tip to draw out pre-come, and the drops of saliva that cling to your lips feels filthier than any porno he’s ever seen or any experience he’s ever had.

Donghyuck doesn’t know how he’ll function knowing his best orgasm will stem from someone that he most likely won’t ever see again. If he’s realistic and perceptive enough, he knows this is it. So how is he meant to survive when you’re so willing and needy just for him? Having waited eons upon eons to taste him like this until he finally gave out and rewarded you.

He’s not sure nor does he want to dwell. Not when you look so beautiful before him on your knees, lips wrapped around his swollen cock and moving against it for him to reach an orgasm. Petting his inner thighs and teasing his testicles with your warm hands. Any touch, any graze drives him closer and Donghyuck can no longer hold back.

“Is this what you wanted?” He pants, hips jutting against your mouth. His fingers rake your damp hair with every move. His nails had been perfectly trimmed, yet the sting of them raking against your scalp brings onto the pleasure of this action.

“To have me this way? Taste and consume me?” Donghyuck eggs on, his thrusts are shaky and sloppy. He can’t hold back anymore and your enthusiastic nods don’t help. He wants to present himself as strong but his whines and shaky moans say the opposite. He’s held back his orgasm for so long that this is enough to push him over the ledge.

“Y/n… y/n, y/n, my sweet y/n…” He chants like you had done with his name when he first laid upon you. Everything was full circle and with this stream of pleasure, Donghyuck lets go. His come spurts into your mouth, trickling down your throat like communion wine aiming to cleanse your soul. This would do the opposite but for this night it all feels heavenly.

Donghyuck shudders under your grasp, hips faltering as he aims to calm himself down. Any moans shush and turn into labored breaths, nodding to himself trying to dispel the haziness in his head. He gives it a few minutes and appreciates that you make no effort to rip your lips from his soft penis. It’s warm and homey, he wonders if you do this for Jaemin too until he’s ready to separate. It’s a nice feeling he could get used to but one that doesn’t belong to him.

With a final sigh, Hyuck pulls back. A soft chuckle when he hears a pop and sees the string of saliva connecting you to him. He smiles tenderly, bringing it upon his fingers and softly smearing it against your swollen lips. It’s tender and domestic, as if it had been rouge you misplaced and he’s helping you with it. In the process his thumb rids of some spilled come, bringing it into his mouth to savor what you have.

It makes him crave more, wondering if this is what you felt when he kissed you after cunnilingus. Wonders if it made you want to feel his mouth more and more like he does right now.

Donghyuck grasps your upper arm, helping you onto your feet and leading you to the bed. It feels different than the first time he had done so. His movements are slow and tender, kissing you softly enough to catch you off guard. You hesitate for a second before kissing him back, arms wrapping around his shoulders. It doesn’t prolong, that earlier guilt flooding you as the minutes tick.

Both of you have come and Donghyuck seems as spent as you, shouldn’t this terminate now? You don’t mention it, settling beside him when both of you calm down and any semblance of tension is gone. No longer enmeshed in search of sexual gratification.

Hyuck had been conscious that this felt different than all his encounters. He was convinced faith in fact did choose you for him. The probability of picking his keys were slim, yet your fingers found him like the oyster brooch had found you. Carefully, he pulls you to his side, taking you under his arm. A sense in you told you to stand up and end it. You both got what you wanted, Jaemin could be waiting for you.

Or he couldn’t. Perhaps he’s still busy himself…

The thought sours your mouth rubbing your face to rid of any expressions. Hyuck is good in reading those and after tonight, an empathetic side of you doesn’t want to hurt him either. So you relent, getting comfortable beside the warm body that embraces you as his hands memorize the skin he won’t feel again.

You both lay silent for what feels like an eternity. It’s comfortable and warm but eventually it turns static and the cold outside finally affects you like it had tried to throughout this entire night. You feel your joints grow rigid and your eyes turn to the discarded dress.

“You didn’t fully explain how you found the invitation.” He attempts to distract, fingers turning your face to his. A timid smile on his face that makes you frown. He seems completely different from the man that ravished you not long ago. It’s upsetting even to have this much control outside of the context of swinging.

“Um, again, found it on the sink drain of a powder room. I thought of handing it over to the restaurant staff in case someone came for it but…” you pause, turning to the decor of this room. So familial and full of life. “But it was too pretty,” You smile fondly, “I noticed the phone number inside and thought it would be better to hand it directly to the owner and well…” You smile, looking back at him.

Donghyuck chuckles, nodding as he turns back to your dress. “I suppose you brought it then.” He answers with a nod; you shake your head. “Don’t presume I’d hand it back.” You joke, smiling when he turns to look at you. He laughs in response, something you replicate. “Would you mind if I keep it?” You ask, he shakes his head with a tender and relaxed smile now.

“No, but I do believe you deserve a prettier brooch than that cheap thing.” He answers, pulling away from you to walk towards a jewelry box on the vanity. You sit up, draping the bedsheets over you as your eyebrows furrow, watching his moves.

His fingers thread lightly over the filigree of the brass jewelry box, flipping the clasp open. You hear the clank of metals among themselves as he decides on what piece to grab. It takes him a while and despite the bed sheet, your skin develops goosebumps.

“Ah,” He tells himself, smiling when he turns to you. He approaches you again, crawling on the bed. His flaccid penis makes you blush as if you hadn’t almost sacrificed yourself to taste it. He’d taunt you but he doesn’t want this moment to mar.

He brings it closer to you, opening the blue velvet box. It’s so reminiscent of Jaemin’s proposal that words clog in your throat and your eyes sting. You attempt to shake your head but the muscles refuse to move. You know it’s not like that. The box is larger, rectangular, but you still can’t accept it. This isn’t how things are meant to be.

Donghyuck ignores the turbulence within you, smiling fondly as he pushes the box further as an offering. “Something blue, something old, something borrowed, and something new.” He utters in a sigh, a slight smile as he looks at the jewelry pieces. His fingers hover over them, not allowing any light to gloss over. Yet in the darkness, the blue gems shine no matter what.

“I can’t.” You let out in a whisper, finally being able to shake your head. “I can’t see why not?” He answers with a smile, unclasping the diamond crusted bracelet. It fits big on your wrist and the metal is rather cold but he only hums. “I trust it will fit you well anyway.” He answers before taking the earrings. He doesn’t put those on you, he simply places them on your palms, closing your fingers around droplet sapphires.

You close your eyes trying to understand his reasoning. He shouldn’t reward you like this. It’s all so beautiful but it creates a pit in your stomach that you’re not able to understand. On one hand you feel confused, almost offended. You’ve always heard men treat their ‘whores’ like this and that’s the last thing you want to be to Donghyuck.

Sure, you just fucked him and only came in search for him but it was all under the guise of experimentalism. Trying to get a fix outside of Jaemin and you’ve received that already. But you don’t want to feel like a whore… you’ve grown with the mindset that that’s the last thing you want to be. Mrs. Wayne would be further disappointed.

On the other hand, you feel guilt. How would Jaemin react? How would he feel to see that a stranger has gifted you these gems presumably as a wedding gift. It feels patronizing to an extent. Is he mocking Jaemin? Is he mocking you? A deeper part of you feels ecstatic to be given this fortune. After all diamonds are girl’s best friend but your pride and ego is hurt on behalf of yourself and Jaemin. Donghyuck means well, you see it in his warm gaze but to anyone outside of this room, it won’t seem like such.

You sigh heavily, shaking your ahead as you attempt to hand the earrings back but Donghyuck had already moved stealthily, crawling behind you to place the sapphire diamond drop necklace around your neck. Clasping it to ever so slightly grace the exposed skin of your neck. So smooth and warm, tempting enough to kiss, but he’s aware his time has come to an end.

“And your something old.” He utters silently, taking your other hand to place an orchid shaped brooch. It glimmers under the moonlight, much like the other jewelry he has draped over you like a ruler would on their favorite concubine. The only exception that you couldn’t be kept, not as he wishes he could.

You let silence flood the room, it’s still static and cold. Confusing and somewhat cruel, “Why?” You ponder out loud, turning your head to look at him. His expressions are neutral, that smile hasn’t faltered and it only grows while formulating a response. “Why not?” He answers, moving off the bed towards the nightstand, pulling out a cigarette. It’s a menthol like the one offered to Jaemin earlier.

“Because,” You begin, shifting your body towards him. “You just can’t.” You justify with no basis. You’re just speaking words, words formulated by the what woulds’ and what if’s of society. Jaemin had never cared for them and it seems Donghyuck cares far less. “But why not? I have them, I gave them to you. That’s it.” He shrugs with the limp stick between his lips as he trudges around the room to pick out clothes. That alone makes questions flourish in your brain but right now, you focus on the jewelry.

“It just doesn’t make sense. I’m sure these are dear to you, you don’t even know me.” You answer, a laugh at how absurd this is. “You don’t know me either and you gave yourself to me.” He answers, tapping his cigarette against the glass ash tray. “Soon you’ll learn that many things in life don’t make sense.” Donghyuck says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Not everything needs a reason to be, Y/n. It’s okay to enjoy things when presented to you as long as you learn to let go or know that it won’t always be offered.”

The words are mostly uttered to himself, exhaling the smoke that smothers his throat purposefully so. Donghyuck had grown to be petulant, childish, and demanding. Things that he cannot be when it comes to you.

“Now come, let’s shower before you leave.” He smiles wider, standing from the bed to take your hand. You let the words sink, not fully convinced but this once you’ll revel in indulgence. If you’ve indulged in the taste of foreign flesh, what more harm does it do to take the fruits of such?

You smile in return, nodding at his words and acceptance. “I had fun, by the way.” You admit before standing up, taking his hand. Donghyuck restrains himself from leaning in to even kiss your forehead. He simply nods, holding his lovely smile. “I did too. More than I could imagine…”

Donghyuck hadn’t trespassed during the shower, it felt like a last goodbye of intimacy without any touching. He had talked about things that didn’t matter to you nor to him. Talked about his wife in passing like it was only a ghost inhabiting the house that did no harm. His voice wasn’t warm but it wasn’t unkind either.

You had asked him in between jokes while you blow dried your hair if he often brought women into the room recalling your earlier inquiries. He had denied it with a heaviness as he uttered: “No, my wife would kill me.” You had questioned the meaning but he ignored it to not dwindle the mood again. He wanted to remember you cheerfully before you left the quarters that you later were reassured belonged to him and his wife.

Neither of them had been able to bring any of the swing meet attendees or anyone for that matter unless specified into this room but Donghyuck broke that rule for you because in his words, you were God sent to recover his faith… A faith so cruel that strips you away from him.

He hadn’t walked you out of the room, the heaviness in his chest weighed his every move as he helped you get dressed again. Apologetic for your destroyed stockings and disgusting girdle that you both decided to simply throw away.

If he can will himself to when the day comes…

Instead, Haechan watched you cross the threshold of the bedroom and dwell in the moonlight alone while you calmly walk down the corridor with a tranquility that turns to happiness when Jaemin himself walks out of the neighboring room.

You sweet lovely Jaemin. He greets you with that wide smile that you’ve loved since day one. Glimmering pearly whites and pretty pink lips that part to speak your name ever so fondly. You sigh contently, jumping into his arms like a woman who had been waiting for their lover to return from war. Ignoring the slight stains of rouge on the collar of his shirt.

“Nana,” You sigh contently, kissing his cheek as he grasps your hand to walk down the empty corridor. He doesn’t question your washed hair, he doesn’t question the lack of stockings or makeup, and he doesn’t even frown when seeing the beautifully wrinkled gown he was supposed to enjoy.

His keys jingle in the pocket of his suit jacket, drowning your enthusiastic words. He listens intently, humming as a response and only turning to you when you let silence linger for a bit too long. He’s always been so attentive. Whether it’s due to his career or his loving nature, Jaemin always listened and knew the right thing to say.

Until now.

“Well I’m glad you enjoyed yourself love, it surely looked like it.” He begins, squeezing your hand as you both wobble around the shards of crystal still lingering at the front of the home. It was far darker outside now, not even the moonlight or the sign lights could illuminate the expressions engraved in his face hearing every detail of your rendezvous.

On a safer path, Jaemin lets your hand go. Patting your cheek without looking at you while walking.

“I couldn’t go through it. All I thought about is you.”

Jaemin walks away, calm like he always is. Calm like arrival and calm as he exits. Leaving you behind to be swallowed by the forces of guilt that had corroded your body long before existing. Submerging you in the daunting realization of Jaemin’s perpetual affliction.

PLAYLIST: I don’t exactly have a playlist but Roll with me - Haechan would be a good song.

NOTES: Hello! I'm a new writer here and I hope you'll enjoy my babyy.. I haven't proof read anything but please tell me if you like my writing style! tell me if you wanna be tagged.

𐔌՞⁔•͈ ·̫ •͈⁔՞𐦯 𐔌՞⁔•͈ ·̫ •͈⁔՞𐦯 𐔌՞⁔•͈ ·̫ •͈⁔՞𐦯 𐔌՞⁔•͈ ·̫ •͈⁔՞𐦯 𐔌՞⁔ ·̫ •͈⁔՞𐦯

The smell of cardboard, cheap packing tape, and Haechan’s oddly expensive cologne filled the cramped hallway of Y/N’s apartment. It had been seventy-two hours since the library incident, and yet, watching Jeno effortlessly hoist a heavy box of electronics over his shoulder, Y/N still felt like she was watching a slow-motion train wreck.

She stood by the kitchen counter, her knuckles white as she gripped a glass of water. It was happening. Lee Haechan was officially invading her sanctuary.

Her mind, usually a fortress of logic, was currently a chaotic mess of "What have I done?" and "Oh god, he’s actually hot." As Haechan walked past her to drop a duffel bag, his shirt rode up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his tan hip bone. Y/N’s brain immediately took a treacherous detour. She found herself imagining him walking into the kitchen at 7:00 AM, shirtless, hair a mess, that annoying smirk softened by sleep. She imagined the steam from the shower hitting his tan skin, the way his voice would sound all raspy and deep in the morning—

SMACK.

Y/N slapped her own cheek with enough force to make Chenle drop the stack of hangers he was carrying.

"You okay there? The fumes from the tape getting to you?" Chenle asked, eyeing her with genuine concern.

"Mosquito," Y/N lied through gritted teeth, her face stinging. "Huge one. Very aggressive."

"Right," Chenle snorted, turning back to help Jeno maneuver a floor lamp.

In the small kitchenette, Jaemin was already making himself at home, humming a tune as he flips the steak he’s been cooking. He looked like a domestic prince, his prettiest heartthrob title well-earned even while wearing a simple oversized hoodie. He glanced over his shoulder at Y/N, catching her panicked expression and offering a sympathetic, albeit amused, smile.

Haechan, however, was in his element. He was thriving on the chaos. He walked over to where Y/N was standing, leaning one arm against the counter right next to her head, trapping her in his space. He looked down at her, his dark eyes sparkling with that bratty energy. His face looked cute but we all know how mischievous a Lee Donghyuck is.

"You know, Y/N," Haechan started, dropping his voice to that low, flirtatious register. "I know this is a big adjustment for you. Having all this," he gestured vaguely to his own face and body, "available to look at twenty-four-seven? It’s a lot of responsibility. I promise I’ll try to wear clothes at least forty percent of the time if it helps you focus."

He gave her a slow, exaggerated wink, leaning in just a fraction closer.

Y/N stared at him, her annoyance finally snapping the tether of her internal panic. She didn't back away. Instead, she tilted her head, looking him up and down with a clinical, unimpressed expression.

"Donghyuck," she said, her voice flat and loud enough for the whole room to hear. She leans in and pinched his ear, earning an “owww” from him "The only thing I’ll be 'focusing' on is how someone with a forehead that big manages to have such a tiny, underdeveloped brain. And as for the clothes? Please, stay covered. I’ve seen more muscle on a rotisserie chicken, and frankly, looking at you for too long feels like staring at a solar eclipse—it's mostly disappointing and results in permanent eye damage."

A series of sharp, muffled snorts broke the silence. Chenle let out a dry, nasal sound of amusement while shaking his head, and Jeno ducked his chin into his shoulder, a short puff of air escaping his nose as he continued to haul a suitcase. Over at the stove, Jaemin’s shoulders shook slightly; he kept his back turned, but the way he gripped the wooden spoon told Y/N he was doing everything in his power not to let a full laugh escape.

Haechan visibly couldn’t find the words that could counter her remarks as he rubs the throbbing ear. His brain visibly rebooting as he searched for a comeback that didn't exist. He looked like a puppy that had just been told it was going to the vet instead of the park. He just gave her a finger and silently turned around to grab another box from the hallway, his ears turning a bright, tell-tale shade of red.

Y/N took a long, satisfied sip of her water, the dread in her chest easing just a little. If she could keep him shut up like that, maybe—just maybe—she’d survive the semester.

₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚

The digital clock on the microwave glowed a sharp, neon green: 12:42 AM.

Y/N padded into the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the cold linoleum. She was restless, her mind still reeling from the fact that Haechan’s boxes were now stacked in the room across the hall. Seeking the comfort of a glass of milk to drown out her racing thoughts, she reached for the cupboard, only to freeze when she realized she wasn't alone.

Haechan was leaned against the refrigerator. He looked nothing like the polished, sharp-tongued brat from the library. This version of him was raw and dangerously soft. He was clearly half-asleep, his body slumped with a heavy, uncoordinated grace. His hair was a chaotic nest of dark strands, sticking up in every direction, and his skin looked warm and slightly flushed from the heat of his blankets.

He wore a black oversized shirt (whom he wore halfway; he only wore one of the sleeves), and a pair of low-slung, thin grey sweatpants. The fabric hung loosely off his hips, the elastic waistband resting precariously low, revealing the deep, V-shaped lines of his torso. Because of the thin material and the way he was standing, the prominent bulge of his frame was impossible to ignore—a stark, bold silhouette against the soft grey fabric.

His eyes were the most distracting part. They were heavy-lidded and drowsy, barely half-open, giving him an alluringly seductive, dreamy look. He looked at Y/N through his lashes, his gaze lingering with a slow, hazy intensity that made the air in the small kitchen feel thick and pressurized.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured. His voice was a deep, gravelly rasp, vibrating in the quiet room. He didn’t tease. He didn’t smirk. He just watched her.

Y/N felt her throat go dry. “Water,” she managed to whisper, stepping forward to reach for the faucet.

The kitchen was narrow—too narrow for two people, especially when one was Lee Haechan. As she tried to sidestep him to get to the sink, her hand accidentally brushed against the front of his sweatpants. It was a fleeting, soft contact, but the heat radiating from him was immediate. Her knuckles grazed the firm, heavy curve of his bulge through the thin cotton.

The world seemed to stop. Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She gasped, pulling her hand back as if burned, her face erupting into a furious, deep crimson. She looked up, ready to find him laughing or throwing a lewd joke her way.

But Haechan was dead serious.

He didn't move away. Instead, he straightened up slowly, his heavy-lidded eyes darkening as they tracked the movement of her hand, then moved back up to her face. He didn't say a word. The silence was deafening, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the sound of their breathing.

He took a single step closer, his warmth enveloping her. He reached out—not to grab her, but to slowly reach behind her for a bag of pretzels on the counter. His bare chest nearly brushed her shoulder, the scent of his skin, warm and musky, filling her senses. As he pulled back, he let his gaze drop to her lips for a fraction of a second, a look of pure, unadulterated attraction that felt more intimate than any flirtatious comment he’d ever made.

A tiny, knowing smirk finally tugged at the corner of his mouth—not the bratty one, but something darker and more confident.

“Good night, Y/N,” he rumbled, his voice low enough to send a shiver straight down her spine.

He turned and walked back toward his room, the grey fabric of his sweats swaying with his stride. Y/N stood frozen in the dark kitchen, her hand still tingling from the accidental touch, her face burning so hot she was sure it would glow in the dark.

₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚ ₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི‎♡‧₊˚

The morning sun filtered through the grime of the kitchen window, casting long, dusty beams across the linoleum, but the air in the apartment still felt heavy with the lingering tension of the night before.

Y/N was hunched over her coffee mug, staring into the dark liquid like it held the secrets to the universe, or at least a way to erase the memory of her knuckles grazing grey cotton. Her skin still felt hypersensitive; a phantom heat blooming wherever she imagined him standing.

Then, the floorboards groaned.

Haechan drifted into the kitchen like a ghost. He looked every bit the exhausted; (probably from the heavy studying session Haechan was doing last night.. and probably some gaming) his frame lean and lithe rather than bulky. His collarbones were sharp, peeking out from the wide neck of a faded black oversized graphic tee that hung loosely off his shoulders. He had that specific kind of gamer boy allure—slender, but has some muscles (due to Jaemin whining at him to go to gym) his tan skin has that somewhat unhealthy glow from hours spent in front of a monitor, with long, delicate fingers that looked like they belonged to a pianist or a surgeon.

He didn't say anything at first. He just moved to the counter to fill a glass of water, his movements fluid and cat-like. His eyes were still heavy, that alluringly drowsy look from last night replaced by a quiet, mysterious intensity. He looked effortless, like he hadn't spent the last six hours tossing and turning—unlike Y/N.

He leaned his hip against the counter, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He took a slow sip of water, his Adam's apple bobbing rhythmically. When he finally looked at her, he didn't give her the usual annoying beam Y/N despises. Instead, he gave her a look that was lowkey and dangerously observant.

"You're staring again, Y/N," he said, his voice still holding a trace of that morning rasp. It wasn't a shout; it was a soft, private observation that felt like a hand on her waist. "Is there something on my face, or are you just admiring the view from a different angle this morning?"

Y/N felt the heat rise instantly, a tidal wave of crimson crashing over her cheeks and neck. She could feel her ears burning. The image of the "view" from last night—the grey sweatpants, the silhouette she wasn't supposed to see—flashed in her mind like a neon sign.

"I—I was looking at the... the cabinets," she stammered, her heart racing. She scrambled to find her footing, desperate to regain her savage armor. She stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the floor. "And trust me, Haechan, the only 'view' you provide is a cautionary tale about what happens when someone forgets to eat a vegetable and spends too much time in a dark room. You look like a Victorian orphan who found a Discord server."

Haechan’s lips curled into a tiny, knowing smirk. He didn't look offended; he looked fed. He liked the reaction. He liked the way her breath hitched when he took a half-step toward her.

"A Victorian orphan, huh?" he murmured, his gaze dropping to the way she was nervously clutching her bag. "Is that why your hands were shaking last night? Worried about my nutrition?"

Y/N couldn't take it. The proximity, the mysterious weight of his gaze, and the sheer embarrassment were too much. "Shut up! Just... move!"

She didn't wait for a reply. She bolted, turning on her heel and marching toward the safety of the bathroom. She kept her back straight, her stride hurried, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

Behind her, Haechan didn't move. He stood perfectly still, the glass of water forgotten on the counter. His half-closed eyes tracked her exit with a predatory sort of calm. As she walked away, his gaze dropped, lingering shamelessly on the sway of her hips and the fit of her jeans. He didn't say a word, but the smirk on his face deepened, dark and satisfied, as he watched her disappear behind the bathroom door.

ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅฅ՞•ﻌ

The following three weeks settled into a rhythm that was surprisingly… easy. The initial heart-stopping tension of that first midnight encounter had been buried under a mountain of mundane roommate habits. Y/N found herself actually thankful for the return of the bratty Haechan. He was back to his usual self—tripping her shoes in the hallway, making savage comments about her taste in reality TV, and flirting with such high-velocity cheesiness that it was easy to deflect with a roll of her eyes.

The apartment had become the group’s unofficial headquarters. Some afternoons, the living room smelled like the spicy, fermented tang of the kimchi and the other side dishes Jaemin would drop off "to make sure Y/N doesn't starve under Haechan’s watch." Chenle would often be sprawled on the rug with his laptop, while Jeno took up the entire loveseat, the space feeling warm and lived-in. It felt normal. It felt safe.

Until Tuesday afternoon.

Y/N walked into the kitchen, her eyes landing on a stack of crusty cereal bowls and a sticky orange juice glass sitting in the sink. The deal was simple: she cooked, he cleaned.

"Lee Donghyuck!" she barked, turning toward the hallway. "I know you can hear me! These dishes aren't going to walk themselves to the dishwasher!"

Silence.

Annoyance flared in her chest—the kind of comfortable annoyance she was used to. She marched down the short hall and reached for his doorknob. Usually, she’d knock, but he’d been especially irritating that morning, and she wanted to catch him mid-nap to scare the life out of him.

She twisted the knob and swung the door open. "Haechan, if you think I'm—"

The words died in her throat, evaporating into the stale, warm air of the room.

The curtains were drawn, leaving the space bathed in a dim, hazy amber light. Haechan was propped up against his headboard, his laptop discarded to the side. He wasn't sleeping. He was wearing the same thin, grey sweatpants from that first night, but they were pushed dangerously low, bunched around his mid-thighs.

His head was tilted back against the wall, his throat exposed and flushed. One of his long, slender hands was wrapped firmly around his cock, his knuckles white as he moved with a slow, rhythmic, and agonizingly deliberate pace.

Y/N froze, her hand still glued to the doorknob. She should have turned around. She should have screamed. But her brain had disconnected from her limbs.

Haechan didn't startle. He didn't scramble for a blanket or dive for cover. He didn't even stop. Instead, his heavy-lidded eyes slowly opened, finding hers across the room. They were dark—nearly black in the shadows—and glazed with a raw, carnal focus. He let out a low, shaky breath through his teeth, his grip tightening as he continued the motion right in front of her.

He looked utterly shameless. There was no embarrassment on his face, only a heated, mysterious challenge. He looked incredibly seductive in his disheveled state, his lean torso glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He stared at Y/N as if he wanted to ravage her.

"I told you," he rasped, his voice vibrating with a deep, jagged edge that made Y/N’s knees feel like jelly. Haechan was struggling to speak as he continues to give her a show. “I have a lot of... pent-up energy. Y-You want to stay and watch, or are you going to h-help with the dishes?"

The spell broke. Y/N’s entire face felt like it was literally on fire, a heat so intense it made her dizzy. She let out a strangled, incoherent noise, slammed the door shut, and stumbled backward into the hallway.

She didn't stop until she reached her own room, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it was painful. She slumped against her door, sliding down to the floor and burying her face in her hands. Her mind was a chaotic loop of the sight of his hand, the sound of his breath, and the sheer, terrifying audacity of his gaze.

She was officially clueless. How was she supposed to look him in the eye over Jaemin’s grilled steak and kimchi ever again?

🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻🐻😊 🌻

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when the front door buzzed, signaling the arrival of the cavalry. Normally, Y/N would have welcomed the distraction, but tonight, the sound of Chenle’s loud laughter and Jeno’s heavy footsteps felt like a countdown to an execution.

Inside the kitchen, the air was suffocating. Y/N was aggressively chopping green onions, her movements jagged and uncoordinated. She could still feel the phantom heat of Haechan’s gaze from an hour ago.

“Hey, something smells good! Ohh.. jigae!” Jaemin chirped, walking in with a fresh bag of groceries. He paused, squinting at Y/N. “Are you okay? Your face is the exact color of ground gochugaru. Did you burn yourself?”

“Steam! The pot… it’s very steamy,” Y/N lied, her voice an octave too high. She didn't dare look up as the door to the hallway opened and Haechan sauntered in.

He looked infuriatingly refreshed. He’d showered, his damp hair messy and dark, and he was wearing a clean black t-shirt that made his tan skin look even deeper. He moved behind Y/N to reach for a glass, and as he did, his hip brushed firmly against hers. It wasn't the accidental bump of a roommate; it was a slow, intentional slide of fabric against fabric.

Y/N jumped, nearly taking off a fingertip with the knife. “Watch it!” she hissed.

“Sorry,” Haechan murmured, though his voice held that same jagged, low-timbered rasp from his bedroom. He leaned down, ostensibly to look at the cutting board, but his lips brushed dangerously close to her ear. “You’re so jumpy today, Y/N. Need me to help you… relax?”

He pulled away before she could swing the knife at him, a tiny, private smirk playing on his lips. He was clearly reveling in her misery, feeding off the way her hands shook as she transferred the onions to a bowl.

Dinner was a blur of muffled snorts and casual banter from the boys, while Y/N sat as stiff as a board. Every time she reached for a side dish, Haechan’s fingers would "accidentally" graze the back of her hand or his knee would knock against hers under the table. Each touch was like a spark of electricity that sent her heart into a frantic gallop.

“Y/N, you’ve been staring at that piece of meat for five minutes,” Jeno noted, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. “Are you sure you’re not coming down with a fever?”

“I’m fine! Just… midterms!” she blurted out, shoving the meat into her mouth so fast she nearly choked.

(*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ) (*꒦ິ꒳

After dinner, the real challenge began. Chenle had been hyped for months about the digital release of a new sci-fi thriller, and he wasn't taking "no" for an answer.

“Everyone, shut up and get comfortable!” Chenle commanded, grabbing the remote.

The living room was tiny. Between the boxes Haechan still hadn't unpacked and the limited furniture, space was at a premium. Jeno and Jaemin claimed the two ends of the small loveseat, and Chenle sat cross-legged on the floor, leaving the middle cushion for Mark. But when the dust settled, there was only one spot left—the armchair where Haechan had already made himself at home, sprawled out with his long legs draped over the side.

“No space,” Haechan said simply, his heavy-lidded eyes fixing on Y/N. He patted his thighs with a slow, rhythmic thud. “Sit here. I don’t mind being a chair for the night.”

“I’d rather sit on a cactus,” /N snapped, her face flushing anew.

“Y/N, just sit down!” Chenle groaned, not looking away from the opening credits. “You’re blocking the screen and the subtitles are going fast. Either sit on him or sit on the floor, but stop moving!”

The floor was covered in Chenle’s electronics and Jaemin’s grocery bags. With a heavy, defeated sigh, Y/N moved toward the armchair. She lowered herself onto Haechan’s lap, trying to keep her weight as light as possible, her body rigid with tension.

The moment she sat, she felt his hands settle firmly on her waist. His grip was possessive, his fingers splayed against the denim of her jeans. He pulled her back so she was tucked against his chest, her back flush against his lean frame.

Y/N expected a joke. She expected a witty comment about her weight or a cheesy pick-up line. But when she glanced back at him, Haechan’s expression was unreadable.

The playful savage was gone. He looked focused, his eyes fixed on the screen, but his thumb was tracing slow, absentminded circles against her hip bone. The darkness of the room, lit only by the flickering blue light of the TV, made the contact feel ten times more intimate. She could feel the steady thrum of his heart against her shoulder blades, and the heat of his body was a constant, distracting hum that made the movie's plot completely impossible to follow. She could feel an unmistakable “something” poking her ass.. She’s desperately convincing herself that it’s just the remote even though she knew the remote was placed neatly onto the lap of Chenle.

Haechan leaned his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. He didn't say a word, but his grip on her waist tightened just a fraction, as if making sure she wasn't going anywhere.

ʕ ◍•ᴗ<◍ʔっ🫧 ʕ ◍•ᴗ<◍ʔっ🫧 ʕ ◍•ᴗ<◍ʔっ🫧 ʕ ◍•ᴗ<◍ʔっ🫧

The blue-tinted shadows of the sci-fi flick danced across the walls, the only source of light in the stifling room. Despite Chenle being so excited about the movie, it turned out to be very boring, causing everyone to be sleepy. On the floor, Chenle’s head had lulled back against the sofa, his soft snores joining the rhythmic breathing of Jeno and Jaemin, who were out cold on the loveseat. Mark was literally sprawled all over the floor, face buried onto the throw pillow.

The silence of the apartment felt heavy, charged with a frequency that made Y/N’s skin prickle. She was still perched on Haechan’s lap, but the rigid posture she’d started with had long since melted. She was trapped between his lean thighs, her back pressed against his chest.

Haechan remained silent, his gaze fixed on the screen, but his hands were far from idle. His touch was lowkey, subtle enough that if anyone woke up, it would look like an innocent embrace. But Y/N knew better. His palms, warm and slightly calloused, began a slow, agonizing trek upward from her waist. His fingers splayed across her ribs, inches from the swell of her breasts.

Y/N turned her head slightly, casting a pleading, wide-eyed look at him. She tried to knit her brows together, to look stern and authoritative, but the heat in her cheeks and the way her breath hitched betrayed her.

Haechan didn't look back. He simply tilted his head, his heavy-lidded eyes reflecting the flickering screen. He looked entirely clueless, the picture of a focused movie-goer, yet his thumb deliberately swiped upward, just barely grazing the underside of her breast. The contact was electric, sending a jolt straight to her core.

As the movie reached its climax—a chaos of orchestral swells and flashing lights—Haechan shifted. He shifted his weight, pulling her more firmly into the crook of his lap. Under the cover of the darkness and the heavy blanket draped partially over them, his hand dived lower.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as she felt his long, fingers slip beneath the waistband of her jeans. She reached down, her hand weakly trying to shove his away, but he was a silent force. He didn't use strength; he used precision.

His palm pressed flat against the thin silk of her panties, the heat of his hand seeping through the fabric. Y/N bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, her eyes darting to Chenle, whose hand was inches from her feet. The danger was intoxicating. The sheer audacity of him doing this with their best friends three feet away made her head spin.

Then, he began to move.

His middle finger found her, rubbing slow, torturous circles over the seam of her underwear. He knew exactly what he was doing. His touch was rhythmic, mimicking the pace of his breathing. He leaned his face into the crook of her neck, his nose brushing her pulse point, which was drumming like a frantic wingbeat.

"Hyuck," she breathed, the word barely a ghost of a sound. It was supposed to be a protest, but it came out as a broken whimper.

He didn't stop. Instead, he hooked a finger under the edge of the silk, sliding inside. The sensation of his cool, slender finger meeting her slick, swollen heat was almost too much to bear. He began to move in a slow, shallow rhythm, his thumb finding her clit and applying just enough pressure to make her back arch instinctively.

Y/N buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She was terrified of making a sound, terrified of someone waking up to find her being thoroughly unraveled by the brat she claimed to hate.

Haechan’s smirk was hidden against her skin, but she could feel it. He was secretly ecstatic at her reaction, feeding off her silent gasps. He leaned in, his lips hovering against her earlobe.

"Be quiet, pretty," he whispered, his voice a jagged, seductive rasp that vibrated through her entire body. "You wouldn't want to wake Chenle, would you? He’s been waiting months for this movie."

He picked up the pace, his finger curling inside her, finding the exact spot that made her toes curl and her vision go blurry. His free hand sliding inside her shirt and begins to massage her boob, flicking, and pinching her nipple. He was relentless, a lowkey predator in the dark, claiming her right under the noses of their unsuspecting friends.

The orchestral swell of the movie’s climax masked the frantic, uneven hitching of Y/N’s breath. In the shadows, Haechan was a ghost of pure sensation. His hand was a steady, rhythmic contrast to the internal chaos he was wreaking.

He slid a second finger inside her, his knuckles brushing against her inner thigh as he began to move with a devastating, curling motion. Y/N’s head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes rolling shut as the friction of his thumb against her clit intensified. Every time she tried to pull away, his grip on her waist tightened, anchoring her to him.

"Look at them, Y/N," Haechan whispered, his voice a dark, jagged thread of silk against her ear. "So peaceful. They have no idea how loud you’re breathing right now. No idea how wet you’re getting on my hand."

He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, inhaling her scent like he was memorizing it. "Do you think Jeno would wake up if you moaned? Or maybe you want them to see what I’m doing to you."

The threat—the sheer, delicious danger of it—pushed Y/N over the cliff. She felt the coil in her gut tighten to the point of pain. She gripped the arms of the chair, her knuckles white, as the first wave of the orgasm crashed over her. She buried her scream in the crook of her elbow, her body shuddering violently against his. Haechan didn't let up; he followed her through it, his fingers relentless until her tremors began to fade into a heavy, boneless heat.

He waited a beat, feeling the last of her muscles twitch, before he slowly, smoothly withdrew. He adjusted her jeans with a casual flick of his wrist, his hand returning to her waist as if it had never moved. He didn't look at her; but she looked at him, breathing heavy. He then simply leaned his head back against the chair, his chest rising and falling in a slow, satisfied rhythm. He sucked his fingers clean, giving her a wink.

A few minutes later, the credits began to roll, the screen fading to a bright, sterile white that illuminated the room.

“Ugh… what time is it?” Chenle groaned, rubbing his eyes and sitting up from the floor. He stretched, his joints popping in the silence. “Did I miss the ending? Who was the killer?”

Jeno blinked awake on the loveseat, looking disoriented but as handsome as ever. “I think I fell out around the second act,” he mumbled, reaching over to nudge a sleeping Jaemin.

Jaemin stirred, yawning widely. He reached for the lamp on the side table, and the room was suddenly flooded with warm, yellow light.

Y/N felt like she was vibrating. Her face was flushed a deep, undeniable red, and her hair was slightly disheveled. She sat frozen on Haechan’s lap, her legs feeling like lead. She didn't dare look at anyone.

“Whoa, Y/N,” Jaemin said, squinting at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Was the movie that scary?”

“She’s just… sensitive to sci-fi,” Haechan’s voice cut in, smooth and effortless.

Y/N finally gathered the strength to stand up, her legs wobbling dangerously as she stepped away from the armchair. She kept her eyes on the floor, her heart still thudding against her ribs.

Haechan stood up behind her, stretching his arms over his head. The movement caused his shirt to lift, and Y/N’s eyes involuntarily flickered to the faint, damp smudge on the grey fabric of his sweatpants. Her breath caught.

He looked at her then—a quick, piercing glance. He didn't smirk, and he didn't joke. He just looked at her with those heavy-lidded, mysterious eyes, a silent acknowledgement of the secret they now shared.

“I’m gonna… go wash my face,” Y/N managed to choke out, already halfway to the hallway.

“Don’t take too long,” Chenle called out, reaching for a leftover slice of cold pizza. “We still have to decide who’s paying for the bubble tea!”

As she ducked into the bathroom and locked the door, she could hear Haechan’s voice in the living room, casually arguing with Chenle about the movie’s plot holes. He sounded perfectly normal. He sounded like the same bratty roommate who forgot to do the dishes.

But as Y/N leaned against the sink and caught her reflection—pupils blown wide, lips swollen, and skin glowing—she knew nothing in this apartment would ever be normal again.

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯₊˚⊹ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯₊˚⊹ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯₊˚⊹ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯₊˚⊹ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯₊˚⊹𐔌՞. .՞𐦯₊˚⊹ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

The morning air was thick and silent, the kind of quiet that feels heavy with the ghosts of the night before. The other boys had cleared out hours ago, leaving behind only a few empty soda cans and the lingering scent of Jaemin’s steak.

Y/N stood at the kitchen counter, her hands trembling as she tried to pour coffee. She hadn't slept; every time she closed her eyes, she felt the phantom pressure of Haechan’s fingers and heard that jagged, dark whisper in her ear. She was wearing an oversized hoodie, trying to hide within the fabric, her hair pulled into a messy knot.

She heard the floorboards creak. Her heart didn't just speed up; it slammed against her ribs.

Haechan didn't announce himself with a joke or a loud greeting. He drifted into the kitchen with a slow, predatory grace. He was wearing a black sweatpants and nothing else, his lean torso exposed, his tan skin glowing in the morning light. He didn't look at the coffee pot. He didn't look at the window. He looked only at her.

He moved toward her with an agonizingly slow pace. It wasn't the bratty Haechan who was approaching; it was the man from the dark living room. He narrowed the distance until he was standing just a foot away, his warmth radiating off him in waves.

Y/N straightened her back, desperate to reclaim some shred of her dignity. She gripped the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.

"Don't," she said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat, trying to sound stern, trying to be the Y/N who could shut him down with a single insult. "Don't even start, Haechan. What happened last night... it was a mistake. You took advantage of the situation because everyone was there and I couldn't—"

She stopped when he took another step, invading her personal space until the tips of his toes brushed hers. He didn't say a word. He just stood there, his heavy-lidded eyes tracing the lines of her face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.

"You're a prick, you know that?" she tried again, her voice wavering. She looked up at him, trying to glare, trying to find the words to ruin him. "You think you're so smooth, but you're just... you're just irritating. You’re lucky I didn’t scream and have Jeno toss you out the window."

Haechan remained silent. He didn't defend himself. He didn't laugh. He slowly reached out, his long, slender fingers tracing the edge of the counter behind her, effectively boxing her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, and his gaze dropped. He stared at her eyes for a long, suffocating beat, and then he slowly, deliberately, fixed his gaze on her lips.

Y/N felt her breath hitch. She wanted to run. She wanted to push him away. But her feet were rooted to the floor, her body betraying her with a surge of heat that made her dizzy.

"You talk so much, Y/N," Haechan finally whispered, his voice a deep, vibrating rasp that seemed to echo in her very bones. "But your body tells a completely different story. You didn't seem to think I was 'irritating' when you were coming on my hand in the dark."

His eyes snapped back up to hers, dark and raw. "So, go ahead. Do something. Push me. Hit me. Tell me you hated it." He leaned in closer, his nose brushing hers. "Or finally admit that you've been wanting me to do that since the day we met."

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N fell silent, her mouth dry, her heart beating so violently she was sure he could feel it through the air between them. She looked into his alluringly heavy-lidded eyes and realized she had no more insults left. The savage armor had completely shattered.

Haechan didn't wait for her to find her voice. He moved in, his hand sliding from the counter to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose hairs at her nape. He tilted his head and crashed his lips against hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision—an outpouring of weeks of repressed tension and hidden glances. It was hungry and desperate. Y/N let out a muffled moan against his mouth, her hands flying up to grip his bare shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin. Y/N is not sure what she is doing, but she feels that she wanted this. That she wanted him.

He tasted like coffee and something uniquely him—warm, musky, and addictive. He backed her up against the counter, his body pressing firmly into hers, letting her feel the hard, unmistakable evidence of his desire against her thigh. He kissed her like he wanted to consume her, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythmic, possessive dance that sent Y/N’s head spinning.

She was lost. The kitchen, the rent, the friends—none of it mattered. There was only the heat of his skin, the pressure of his mouth, and the devastating realization that her annoying roommate was the only thing she wanted.

The air in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on, charged with the electric friction of their bodies colliding. The initial kiss had been a dam breaking, but as Haechan deepened it, his tongue sweeping against hers with a territorial hunger, the last of their restraint evaporated.

He groaned into her mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through Y/N’s chest. His hands, usually so steady on a keyboard or a controller, were frantic now. He gripped the hem of her oversized hoodie and yanked it upward. Y/N lifted her arms blindly, letting him toss the garment onto the floor. She was left in just her bra, her skin prickling as the cool kitchen air hit her, followed immediately by the scorching heat of Haechan’s gaze.

He didn't wait. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of her collarbone before traveling lower. He unhooked the front clasp of her bra with a practiced, impatient flick of his long fingers. As the fabric fell away, he let out a jagged breath, his eyes darkening as they fixed on her. He leaned in, his warm mouth engulfing one breast, his tongue swirling around the peak before he began to suckle deeply.

Y/N let out a high, broken sob, her head thumping back against the upper cabinets. The sensation was sharp and agonizingly good, his teeth grazing her skin just enough to make her toes curl. His hand moved to her other breast, kneading the soft tissue with a possessive, rhythmic squeeze that matched the pull of his mouth.

"Hyuck," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his messy hair, pulling him closer.

He pulled away just long enough to look up at her, his lips glistening, his expression raw and completely stripped of his usual sarcasm. "I've been losing my mind for weeks," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. "Fuck.. I’ve been Thinking about this. Thinking about you."

He didn't give her time to respond. He reached down, unzipping her jeans and peeling them over her hips along with her lace panties. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his lean waist as he settled her onto the edge of the granite counter.

He knelt between her thighs, his eyes never leaving hers as he pried her legs wider. He leaned in, his breath hot against her inner thigh, before his tongue finally made contact with her.

Y/N’s hands flew to the counter, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge. He was methodical, his tongue flicking and swirling against her clit with a focus that was terrifyingly effective. He used his fingers to stretch her open, his thumb working in tandem with his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming—the cold stone under her thighs and the molten heat of his mouth. She watched his head move between her legs, the dark strands of his hair messy against her pale skin, until the tension in her gut snapped. She came with a violent shudder, her heels digging into his back as she cried out his name into the empty apartment.

He didn't let her come down.

Haechan stood up, his face flushed and his eyes wild. He kicked his grey sweatpants down, revealing himself—fully hard, pulsing, and desperate. He didn't move to the bedroom; he couldn't wait that long.

He pulled her off the counter and down onto the floor, the hard wood a stark contrast to the heat of their skin. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his fingers interlocking with hers in a crushing grip. He moved over her, his lean, lithe body pressing her into the floor in a brutal mating press. He pushed her knees up toward her chest, folding her small frame until she was completely open, completely vulnerable under him.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

When she met his gaze, he drove into her in one deep, unyielding thrust. Y/N’s breath left her in a sharp gasp, her internal muscles clenching around him. He was thick and uncomfortably large for his lean frame, filling her so completely it felt like he was reaching her very center.

He began to move—not with the slow rhythm from before, but with a frantic, possessive urgency. Every thrust was deep, his hips slamming against hers with a dull thud that echoed in the quiet kitchen. He was relentless, his chest heaving as he stared down at her, watching every flicker of pleasure on her face.

"You're mine," he muttered, the words sounding less like a flirtation and more like a vow. "Do you hear me? Only mine.."

He increased the pace, his body vibrating with the effort to hold back. Y/N was a mess of sensations—the friction of his skin, the weight of his body pinning her down, and the overwhelming feeling of him stretching her further than she thought possible. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their sweat-slicked chests were glued together.

The end came suddenly. The sensation was fucking delicious, Y/N was so tight for him. He could!nt take it anymore.. Haechan’s breath hitched, a strangled sound leaving his throat as his back arched. He drove into her one last time, pinning her to the floor with the full weight of his body as he came, a deep, hot release that filled her to the brim. He stayed there, buried deep inside her, his forehead resting against hers as they both gasped for air, their hearts beating in a frantic, synchronized rhythm against the cold kitchen floor.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, a dark, satisfied smirk finally returning to his face. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her swollen lips.

"So," he whispered, his voice returning to that low, seductive hum. "About those dishes... do you still want me to do them, or should we go to the bedroom and try a different position?"

Y/N couldn't even find the energy to roll her eyes. She just pulled him back down for another kiss.

I guess no one’s sleeping tonight.

the truth is that between the four of them, they don't put together a functional neuron, and they're pretty okay with you assaulting their fridge every weekday…, so you guess you're okay with it.

“don't mind me. i ran out of eggs for a omelet, i promise to do groceries tomorrow…” your words die little by little when you find everything but eggs, “uh... why are there underwear in the fridge?”

a spoiled blond boy comes jogging up to you in a bathrobe that reveals more than is necessary. jisung giggles nervously as his hands rush to close the opening of the only piece of clothes he's got a friday night, taking the garment from your hands, “those would be mine.”

“why...?” you start asking before you think of better questions, such as how could they live in this pigsty? looking at the mini football table used as a pile of dirty laundry.

“well, it's cold outside, and i don't have a dryer, of course...” his eyes widens and sparkle as an idea runs through his mind, “can i use your hair dryer? pretty please.” you stare at his hands joined in prayer, and his eyes large and bright.

“sure…” he grins and mutters a victory while you keep thinking you’re hundred percent sure he can afford a washing machine with dryer. “so you've been washing this by hand?” you’re also sure he hasn’t thought of that one yet.

“no. i wash them in the shower,” he answers, obviously.

that'd explain why he's in a bathrobe.

a smug eyebrow shoots upwards and you hold back a silly smile. “with you?” you watch him nod and your grin falter, “why don't you use the tub? that way you can wash all of them at the same time.”

he squints, “i hadn't thought about that one. yn, you're a genius.”

his skin is cold and soft and his hair tickles your cheek when he hugs you fleetingly. “honey, i meant that you don't have to bathe with them…”

jisung ignores your words as he thanks you greenly before you can even think why no one has told him that til now… then you remember a couple of similar scenarios perpetrated by his roommates, and why it makes sense they didn't.

your eyes sweep the room, noticing that something is missing. there's jisung who finds himself in a bathrobe at ten o'clock at night, mark the illicit racer who nibbles on his nails and seems on the verge of an anxious collapse. and there's jaemin the part time bartender at your favorite café, reading the newspaper.

“where's haechan?” you ask, suddenly dead curious.

jisung glances at the living room as if he barely notices that the characteristic silly boy is missing. “oh, he's not here.”

“no way, sherlock,” mark mumbles under his breath, moving to another position on the couch.

jaemin gives him a sidelong glance causing mark to shrug unapologetically, before he closes the newspaper like an old soul and answers you, “tutoring a girl from our law class.”

you see, the irony is exquisite but the word conceals another implicit meaning of which you're aware.

but more important, it leads you to realize something deep and uncertain.

“d'you mean he's…?”

“if it's anything to do it, i think she's way out of his league,” jisung compensates, putting on the underwear underneath his robe. “i don't think he'll make it to third base.”

“i don't think he'll make it to first base,” mark replies.

despite their attempts to counter that he's probably quite sunk in a girl's throat right now, you still can't believe it. pronouncing it is not so easy to digest either.

“guys, don't be mean. he's got game!” given the honey-eyed boy's antics, you very much doubted it was true. only, until now, you hadn't noticed it.

“he's with ryunjin,” mark points out.

“yeah, he's not gonna make it,” you conclude.

of course haechan is a heartthrob. you always expect to find him in some empty classroom making out with someone, or walk into his room to find him smoking a joint. he tutors girls because marijuana and alcohol haven't been able to fry the last neurons in his brain so then he can get money for weed. to even think he also does it to have an excuse to go to their apartment and get laid makes you… uneasy.

of all things, it was a fact that haechan was partly hot and partly idiotic.

“are you okay?” jisung asks you, carefully.

you remove the palm from your forehead, almost lost, “so does this means…?” three pairs of eyes look at you bathed in different emotions expectantly just as you wet your lips to pronounce, “haechan's not gay?”

just as if he had been summoned by telepathy, the fourth member of a three-room apartment appears through the front door, and consequently, all of you hold your breath in expectation.

haechan sports his dark straight hair parted in half that forms two commas on his face. his olive skin highlights his features and makes him look very, very attractive. but of course, what he has of handsome he has of asshorse.

“gay? who's gay?” haechan sweeps his eyes over your frozen faces in complete confusion until he bursts into laughter and his cheeks take on a warm color. “see? i told you not to wear those silly clothes, jaemin.”

the boy allows him to pat his shoulders while he smiles smugly. he's also sporting his best cologne and has put on one of his fluffy jackets; and until recently you now know that he's done all of that to see a girl.

jaemin stares into the void until the sunny boy moves to another place of interest: the fridge. his eyes beams as if it contains stars waiting to find something in it, then everything goes out. even his smile fades away.

mark shifts in the chair and looks at haechan staring inside, “uh, where's my pot?” his hands rummage the few things in the fridge in search of it, almost incredulous.

“i threw it away.” four pairs of eyes go to jaemin, who remains oddly calm.

“you mean you flushed it away,” jisung corrects, holding up a finger.

haechan's face freezes into an indescribable grimace and then you realize the reason behind mark's chaotic behavior: he’s in drug abstention.

“what do you mean you flushed it away?” you wonder.

“down the toilet.” haechan makes a muffled sound.

even though you're close to him, you barely manage to decipher the low and strangled noise he makes next. “come again, darling?” you ask, rubbing his back.

his lips move closer to your ear as the others watch the scene. letting out a heavy sigh, you reluctantly say, “haechan says he won't speak to you anymore. that... you shouldn't have done that... that..., that was eighty dollars worth of weed, h-how dare you, huh?” you repeat out loud on the go.

“new house policy.”

“what does that even mean?”

“no parties on weekdays. no girls...”

“GIRLS?” jisung makes a mockery of fainting.

“in plural, you're good,” mark explains, biting his nails.

“and no weed.” until that last, haechan had handled the situation calmly, though you were beginning to believe that he was in denial.

“how did you manage to flush eighty dollars worth of weed down the toilet?” you say after haechan's whispering.

“he put in on a blender,” mark explains.

haechan's eyes fill with indignation. “you make smoothies in a blender! juices! cocktails!”

“chocolate milk,” jisung adds all of a sudden.

you witness the rift forming on both sides. the palpable tension mixing with the smell of illicit substances in the apartment.

it makes you want to do something, certainly. although you couldn't deny that despite wanting the "girl from the island" to vanish, you still found this somewhat excitingly hot. you could just intervene, make them reconcile, calm the waters; you...

you just wanted eggs for your omelet.

when the silence settled after heated words were exchanged between both parts —and jisung, you announce your farewell.

“wait, you're leaving?”

suddenly, everyone is aware that you are a little overdressed just to cook some omelets a friday night…, which you're not.

“nice skirt.” jisung's eyes form two crescents as they run down your legs before haechan hits him in the back of the head, causing the blond to murmur an apology with a laugh.

“got plans?” he’s the one who asks with wonder, eyes glued to you as you nod and send him a wink you’re sure he gets it.

“the ring.”

haechan chuckles shortly, stretching the right corner of his lip up in a haughty grimace. “how do you know about the ring, bumble bee?”

“chaeyoung introduced me to it,” you say proudly.

haechan's features soften when you smile. “does she know that you sleep with stuffed animals?”

“haechan!” your mouth opens in awe, watching others pretend they haven't listened. “they're not... they are collectibles!”

he clicks his tongue, rubbing the place you hit him. “you're not meant for the ring.”

“i am so meant for the ring.”

it was customary for students to gather at one point, isolated and confined from the city to carry out certain illicit activities. illegal races, drugs, and others were common in these meetings where their whereabouts were usually said minutes before they started.

“you're too sweet,” he replies in a remark, and your jaw almost hit the floor.

well, it was partially true that the meetings bordered on the deathly side, but you come from a small island where the only dangerous thing is to get hit by a bicycle; someone forgive you for wanting to taste a little adrenaline for the sake of your soothing young soul.

the others watch you argue heavily and somewhere in between, jisung scratches his head.

“i'm pretty sure they're talking in code,” jisung refers to the others, with narrowed eyes. “maybe some jewel or jeweler.”

jaemin pats his shoulder and comes in the second you and haechan stop murmuring at hearing what the blond just said. “well, fare you well. goodbye!”

you stop jaemin from pushing you to the exit to look at jisung with amusement. “wait, they haven't taken you?”

surprising? no.

the euphoria and danger of the moment blended together like a psychedelic cocktail. the guest list was a bit narrow and confidential, in case of informants. some students skipped the challenge of going while others were totally oblivious that things like that existed.

“to the ring?” jisung tries, opening his crescent eyes.

jaemin makes a gesture behind him to stop you from revealing anything else as haechan reaches out to him, in tenderly affection.

“you're still a baby.”

“i'm twenty three, though,” he chuckles. “wait, you guys knew about the ring?” he wonders, emphasizing the name funnily.

“yeah. maybe. no, not really...” the boys say one after the other.

“then, good news!” you say next, excited.

“she'll buy us groceries tomorrow,” jisung interrupts you, smiling smugly even though he has a fortune greater than yours.

haechan's eyes gleamed with emotion, hands grabbing yours as he puts the best performance in his galore “would you buy us some food?”

“of course, yeah. i meant another good news,” you correct, dancing your eyebrows to jisung. “the ring, tonight. there will be a lot of fun,” you mention, slowly, eyes darting to haechan in confidentiality; then he looks at you, totally oblivious.

“i'm not in the mood tonight, jaemin threw away my medicinal herbs.”

jaemin rolls his eyes, “yeah, me and jisung pass too.”

“do we?” the younger looks at him clueless.

you look at jaemin, dumbfounded. “what, why? sometimes no one gets shot.”

jaemin narrows his eyes and approaches you as if you were his new sworn enemy. “there will be drugs, baby.”

“okay, let's get going!” haechan shouts and you stifle a belated laugh.

he starts pushing you toward the door, suddenly changing his mind and looking strangely excited, just as mark has a surge of energy from the couch.

“can i come with you?”

“sure,” you downplay its importance. “everyone can come.”

“are your girlfriends coming?” jisung asks, very excited.

“they are,” you say, tapping his shoulder playfully. “so? i drive,” you ask the rest, watching mark's eyebrows come together.

the boy sweeps the room, counting the heads, and as far as you can see, his math doesn't add up. “we'd be too much for your car, wouldn't we?”

“don't you worry about it.” you and haechan share glances; although his seems a little hesitant.

forty-three minutes later, you find yourself on the dimly lit street of your residential complex. the sky is dark and devoid of moon and stars, while small snowflakes begin to levitate in the air. it is june and it has starts to snow in the city, where five friends warm up each other in the freezing night.

“i present to you: my ride.”

mists come from your lips in the cool night, and your cold-flushed fingers point at your parents' best gift that they lent you for college a week ago.

“is it... behind that ugly van?” jisung wonders, burying his hands in his jean jacket; cheeks tinted with a pink color due to the cold.

haechan hides his high-pitched laugh behind a fake cough and you roll your eyes. “that is my ride. say hello to gertrude,” you announce, unlocking the bodywork, “she's the best on the block. she has speakers, gps, lights, a sunroof, and... sliding doors!” you say, effusive. your eyes glance expectantly at the boys, sharing looks with each other. “okay, never mind. have fun walking to the party.”

“oh, my god! a van! dang!” they exclaim, voices layering on top of each other as they slowly approach the van.

“at least pretty girls are coming with us,” jisung mutters reluctantly as he enters the back seat.

“chaeyoung and liz?” you wonder through the rearview mirror. “of course! they're already there, my friend.”

you see the reaction to your words live when he slides nostalgicly into the seat until he rests his head on the backrest, just as you shout with crescent excitement, “seat belts on, kids.”

 ʚïɞ

as you make your way through the bodies in the vibrant gloom of fishing port outside of the city, haechan stands in the other corner of the party, shuffling a deck of cards in the company of several people around him.

his fingers are snappy, teeth catching his lower lip in concentration while he and mark exchange some words before the game begins and the bets start to come in. you're still amazed at his skill with his hands, passing the cards from one to the other while shuffles them that you don't realize when you bump into your friends.

“what?!” liz yells in your direction when she sees you approaching, too busy by the way, making out with her boyfriend.

“i didn't say anything!”

“oh.”

her fingers points behind you to the drink chaeyoung offers you when she arrives. “you made it!” they both start jumping around you in celebration.

“yeah. why wouldn't i?” you ask, slightly curious. the blonde and the brunette share a look that reveals a lot of the message. “oh, my god. why does everyone hate my van all of a sudden? it has taken us to our destination on numerous occasions.”

“i'm just saying you've been saving lately, you could just buy yourself a car.”

“but she's special to me!”

it was… moderately true. but you were hoping to spend your savings on something worthwhile. besides, what's wrong with it? it may be a prehistoric old lady, with dents, and worn paint, but it had been a gift from your parents... after they got a pickup truck recently.

preserving it meant holding onto that piece of home you were homesick for. every scratch, every sticker, every worn seat held a story of adventures. selling it felt like letting go of a part of yourself, a tether to your past that you weren't ready to let go.

“as long as it rolls,” liz tags your side playfully.

you toast clinking your beer with hers and drinking it in one gulp, almost choking with it when you spot something in the crowd, “oh, my god. there he is again.”

“mmm?” chaeyong says, looking everywhere, “who?” she watches you cover your face as your eyes travel to the figure of the boy on the other side of the party.

“jeno?” liz inquires unexpectedly, miraculously separating from her boyfriend.

“he's one of the racers.” chaeyoung stim.

“well, he won't stop staring at me, he's like obsessed,” you mention.

you and chaeyoung remove your sunglasses and peek a glance at the boy with his back turned having a pleasant conversation with a girl before he senses your eyes across the room and looks over his shoulder; he stares back at you with a mixture of emotions that don't convey anything pleasant.

“yeah... obsessed. not at all that he hates you,” chaeyoung mocks.

you chuckle, “i swear!”

“perhaps you should stop hooking up with guys and ghost them afterward,” she says nonchalantly as she stares at jeno longer, “or... maybe when you go on dates, avoid bringing up the dick of your friend like he's some sort of your impossible love.”

you're too stunned to speak, “what- i don't do that— first of all, haechan's not a dick. second of all, i have a bad memory, unfortunately. and i think you’re lying.”

“i’m not.”

you cross your arms, smugly and one hundred percent sure, “give me an example then.”

“the ghosting thing or the second? cause i can think of some. eric,” she pronounces, “shotaro, jaehyun, let's not forget about jaehyun. mingi...”

“okay, i got your point.” reluctantly, “but that doesn’t explain why he hates me.”

“you threw your beer on him the other day,” liz answers, taking a break from french kissing her boyfriend in a public space.

“but why i don’t remember?”

“you were wasted as fuck.”

“well, accidents happen…” you trail off.

“you took his after.”

oh.

“i'll go get us more beer,” chaeyoung laughs, giving liz an eye, “just for us,” she adds, looking away after seeing her and chenle tongue-kissing.

as chaeyoung leaves you alone to fetch drinks, you wander aimlessly through the crowd, surrounded by swirling lights. the bubbling beer encourages you to join the swaying of bodies, carried away by the euphoria and debauchery of the night that slip from your memories, like hazy reminiscences.

a guy makes his way towards you smiling like a charm, before your eyes register his face drain of color and disappear the way he came. “what the fuck?” you breathe, running your tongue through your teeth just to make sure you didn't have a piece of broccoli stuck between them. but it turns out that, to your relief, it had nothing to do with you and more of this lurking sensation behind your back only to find jeno making his way to you.

alcohol evaporates from your system with a snap of your fingers as you unconsciously remember the suspicion that he hates you from your friend, so you flee to the golden boy's shelter.

haechan's eyes fill with pure amusement when he sees you arrive laughing where he's with mark and jisung; very high. very exaggerated. “hae, you're so funny.”

“haven't said anything, gorgeous,” he chuckles in awe.

you laugh more, wiping away a tear. “may i?” you point to his lap and sit down simultaneously when he agrees.

his tongue pokes his cheek where stars form an uneven triangle as you wrap your arms around his neck, getting closer. “what?” you inquire nervously under his gaze.

he hums casually, denying.

he has a cigar tucked behind his ear that he proceeds to hold between his fingers. “fire,” he says in jisung's direction, where the boy very promptly hurries to take out the lighter.

your fingers grasp the cold object when mark lights his doobie and hands it to you, igniting the flame for him.

haechan takes the cigarette between his lips and comes closer to the fire, the hot light bathing his golden features. some strands of his hair burst into melted honey as he takes a deep puff before his hand lands on your bare back in an unmeditated gesture, blowing the smoke out into the starless sky when he leans back.

you take the opportunity to take a look around, hoping jeno is enjoying the show. nervousness and butterflies start to blossom in your gut when he's nowhere to be found just as haechan leans dangerously towards you and you're able to smell the essence of weed when his lips go to your ear. “you're moving too much, sweetheart.”

he moves away from you to scan you, and you can't figure out why you're out of breath so suddenly for the dimensioning. “are you drunk?” he asks suddenly.

“i can't sit on your lap like good buddies?” you ask, punching his arm slightly, but he's very unfazed.

“buddies,” he repeats, thinking out loud as his lips take another puff. “yeah, we're buddies. and you're basically chasing away my chances to hook up tonight.”

you roll your eyes, “should i get off...?”

“no need,” he cuts you off.

you've known haechan for as long as you can remember. he's been your firsts times of everything. he's your best friend. although sometimes it feels like something more*.* and feeling special is the same as feeling stupid, because for haechan, acting like this, means nothing.

he likes to exist in the middle of the lines.

he moves and everything suddenly glows around him, in his path. it's impossible not to stare at him. it's easy for him as well; he's good-looking, he's delicate and relaxed. he's open and kind. he lets everyone in, but no one stays.

you're a bad friend, aren't you? thinking of him romantically. doing it when you know now that he has never been interested in you in that way but now with the newfound knowledge of why; it's hard to act like before when you know he's surprisingly attracted to girls, and he's never flirted with you even though he does it the way he breathes.

“is he already jealous?”

your eyes shoot out at haechan, staring at you with suspicion and victory as he hits the nail on the head easily, referring to your intense attention to your surroundings in case you see jeno on your radar. “what- don't be silly.” you try to lighten the mood and downplay it, but it doesn't work much.

his fingers come close to your ear, and bring up a 100 bill that he surely won gambling, or betting, or solving tests for other people, as if saying 'i don't buy it, but good try' “are you using me, sweetheart?”

fighting against it it's not worth it; what is handsome about him is that he's also clever.

“maybe. can i borrow your attention from the girls for a sec?

an untamed emotion washes over his features, as you feel him fix underneath your weight, pelvis pressing fleetingly into you. the sudden perception of his crotch poking your dressed ass leaves you flustered and fuzzy; you must put all your willpower into thinking the distracted motion was just you imagining differently than it was.

but when your eyes fall on him, you see him blush.

he looks hauntingly beautiful under the influence of alcohol. the lights reflect off his tanned skin, and he glows. dark eyes that melt like chocolate when the light hits the metal chains around his neck, honeycomb hair messy revealing his forehead and his eyebrows, moving slightly.

“all yours.”

smiling back is unavoidable. he's magnetic. he makes time go slowly. he's effortlessly handsome and alluring, an untamed wild aura envelops his moves when he looks away and strips you of his attention, leaving you stranding in the dark because he has that effect on people.

he has that effect on you.

he clears his throat at one point catching your attention from the black-haired boy striking up a conversation with chaeyoung at the other end of the cargo box. your eyes go down to him as you feel him tense beneath you. “too heavy?” you want to know, stung by curiosity.

“you're perfect.” he lets out a light laugh when you tap him gently, rolling your eyes. “but if you want to get him jealous, you might have to do something more risky than just sit on a guy's lap.”

your eyes open slightly, apprehensive, “like, what?”

he grins, “lap dancing.”

you see him burst out laughing under the effects of the pot, enhancing his mirth when he senses your distress.

your cheeks and neck burn from the comment said so lightly, throwing you off. “you're a dick.” you hit him, huffing.

but after seconds go by, you think about it seriously, “maybe i should.”

haechan coughs the smoke out of his lungs, caught in surprise by your answer. you see him choking wildly before he returns back to normal. your attentive eyes look at him, prompted. has he been flushed by what you've said?

“come here.” you're drawn to him without a warning. breaths mingling in the narrow space when haechan pulls you close, really close and your hair cascades down, covering your faces as he pretends to kiss you.

he smells like a wild mixture of weed and booze. the scents fill your receptors and clutter up your thoughts, getting you drunk and lightheaded. his warm hand plays with your neck while he smiles and you are too dumbfounded to get out of the trance you’re in because only a few centimeters are missing from your mouths touching.

“so who's he?” he wants to know, completely forgetting that he's only inches away from your face.

“you don't know him,” you say, gulping. is it just you?

haechan scoffs, and his licorice rum breath hits your lips, “i'll decide that.”

you turn away from him under his contemplating eyes, resisting the urge to bite your lip; haechan's eyes drop when you evidently end up doing so, pondering. “uh... jeno?”

“jeno,” he repeats as if he's convincing himself that you've actually said that name. as if he's entranced by the way you wet your lips.

“d'you know him?”

he hums.

“is he...?” **words don't come to you. is he dangerous? should you be careful with him? suddenly you want to know his opinion on the subject. suddenly you wish he'd keep his hand on your back a little longer.

“single?” he pronounces, “i don't give a fuck about that information, sweetheart. i suggest you look elsewhere.” his words hit you like a bucket of cold water and you find yourself hindered by such a drastic change of attitude. “starting with all the girls he takes to bed in one night.” from so close, you wish he couldn't see your expression shifting under his words. his lips are heart-shaped but nothing sweet comes out of them. because even though he's being cruel, you don't want him to notice it. you don't want him to know that he's hurt you.

“i wonder if they're the same ones you take to bed.”

he scoffs, “do your do.”

you step back a little to get a better look at the attitude he's taken so suddenly. “what does that even mean, haechan?”

“i need more of this...” he completely ignores your rhetoric and gets up from the chair with you, still on his lap. the movement causes you to stumble before the grip on your back becomes harder, preventing you from falling.

haechan gently taps your chin, overlooking your features contracting into a hurt grimace. the mere notion of him not finding you attractive enough hit you like a truck. 'cause only until tonight you had taken his disinterestedness as something else.

“you think he won't hook up with me.” words gush out of you with venom, drawing his attention.

“i just don't think you'd dare.”

“i've got game,” you point out.

“all losers, by the way. c'mon, pretty. you're not meant to be a one-night stand.”

the comment comes out of him so easily that it doesn't seem to be loaded with the most corrosive toxin that destroys your insides. the feeling of betrayal takes your breath away, and the fact that he was the one who uttered those words hurts like hell. “it's not like you're the god of sex either.”

haechan's eyes turn to you. “you want proof of that?”

“sure!”

“want me to show you, sweetheart?”

“i'd love that!”

he shrugs. “then do. your. do. if you dare.”

“fine!”

“fine!”

“hi!” a hand grabs haechan by the shoulder and spins him around; a girl with long, honey-colored hair smiles openly with extreme excitement under both of your confused stares. she's visibly lightweight by the way she holds her beer and the words come out slow and elongated. “minyeon? from earlier?” she tries to make him remember her even though it doesn't work much.

“you must've mistaken me for someone else,” he says in a tactless manner.

she tilts her head, “haechan, right?” followed by a nervous silence.

sometimes you forget how easy it is for haechan to straight up lie in people's faces to get away with it just the same way he hooks up and forget it the next minute. “i'll leave you two to catch up,” you say, deciding not to see how he gets rid of that one.

 ʚïɞ

haechan finds himself freezing his butt off while watching the brunette stoner of his friend smoke. he starts considering keeping him company or just leaving him while he finds a girl (or a couple of them) to hook up with, if not for the fact that he doesn't want to do either. it irks him not to be able to label that annoying emotion he feels at this moment.

“could you stop that fucking noise?” mark wonders, annoyed.

“what noise?”

“the whining.”

“i am not whining, i'm just breathing.”

“every time you breathe a noise follows,” mark retorts, taking a long hit before the race. “you're so punchable right now.”

haechan wants to strangle him. he could be stoned out of his mind too, except that he is so sober that it makes him angry. it makes him aware.

his eyes travel to the spot he's been staring at all night, to find you talking animatedly with jeno; the snort comes out of him without him noticing it when you laugh and lean closer to the boy, and mark whines.

“he seriously can't be funnier than me,” haechan remarks. “she's clearly flirting with him.”

“wanna know my take on this matter?” mark's tired voice catches haechan's attention for a few seconds. “i think you're mad because you can't tell jeno not to date yn the same way you did with us.”

“did i ask your opinion? no, i didn't... —and i did not do that. i couldn't fucking care less who she's dating.”

mark rolls his eyes, “then stop staring at her.”

“i. can't.”

does he really care much who you date? certainly not, given the dating history you've had; it hasn't affected him at all to see you hanging out with guys instead of him. to see you saving them the seat next to you at the café you frequent all the time, wearing their clothes.

above all, he doesn't imagine you kissing them, or laughing louder at their jokes, or their hands on your body, on the curve of your waist, your full legs, back, arms, face, stomach...

“oh, my god! dude. you're so jealous.”

haechan peels his eyes off you with his irises flaming to look at mark. his neck burns and he can't sit still feeling his whole insides blazing. “jealous?” he huffs, “i'm just bugged.”

“explain again why, i didn't catch the first one.”

“because she's...”

“forget it, i don't care.” haechan is cut by mark, and to his anger, he finds it soothing. luckily, the boy doesn't pay attention to the breath haechan lets out because he finds himself looking quite carefully at a single point in the crowd, where the same girl from before seems out of place.

mark doesn't even hesitate to go to her, leaving haechan alone with his mind, soon becoming a mess as he tries to articulate what he feels, struggling to make sense of why it infuriates him so much that you're talking to jeno, that you're smiling, that you let him hold you by the waist, that you allow him to lead you to a quieter, more intimate place. while he grapples with the conclusion of why you don't do all these things with him.

because you're his best friend.

you're his.

a girl surprises him by clinging to his neck without warning, and in another moment he would play along, but now he's quite upset and doesn't even find her attractive. “not now, ryu,” he mutters without sparing a glance at her, too busy with you.

mind too occupied to be distracted by her, too occupied thinking of you.

through the natural flow of events, a couple of beers, and your mind full of a hazy sensation, you may have made hasty decisions.

“you're so hot,” jeno whispers against your lips, breathing heavily.

his lips are deft. kisses tasting like beer and cigarettes. he moves his mouth over yours with the utmost delicacy and fierceness; his hands holding your face as his tongue fiddles before clashing with yours.

“i knew it!”

his hands gently encircle your waist.

“should we move this somewhere else?”

he doesn't stop for you to answer. between kisses, you say, “your place?”

jeno detaches himself from you with an amused look, “i race in a bit,” he points out, with an airy laugh. his eyes scan the place: leaning your body against a metal box on the outskirts of the party, with the smell of the dock coming towards you. the sky is starless, and apart from you, there is not a soul around. and yet, he seeks. “where's your car?”

“m-my car?” you repeat, pulling away to look him in the eye. he hums, staring at your lips, and because of that, you utter, “this way.”

your van is parked far away from the vibrant pulse of the party. the journey seems eternal. it's quiet. jeno lets you lead the way as you hear his footsteps on the gravel behind you. you've exchanged words with him for the first time tonight, given the fact all your friends know him; everyone knows him; he's won a couple of times in races. he's popular and as far as you're aware, he keeps everything casual. no hard feelings. no commitment.

his kisses have left your own judgment in disarray, clouding your clarity, and now you begin to see the severity of your rushed decisions. you find yourself yearning for something you believe he might fulfill tonight; you're so needy for someone.

“this is it. this is my car.”

jeno stares at the van with wide-open eyes, and the motion makes his eyebrow piercing sparkle when he nods slowly, “nice ride.”

the pit in your stomach narrow, and just like that, with a puff, the fact that he said that makes it less scary. “right?!” oh, you seriously don't have survival instincts.

he nods, approaching you and pinning you against the car. the kisses deepen, growing more fervent and desperate with each passing breath. he lets you lead him as his hands grope the door.

“sliding doors?”

you visibly melt.

“aw.” you pepper kisses across his face while he lets you step inside.

you've kissed a bunch of guys. but jeno doesn't compare at all to haechan, nor to the tenderness in which your best friend first kissed you in the backseat of the van after regretting ditching you for the hottest girl in school. and while jeno reclines you against the seat, his touch tracing patterns along your sides, sending shivers down your spine, and fingers dancing across your skin, your mind involuntarily drifts back to the past, replaying the memory of his lips upon yours in an endless loop.

and thinking about him makes you hesitate. and you hate him for it. you hate that you can't decipher the reason behind how he treats you when no one's watching, how you steal glances at each other while the other pretends not to notice, why he looks at you longer than the rest? why do you want his lips to be kissing you and not jeno's? why do you want to replace the hands that travel under your skirt with a pair of known hands full of rings?

why, among all things, did you expect him to be your first time with a guy, 'cause then you'd know he'd be romantic, and sweet, caring, and gentle, and the way you always dreamed?

you hate him because you can't even spend 30 min without him out of your mind. it is so much devastating that even when you don't think about him, you think about him.

and it's quite unfair to jeno that you're weighing on him while he's kissing you. maybe you should focus. his hands. they travel to your thighs and your breath freezes in your throat. he's actually good with them. if you look closely, if you squint hard, it's almost romantic that you're going to lose your virginity in the same place you had your first kiss with haechan, right?

it's just that… you had dreamed of doing it in places that felt more familiar to you. your bedroom, with a good mattress, for example.

the belt digs into your lower back as his kisses escalates, and you think, well… fuck it.

the mere thought draws into your chest when jeno's kisses descend to your neck, and you think it would be easier to reject him like every other guy you met if he wasn't so delicate, if he wasn't kinder than the others.

the shrill sound of the sliding door opening without warning takes you by surprise. a squeal leaves your lips as you stare at the cut-out silhouette that appears in the night, slowly becoming less blurred and more like someone.

“there you are. the race is in 10.” the voice you know so well comments, leaning on the door and sticking his head inside the van.

basically, it's like seeing haechan, but his hair is darker and longer, and his tone of voice colder and fiery. donghyuck's eyes glint like elusive fireflies, a mysterious allure dancing in his gaze. he's calm, while haechan is relaxed. when he smiles, he seems to hold a thousand secrets he can whisper to you at midnight. he exists at night, while haechan exists in daylight, reminiscent of captivating sunlight.

“i'm busy,” jeno says, slowly.

“i don't care.” silence spreads in the air as you're frozen by the audacity he has to interrupt such a private moment without caring to apologize, the nonchalant way he projects while waiting for jeno to react.

the black-haired man catches your gaze, apologetically. “sorry, doll. duty calls.”

you stay straight in awe as jeno removes from you and step outside the van. the only light bulb pulling highlights from his messy blonde streaked hair, while your existence is totally ignored as they exchange some words before he begins to walk away as if the last few minutes hadn't passed, leaving you alone with donghyuck.

“well, thanks for that.” you say venomously, stepping out of the car and looking him in the eye to notice that he finds the situation amusing.

“what can he do in 10 minutes, sweetpea?”

besides that stupid nickname, your cheeks warm up from his comment. “what can you do in 10 minutes?”

“you’d be surprised.”

“not really…”

the words crowd and fade on your tongue when donghyuck comes close to you, and you can smell the musk of his cologne when he closes the back door of the van. his eyebrows come together and he gives you a suspicious look very similar to your best friend's, scanning your face, “are you drunk, by any chance?”

he watches you roll your eyes. “why?”

donghyuck shrugs with nonchalant air, “you're not oversharing.”

“i don't overshare.” you fold your arms. “and that's not what i meant. you literally chased my 10 minutes rendezvous away.”

“he's not right for you.”

you feel flushed until the feeling is replaced by the indignation gripping your chest, “because i'm not his type?”

donghyuck sweeps over your figure unashamedly after your statement as he hums thoughtfully. without being able to help it, your neck burns from the intensity of his gaze sparkling when he locks eyes with you, and you find that the reason you stare at him back is because he doesn't have haechan's moles. “you're everybody's type.”

there's a solitary star just above the corner of his mouth, burning under his cheek, tinged pink.

you're too stunned to react immediately when he walks away from you, unceremoniously. his hazy presence beginning to fade as he drifts away into the darkness, until the last second when he stops and looks over his shoulder. “you coming?” an invitation. donghyuck reaches into the pockets of his leather jacket to pull out a box of cigarettes and a lighter, the silvery object glows faintly, glimpsing a star engraved in it. he doesn't even offer you a cigarette when he lights one for himself, the smoke clearing into the long night, as he takes you back to the party without exchanging words. profile already showing a smug smirk because he somehow finding this amusing.

just as he found your bicycle accident annoyingly entertaining before treating you himself.

it was a terrible wound, you couldn't even look at it. and you were so scared of telling your parents that you didn't cry even though it hurt like a thousand hells. you like to think that only he knows about that scar, because only he has seen it. he was so good at keeping secrets, because he probably didn’t remember them.

night clears your head as you exhale deeply into the night.

“where are we going?”

the growing murmur of music beginning to keep you company with your footsteps on the gravel, him taking you to a different place than you came from. you stare at his impenetrable profile, “backstage.”

a little further away from the party in the cargo containers is a heavy cargo truck, where boys begin to take out fancy sport cars amid shouts and cheers. you watch minyeon happily talk to the boy who has stirred up your senses and walked away as if nothing had happened a couple of minutes ago, and all of a sudden you find yourself irritated because he's kissing her now. the same way he kissed you.

donghyuck takes your gesture of crossing your arms for something else, as he strips off his jacket and throws it tactlessly over your shoulders. “thanks...” you say, but tinged with another meaning. and he deciphers it when he answers; you’re not talking about the cold, but a second secret thing when he breathes, “any time.”

 ʚïɞ

some participants have moved the party to a sparsely populated café in the city downtown. you find yourself surrounded by papers strewn all over your table while your loaded coffee cup sits empty and not working in your system.

“what?!”

“liz! i still don't say anything!” you greet your friends.

“sorry! my ears' ringing! can't hear anything.” she sits at your table behind jisung. “moody,” she mumbles when jaemin comes like a busy bee with another round of coffee for everyone, gently bobbing his head.

“i'm sorry.” you take your head in your hands, “this test is killing me and i haven't had proper sleep.”

“yeah, tell me about it,” she huffs.

you two share knowing looks under jisung's confused stare.

for the past three nights, your roommate had gotten into the habit of sneak in guys in the night, and while that was fine within the community rules secretly agreed upon between you, chaeyoung and company were just too loud.

jisung takes interest in the impasse where liz and you look on together, “i haven't been able to sleep well since,” liz complains.

your mysterious friend's wanderings were none of your business until they messed with your study time.

you almost choke on coffee when you come up with an idea just as jaemin takes an unsupervised break at your table. “i can exchange rooms with you,” you propose to the boy, skipping the real details. “think about it, the air is breathable, it's tidy, it smells like roses, and- there is also a no drugs policy.”

liz sends you a look “there is? ah!” she exclaims rubbing her calve under the table and sending you a dangerous glare.

“please say yes. it'll only be for this week of exams.” the three of you watch jaemin ponder, 'til he moves to drink his coffee, and becomes aware of you. “beg your pardon?” the boy removes a pair of earphones with an attentive grimace.

“would you mind changing rooms with me?” you repeat, putting all your charisma into an attempt to sugarcoat the situation.

“sure, all yours!”

“now that you mention the room thing, i've always wondered why you don't just live with chenle and the rest of the bikers,” liz wonders, tapping her chin. “you get along well with them but you'd rather hang out with...” her eyes travel unexpectedly to the blond boy drinking his milkshake. “us,” she finishes.

liz's point interests you and jisung. “yeah... you're right...”

“rent's cheaper,” jaemin simply says, shrugging.

“but i pay the rent,” jisung quietly mentions, pointing at himself.

“exactly,” jaemin replies, making the boy laugh amused, and you can't help but stroke his hair because of a sudden overload of tenderness.

“do you want to hear my opinion on this matter?” liz says after a while. “i think she's fucking mark.”

the girl gives you a sassy look before leaning back from her chair and drinking her coffee, with the three of you staring at her in discredit.

 ʚïɞ

“you're sure you'll be okay?” mark asks you as he puts on his jacket.

there is no trace of jaemin, much less jisung. it's the weekend again and the apartment is in an eerie calm because haechan is not around. “i mean, partying is so overrated.”

“it is,” he agrees with a laugh, “it's halloween, though. are you sure you'll be alright not stealing kids' candies this year?”

you’ll be okay because the whole week has been halloween for you.

it’s been a while since you and haechan talked, although it seems like an eternity.

you were taking it as a clue to leave the subject in the past, but you couldn't, despite the attempts to convince yourself that everything was fine even when you haven't talk to him or meet him during breaks on campus, or on the way to the bathroom, even though he sleeps in the room next to yours. not a sign of him except when he arrives late at night trying to make the least noise although you can still hear the giggles of his companions every night.

you live in the same house and it seems as if walls go up every time you see each other. and he probably hasn't even noticed that you've stripped him of the thing you care the most.

the ghost of his cologne as he passes by you every night haunts you, and it was killing you slowly, whatever this indifference was.

to say that it didn't matter to you at all would be another one of your lies, but seeing that he didn't care at all began to get to you.

“i'll stay to study this time.”