Namjoon is an old friend from college—the kind who pops in and out of your life like seasons, but always feels like home when he’s around. He’s in town for a few days, texts you last-minute with, “come out tonight, I’ve got people you should meet.”

You almost say no. It’s been a long week, and you’re not in the mood for new faces. But it’s Namjoon, and you’ve missed him, so you drag yourself out anyway.

The little get-together isn’t what you expect. Not a packed bar, not a fancy dinner. Just a corner booth in a half-empty lounge, dim lighting and a low playlist in the background. Namjoon waves you over, grinning, introducing you one by one to the friends crammed into the booth with him.

And then there’s Yoongi.

He doesn’t smile when your eyes meet. He barely looks up from his glass. But when Namjoon says your name, Yoongi repeats it under his breath like he’s testing it out, then gives you the faintest nod.

You slide into the booth across from him. Conversation flows easily with the others—Jimin’s brightness, Taehyung’s chaos, Jin’s effortless banter—but every so often, you catch Yoongi’s eyes on you. Not in a way that feels rude. More like he’s quietly assessing you, deciding if you’re worth the effort.

It isn’t until someone makes a dumb joke—something dark and a little twisted—that you instinctively add a one-liner of your own. The table goes silent for half a beat, surprised. And then Yoongi huffs out a laugh. A real one, quick and sharp, before he shakes his head and mutters, “finally, someone with decent humor.”

That’s it. The thread is tied.

For the rest of the night, you find yourself leaning into his side comments, his dry observations. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands—and you volley it right back. The others notice, of course. Namjoon gives you a knowing look, like he planned this all along.

And by the end of the night, you and Yoongi are sharing a basket of fries across the table, comfortable in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all. When you leave, he doesn’t ask for your number. He just says, “you’ll be around again, right?” And somehow, you know you will.

After that first night, you figure it’s a one-off. You’ll catch Namjoon next time he’s in town, and Yoongi will stay in your memory as the guy with the sharp laugh and sharper humor.

Except—two days later, your phone buzzes.

A new group chat.

Namjoon: Squad expansion pack unlocked. Everybody say hi to [Y/N].

Taehyung: ooooh new friend

Jin: more people to roast me, great

Yoongi: …

Yoongi: who let her in here

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, smirking. You type back:

the bouncer at the booth last night liked me more than you, sorry.

And just like that, it’s on.

From then on, Yoongi isn’t just Namjoon’s friend—you start seeing him at every casual hang. Movie nights, random bar meet-ups, late-night drives when Taehyung insists everyone needs ice cream at 1 a.m. Somewhere in the shuffle, Yoongi stops feeling like “Namjoon’s brooding friend” and starts feeling like your favorite person to stand next to at parties.

You don’t notice it right away, but the others definitely do. The way you two end up sharing snacks. The way Yoongi actually texts back in the group chat if it’s you he’s answering. The way his humor sharpens whenever you’re around, like he’s performing for an audience of one.

It takes weeks before you realize: you’ve been texting Yoongi directly. No big moment, no “can I get your number”—just the natural bleed from group chat to late-night one-on-ones. Memes, song recs, dumb observations. A thread that winds tighter without either of you naming it.

And somehow, without noticing, Yoongi becomes the person you look for first when you walk into a room.

It doesn’t take long before you and Yoongi develop your own rhythm.

At first, it’s little things—dry commentary during group hangs, a quiet laugh shared while everyone else is too loud to notice. But soon, it becomes a whole thing. Inside jokes stitched together from throwaway comments, looks you can read without words.

Once, at a party, someone suggests a cheesy icebreaker game. You and Yoongi exchange a glance, already mocking it in your heads.

He leans closer, murmurs just for you:

“if I have to list two truths and a lie, I’m going with ‘I buried a body once’ as a truth.”

You snort into your drink, choking on laughter. When you wheeze out your own response—“make sure you don’t pick the basement, that one’s already mine”—Yoongi nearly spits out his beer.

Everyone else at the table just stares. Jungkook looks genuinely concerned. Jin mutters something about “what the hell is wrong with you two,” while Hoseok squints like he’s not sure if you’re kidding. You and Yoongi, meanwhile, are doubled over in the corner, entirely unbothered.

It becomes a pattern:

You’re the only one who laughs when Yoongi mutters his driest, darkest lines.

He’s the only one who notices when you deadpan something outrageous under your breath.

The others stop asking, eventually, because it’s your brand of humor—private, sharp-edged, and weirdly intimate.

In between the jokes, though, it’s softer things that stitch you together.

Falling asleep on his couch after a late-night hang, and waking to a blanket tossed over you.

Him sending you half-finished demos at 3 a.m., knowing you won’t judge.

You picking up takeout when you know he hasn’t eaten all day.

You become constants in each other’s lives—reliable without ever saying you would be. And maybe that’s why no one teases you about it; because for all the dark humor and the sharp laughs, everyone can see the gentleness underneath.

Of course, you don’t call it that. Neither of you do. It’s just friendship. Comfortable. Easy. Unshakable.

At least, until it isn’t.

It happens on a Saturday night, the kind of night that’s quietly become yours.

Most weekends end this way—takeout boxes on Yoongi’s coffee table, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background, you two tucked into opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter; the routine is what matters.

So when you casually say, “I can’t do next weekend—I think I’ve been asked on a date,” you don’t even look up from your carton of noodles. It’s offhand, thoughtless, like mentioning the weather.

But Yoongi hears it like a record scratch.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets down his chopsticks, leans back, stares at the TV like it suddenly got interesting. His pulse thuds in his ears, steady and unwelcome.

A date.

“Cool,” he says finally, voice low, flat enough you almost don’t notice it’s sharper than usual.

You glance at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Have fun.”

You wait for him to make a joke, to say something snarky about your type or the guy probably being boring. That’s how it usually goes—you throw the ball, he bats it back. But this time, Yoongi doesn’t even lift his eyes from the screen.

The silence feels heavier than it should.

You don’t press, because Yoongi gets like this sometimes—quiet moods, long stretches of silence. You’ve never pushed too hard when he walls himself off.

But for Yoongi, it’s different. He’s sitting there, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his hand tighten around the beer bottle in his lap. He knows it’s stupid. You’re not his. You’ve never been his. He has no claim to feel anything at all.

And yet, the thought of you smiling across a table at someone else makes his chest tighten in a way he absolutely does not want to look into right now.

When you finally lean back and sigh, half-smiling at him like nothing’s changed, Yoongi manages to nod, force out a faint smirk.

But later, when you leave, his apartment feels too quiet. And Yoongi realizes—for the first time—that the idea of losing your Saturdays hurts a lot more than he’s ready to admit.

You swipe a layer of mascara onto your lashes, blink at your reflection, and try not to think about how strange Yoongi has been all week.

Normally, Saturdays are yours. Movie nights, half-eaten takeout cartons, his sarcastic commentary muffled against the couch cushions. But tonight you’re in front of your mirror, curling iron still hot, lip gloss still tacky, because you told him you had a date.

The word had landed heavy between you, like a rock in a still pond. Yoongi hadn’t teased you, hadn’t grumbled about your taste, hadn’t even made a joke at your expense. Just that flat cool and nothing else. And that—not the date, not the guy—has been tugging at your thoughts ever since.

You smooth the hem of your dress and pause, because another memory presses forward, uninvited.

It’s from months ago. A night you weren’t even supposed to stay late, but the group hang bled into Yoongi’s apartment, and then bled into just the two of you, cross-legged on his floor with a half-empty bottle between you.

Yoongi doesn’t drink often—not enough to get loose, anyway. But that night, he let himself unravel just a little. Enough that the words spilled out softer, slower, like he’d been holding them back too long.

“You know…” He’d swirled the last inch of whiskey in his glass, eyes half-lidded, mouth quirking like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. “…you’re… fuck. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

You laughed then, awkward, ready to brush it off. But Yoongi hadn’t let you.

“No, seriously. You don’t get it.” His gaze had been steady, almost too much to bear. “You bring… light. To people. To me. Like—you’re funny as hell, yeah, but it’s more than that. You make shit feel… less heavy. You make people feel lucky just by being around. Anyone would be blessed to have you in their life. And if they don’t see that? They’re idiots.”

The words had settled in your chest, glowing, impossible to forget. But you couldn’t answer. You just sat there, staring, memorizing the way his voice dipped low on lucky.

He smiled after, small and crooked, and took another sip like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down.

The next morning, when you teased him about it—“you get weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Min Yoongi.” He’d blinked at you, blank-faced, and muttered, “don’t remember a thing.”

You’d laughed it off then. But now, pulling on your jacket and glancing at your phone, you wonder if maybe that’s why his silence stings so much.

Because even if he doesn’t remember saying it, you do.

And some stupid part of you wishes he meant it.

You find yourself at the restaurant. And you don’t even really want to be here.

His name is Daniel. Works in accounting two floors down from your office. Nice enough—clean shoes, polite smile, remembered to hold the door when you walked in. You only said yes to this date because he asked twice and because somewhere in the back of your head was Yoongi’s voice from months ago, telling you to put yourself out there. To let people see how “light” you are.

You thought Yoongi would be proud.

But twenty minutes into the date, you already know how this ends. Daniel talks about office politics like it’s a full-contact sport, and when he laughs at his own joke, it’s just… loud. Not sharp, not dry, not shared with a sly glance across a crowded room.

Not Yoongi.

You poke at your pasta, nodding at the right times while he continues talking, but your mind betrays you. Imagining what Yoongi would say about the way Daniel uses the word “synergy” three times in one awful story. How he’d smirk across the table, mutter something dark under his breath just for you, and you’d choke trying not to laugh too loud.

With Yoongi, there’d be inside jokes and banter, even in silence. With Daniel, it’s small talk and forced smiles. And you’re not really hitting it off.

By the time dessert comes, you’re already exhausted. You tell yourself, at least you tried. At least you showed up.

When you get home, you peel your makeup off in the bathroom, watching mascara smudge into raccoon eyes. Relief sinks into your bones when you pull on your favorite hoodie and curl up in bed.

The date wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t him.

Your phone buzzes. One name.

yoon: How was the date?

You stare at the screen. Wonder where he is right now. On his couch, knees tucked up, TV on low? Or stretched out in bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard the same way yours is?

You type:

you: it wasn’t… horrible.

Your thumb hesitates, then moves again. The truth itches under your skin until it spills out in the way only Yoongi will get:

you: next time I’ll just ask my Uber driver to drag me behind his car through traffic—probably less painful than sitting through another date like that.

There’s a pause. Then:

yoon: lmao

yoon: finally, some honesty

And just like that, the tightness in your chest eases. Because no matter how awful the night was, at least you get to end it with him.

Jin’s apartment is loud, the kind of loud that comes from seven different conversations stacked on top of each other. The coffee table is a graveyard of takeout boxes, Taehyung is half-off the armchair like he doesn’t understand gravity, and Jungkook is shoveling fried rice into his mouth like it’s a competition no one else signed up for.

You’re curled into one corner of the couch, drink in hand, Yoongi beside you with his usual air of disinterest. It’s comfortable, the background noise, until Jimin suddenly cuts through it.

“Hey—your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”

You blink, startled. “…How do you even know that?”

Taehyung chimes in, “Because I make it my business to know everyone’s birthdays.” He sits up, grinning. “And we’re throwing you a party.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “What? No. You’re not.”

Jin yells from the kitchen doorway, without missing a beat, “Yes, we are! I’ll bake the cake!”

Hoseok, from an armchair, “I’ll handle the playlist.”

Jungkook with his mouth full, “I’ll bring snacks.”

You hold up both hands, shaking your head. “Guys, seriously—don’t. I don’t want a party. It’s not a big deal.”

Taehyung gasps. “Not a big deal? It’s your birthday! That’s literally the definition of a big deal.”

The room hums with agreement. You try to smile, but your chest tightens. The idea of being the center of attention makes your skin prickle. “I’m fine with just… hanging out. Like we always do.”

Beside you, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. The way he sees past the casual shrug, the way his gaze sharpens at the way your fingers worry the rim of your glass. He knows you’re tense—of course he does. He always does.

Jimin continues, “Nope, too late. We’re making this happen. We’ll invite everyone. Work friends, too.”

Your stomach drops. “That’s—no, you don’t have to—”

“What about that guy… Daniel, was it? Im sure he’d come.”

The name hangs heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi’s shoulders go rigid, his thumb pausing against the armrest.

You force a laugh. “He’s… really not party material.”

Ever the ‘party-material-maker’, Taehyung reassures you: “Then we’ll vet him. If he’s boring, he’s out.”

Yoongi finally says something, voice low, snarky enough to offend. “Then half the people you invite won’t make the cut.”

The group bursts into laughter, but you hear the edge under his tone. You glance sideways—his expression is neutral, almost bored, but the tension in his jaw is undeniable.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest. You told yourself you didn’t want a party. But now, with Yoongi sitting so close you can feel the shift in his mood, you can’t help wondering if what you really don’t want is him seeing you with anyone else there.

The laughter from Yoongi’s jab is still bouncing around the room when the bathroom door creaks open. Namjoon steps out, fanning the air behind him like he’s trying to chase away a demon.

“Do not,” he says, voice solemn, “go in there.”

A collective groan rolls through the room.

Jin throws his head back. “Again?”

Jungkook groans through a mouthful of rice. “Hyung, get your life together.”

Hoseok presses a hand to his chest, already laughing. “I told you not to eat the extra kimchi.”

Namjoon just lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sparing you, trust me.”

The chaos bubbles up, Jimin clutching his stomach, Taehyung dramatically collapsing onto the armchair like he’s fainting from the stench. You laugh, shaking your head, but the sound catches in your throat when you feel the shift beside you.

Yoongi stretches an arm lazily across the back of the couch. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Except he hasn’t—not once in the year you’ve known him.

Your heart kicks against your ribs. The distance between his hand and your shoulder is nothing, barely inches, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the space you’re taking up.

He leans just slightly toward you, voice pitched low enough to skim under the noise. “You really don’t want a party?”

You glance at him, caught off guard. “Not really.”

His eyes flick to your face, steady, unreadable. “Even with people who actually matter?”

The question knots in your chest. You swallow. “It’s not about that. I just… don’t like being the center of attention.”

Yoongi hums, quiet. “Fair. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. Letting people celebrate you.”

The words are gentle. Too gentle. For a second, it feels like the whole room fades—Taehyung whining dramatically about Febreze, Jin telling Namjoon he’s banned from kimchi forever—and all you can hear is Yoongi, sitting close enough that his warmth skims along your arm.

You manage a small smile. “You sound like drunk-you again. Semi-inspirational.”

That earns you the barest twitch of his lips. “Maybe sober-me means it too.”

The air shifts, heavier than it should be, and your breath catches before the moment’s swept away because Hoseok suddenly narrows his eyes at you and Yoongi.

“Look at these two,” he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Whole room of people and they’re having their own private conversation again.”

Taehyung perks up immediately. “It’s every hangout. Soulmates, clearly.”

Namjoon sighs and mutters under his breath, clearly feeling sorry for the teasing about to take place. “Here we go, again.”

Jin smirks from the kitchen doorway. “They’re so locked in, I’m surprised they even hear us.”

You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “We do not—”

“Yes, you do,” Jungkook cuts in, grinning around his drink. “Half the time you’re whispering and laughing and the rest of us are just sitting here like chopped liver.”

Yoongi doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch, either. He just takes a slow sip from his glass, face unreadable.

But then Jimin, always the instigator, leans forward with a wicked smile. “You’re sitting close enough to kiss right now.”

Oh, he knows what he just did.

The room erupts with laughter, wolf-whistles and fake gagging sounds.

Your entire body ignites. Heat flares across your cheeks, your ears, all the way down your neck. You choke on your drink and duck your head, suddenly incapable of looking anywhere near Yoongi.

And still, Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he usually does.

But you feel it—a shift. A subtle double take, the weight of his gaze flicking toward you and then lingering, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t quite add up.

You don’t have to look to know he’s studying you, puzzled, maybe even a little thrown. Because you turned red. You.

And if you’re blushing like that… what does it mean?

The laughter from Jimin’s jab keeps bouncing around the room, Taehyung dramatically fanning himself like he just witnessed something scandalous.

“Save it for after the cake,” Jin calls from the kitchen, smirking as he disappears back to check the oven.

“Cake?” you echo, desperate for any subject change. “There’s no cake.”

“There will be,” Jin sing-songs.

Hoseok leans forward, grinning. “Bet Yoongi already has flavors picked out for you.”

That earns another round of oohs and whistles, the group loving the way your face heats even more.

“I do not,” Yoongi mutters, voice flat as stone. But his arm stays stretched casually along the back of the couch, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze still lingering on you even as the conversation shifts.

Jungkook slaps his thigh, cackling. “This is my favorite game. Tease them until one of them breaks.”

“I’ll give it a month before they admit it,” Jimin adds, wiggling his eyebrows. “Soulmates can only play dumb for so long.”

“Stop calling us that,” you groan, pressing your palms to your cheeks.

Taehyung gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, she didn’t deny it this time!”

The room explodes again, everyone talking at once—bets being made, exaggerated wedding toasts being shouted, Jungkook offering to DJ your “first dance.”

You bury your face in your drink, wishing the floor would open up and swallow—just you—whole. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: Yoongi’s lips twitch. Not a laugh, not really—but something close.

And though he doesn’t say a word, you can feel the undercurrent humming between you, sharper than it’s ever been.

But the chaos doesn’t really settle until Jin emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and announces, “Alright, everybody out. I’ve got to work in the morning and you’re all too loud.”

Groans and protests ripple through the room, but one by one the boys start gathering their things. Hoseok is still humming an obnoxious melody about soulmates, Namjoon rubbing his temples as he walks to the door, Taehyung swears he’s bringing balloons to your “surprise-not-surprise” party, and Jimin smirks like he’s got ammo for the next week.

You stand, smoothing your shirt, trying to will the redness from your cheeks. Yoongi rises beside you, stretching lazily like none of this touched him at all.

But inside?

Inside, he knows the truth.

He’ll never admit it—not to them, not to you—but he doesn’t actually hate it when the group teases you both. He pretends to roll his eyes, pretends he’s annoyed, but secretly… secretly he loves it. Loves the way they say “soulmates” like it’s obvious, loves the way you fluster and stumble through denials.

Because maybe that’s what it would be like if you were his.

If he didn’t keep everything locked behind his ribs. If he could reach out and claim what he wants without losing the comfort of what you already are. The way the others laugh and tease—it’s the closest glimpse he’ll ever get at what life might look like if he was allowed to have you.

And so he lets them tease. Because dreaming is safer than losing you.

On the way out, your shoulders brush in the narrow doorway. Your sleeve skims his arm, and the static crackles all the way down to his fingertips. You look up, meeting his eyes for half a second before glancing away, flustered again.

Yoongi swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust the way the words might come out.

But when you turn to him at the door, pulling your jacket tighter around you, you give him that small smile—the one that always cuts through him—and say softly, “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

His throat works, tight, but he manages a low reply. “Night. Get home safe.”

You nod, slip out into the breezeway of Jin’s complex, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind you feels louder than it should.

Yoongi lingers there for a beat longer, staring at the space you just occupied. He needs to breathe for a second. He inhales deep, then exhales slow and quiet, and heads out into the night with one thought looping through his head.

If blushing means you like me… then maybe I’m already too far gone.

It’s Wednesday night when your phone buzzes. You’re curled up on your bed, laptop open but untouched, scrolling mindlessly until the notification flashes.

yoon: You figured out what you’re wearing yet?

You blink, reread it twice. Yoongi doesn’t usually care about that kind of thing.

you: For what?

yoon: …your birthday. The one Tae’s been yelling about all week.

you: Oh. That.

you: I’m not picking out anything special.

yoon: Why not.

you: Because it’s not that serious.

There’s a pause. You can almost see him on the other side of the screen, thumb hovering, brow furrowed like he’s trying to phrase something without giving too much away.

yoon: You should. Pick something that makes you feel good.

you: You sound like Hobi.

yoon: Hobi would tell you to wear sequins or some shit. I’m saying just… don’t downplay it.

Your chest tightens. He always sees it, the way you try to shrink yourself.

you: Are you seriously texting me about clothes right now?

yoon: Somebody has to. Don’t want you showing up in your office hoodie.

You bite back a smile, fingers tapping before you can stop yourself.

you: That hoodie is a classic.

yoon: It’s fucking tragic.

You laugh, low in your throat, and set the phone down for a second to breathe. It’s not much, just a string of texts about nothing. But the warmth in your chest lingers long after the screen goes dark.

The Birthday Party

Namjoon pulls up to the curb like your chauffeur, killing the engine and getting out to walk around and open the passenger door for you. He looks half amused, half resigned as you climb out, tugging at the hem of your dress.

“Just so you know,” he says, offering his arm with mock formality, “I briefed you in the car, but… I’m apologizing again in advance. Jimin and Tae went feral with this party.”

You laugh, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “How bad can it be?”

The answer greets you the second your heels hit the red carpeted stairs.

It looks like New Year’s Eve collided with a music video shoot. Glittering lights spill down from the awning, a velvet rope corrals guests into the entrance, and inside the glass doors you can already see the crowd—everyone dressed to kill, champagne glasses flashing under the chandeliers.

Your jaw slackens. “This is… a birthday party?”

“Your birthday party,” Namjoon corrects, grimacing. “Tae literally said, ‘If she doesn’t walk in and feel like the hottest girl in Seoul, then what’s even the point.’”

You bite back a nervous laugh, tugging your dress down again. The dress you picked is short, tight, the kind of outfit your parents would faint over. But you’d looked in the mirror earlier and thought of Yoongi’s words—pick something that makes you feel good—and this was it. Bold, a little reckless, enough skin showing to make you feel powerful.

As you walk up the stairs, gripping Namjoon’s arm for balance, he leans down with a smirk.

“You know he’s gonna freak, right?”

Your stomach flips. You don’t even have to ask who. But you do anyway. “What?”

Namjoon chuckles, low. “I mean… he won’t show it. Not on his face. But internally? Yoongi’s gonna be strangling himself when he sees you in that dress, Y/N.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face toward the glittering doors before he can notice. You tell yourself he’s exaggerating, teasing like always. But the flutter in your chest won’t stop.

Because part of you wonders—maybe hopes—he’s right.

The second the doors open, sound swallows you whole. Music pumps from hidden speakers, bass rattling in your chest, laughter and voices layered so thick it’s dizzying. Chandeliers glitter overhead, catching on sequins and champagne glasses, and everywhere you look there are people—people you don’t know, people dressed like they’re waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square, people who definitely don’t belong at a party for you.

It’s too much. Too big. Exactly what Taehyung and Jimin would think is perfect.

You paste on a smile as Namjoon steers you through the crowd, murmuring greetings to familiar faces. But your eyes keep wandering, scanning, searching every corner. You don’t even realize how obvious it is—the way you’re subconsciously hunting for him. For Yoongi.

Your Yoongi.

Instead, you’re intercepted first by Hoseok, who comes practically skipping across the room, sequined jacket catching the light with every step. “Birthday girl!” He pulls you into a hug that smells like cologne and champagne, then holds you at arm’s length. His grin widens. “Damn, you look good.”

“Too good,” another voice chimes in, and Jungkook slides up with a glass in each hand. He passes one to Hoseok before adjusting the lapels of his sharp black suit like he knows he looks incredible. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks as Jungkook tips his glass toward your dress in approval. “Wow. You two actually clean up nice.”

Hoseok gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse you—I always look good.”

Jungkook just smirks, boyish and smug. “But admit it. We’re killing it tonight.”

Hoseok grins, “Yeah, Y/N! You’re killin’ it, girl!”

You shake your head, laughing again, but your gaze is already drifting over their shoulders, past the glitter and noise, through the sea of strangers.

Still no sign of him. What the fuck.

And that unsettles you more than you want to admit.

Namjoon still hasn’t let go of your arm, playing the role of dutiful escort as he weaves you through the crowd of bodies toward a literal tower of champagne flutes stacked high like something out of a luxury gala.

How hard did Jimin and Tae go for this party?

You let out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Not my idea,” Namjoon mutters, steering you into the line. “I told you—I’m just here as damage control.”

He plucks two glasses from the table and hands you one. The bubbles tickle your nose as you take a careful sip, the taste sharp and sweet on your tongue.

And then—

“Birthday girl!”

The greeting comes in stereo, Jimin’s high-pitched cheer layered with Taehyung’s deep drawl. They appear together like they rehearsed it, grins wide and eyes bright.

Jimin immediately pulls you into a hug, nearly sloshing champagne down both of your outfits. “Happy birthday, gorgeous!”

You hug him back, “Thank you, guys.”

“Look at you,” Taehyung adds, spinning you lightly by the wrist so he can take in your whole outfit. “Short, shiny, and scandalous. And honestly? Exactly what I envisioned.”

You laugh, cheeks heating, trying to tuck yourself back under Namjoon’s arm like a fucking shield. “This is… insane. All of this.”

“Insane in a good way,” Jimin insists, bouncing on his toes. “Tell me you love it!”

You look around—at the chandeliers, the glittering crowd, the champagne tower sparkling in the light—and your chest squeezes. It’s too much. But they did it for you. Because they care.

“I do,” you admit, soft and honest. “I love it. Thank you.”

Jimin beams. Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. And for a moment, the noise of the party fades under the weight of how lucky you are to have them.

Still, as you take another sip of champagne, your eyes wander past their shoulders, scanning the crowd again. Looking for the one person who hasn’t shown up yet.

Where could he be? Is he even here? Why isn’t he with the guys?

You’re half-caught in your head and Taehyung’s theatrics when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“There’s my birthday girl.”

Jin appears with a glass in hand, tailored blazer sharp enough to make him look like he owns the place. He leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of your head, then straightens and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Joon. Thanks for keeping her in one piece.”

Namjoon huffs a laugh. “Doing my best.”

Jin’s eyes drop to your dress, and he sighs the way only Jin can—long-suffering, dramatic, equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is what you wore?”

You flush, tugging at the hem. “Don’t start. It’s fine.”

“It’s your birthday, so I’ll allow it,” he says, lips twitching. “But if your parents ever see photos… I don’t know you.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but then the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Hey, have you seen Yoongi?”

Beside you, Namjoon tenses—so subtle anyone else would miss it, but you don’t. You feel it in the shift of his arm under your hand. Like he wasn’t expecting the question.

Jin’s smile falters just slightly. His eyes flick to Namjoon, then back to you, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Not yet,” he says after a beat. “But… don’t worry about him. Just keep enjoying your party, okay?”

Your stomach twists. The easy warmth of the moment curdles, a faint unease threading through it.

That was fucking weird.

The night spins forward in a blur.

You let Jimin and Taehyung drag you to the dance floor, Hoseok already in the center hyping the crowd like it’s a concert. Namjoon groans but still sways dutifully beside you, Jin waves a champagne flute overhead like he’s at a wedding, and Jungkook spins you until you nearly trip over your own heels.

It’s ridiculous. Chaotic. Too much. And yet, with your friends circling you in glitter and laughter, you feel lighter than you expected.

Then—a shiver down your spine. The sense of eyes on you.

You glance up, scanning past the lights, past the crowd. And then you see him.

Yoongi.

He’s on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually on the rail, a champagne flute hanging from one hand. His long dark hair curls around his face, catching in the glow of the chandelier, and his gaze is locked—glued—to you.

Your chest stutters. It feels like time itself stutters. The music, the noise, the laughter—it all dims under the weight of his stare.

And you smile. The biggest smile you’ve smiled all night, wide and uncontainable. Like gravity pulling you in one direction only.

Your smile is already lifting when something inside it snags.

Because you see him—and then you see her.

She’s half-turned toward him, shoulder angled into his space like she belongs there, a thin gold chain glinting at her throat. Close. Comfortable-close. The kind of close that says this isn’t the first minute they’ve been standing like that.

Yoongi is looking at you.

But he’s talking to her.

His mouth moves—something low, something easy—and she watches him like she’s used to the gravity he creates, like it doesn’t pull her apart the way it threatens to pull you apart right now. When she laughs, it’s a soft curve of sound you can’t hear over the bass, and his lips answer with the ghost of a smile.

He doesn’t look like he doesn’t want to be there.

Your stomach goes cold, then hot, then cold again.

Taehyung spins you by the wrist, oblivious. “Birthday girl! Stop zoning out, you’re killing my groove.”

You snap your gaze away from the balcony so fast your neck twinges. “I’m not zoning out.”

“Liar,” Jimin sings, popping up at your other side and fitting his palms to your shoulders from behind, swaying you on beat. “This is your party. Eyes on us, miss ma’am.”

“Yeah,” you say, too bright, too quick. “Eyes on you.”

You force your body to move. To laugh at something Jungkook says. To let Hoseok spin you out into a loop you nearly botch because your heels are not designed for this much enthusiasm. You let Jimin tilt your chin and quip about how you’re “glowing” and “devastating” and “a menace,” and you pretend the whole time that the top of your skull isn’t buzzing with the exact shape of the woman’s hand where it rests on the balcony rail, three inches from Yoongi’s wrist.

Ignore him. Ignore that.

The music surges, a chorus that rattles the floor, and you pour your attention into the only thing you can control: the way your head tips back when you laugh, the way your hips find the bass line, the way your dress catches the light like it’s armor.

Namjoon leans in at your ear, voice pitched under the noise. “You okay?”

You don’t hesitate. “Of course.” Your smile stretches just a little too tight. “It’s great.”

He studies you for a beat—he always has been annoyingly perceptive—but then he nods like he’s not going to pry here, not now. “If you need air, tug my sleeve.”

“I won’t,” you say, and you mean it like a challenge to yourself.

You don’t look back up at the balcony. You do not.

Except your body betrays you in small ways: the way your pulse stutters when the chandelier light shifts; the way your head tilts a fraction, as if lining up your peripheral vision with the stretch of the upper rail. You keep your focus fixed on Hoseok’s ridiculous body roll and Taehyung’s scandalized gasp at Jungkook’s footwork, and still you feel it—a prickling heat along your cheek like a spotlight.

He’s still looking.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Shots,” Jimin declares, because he’s a menace and because the universe has a sense of humor. “It’s illegal not to do birthday shots.”

Before you can protest, a tray materializes—Hoseok works miracles—and you let them press a glass into your hand. Clear. Mean. The kind of burn that will either cauterize the jealousy or make it liquefy and pour out your eyes.

“To the hottest girl in Seoul,” Taehyung intones, scandalously sincere.

“To surviving Jimin’s planning,” Namjoon adds dryly.

“To sequins,” Hoseok declares, glittering under the lights.

“To,” Jungkook smirks, “telling anyone who flirts with you that they’re not on the guest list.”

“Please stop,” you groan, but your grin slips in anyway, helpless.

You fling your gaze straight at the bottom of the shot glass and tip it back. The burn is instant, bright, a clean white-out that blurs the edges of your thoughts. When it hits your stomach, the heat spreads. It helps.

“Again,” Jimin threatens.

“No,” Namjoon says, parental. “Later.”

“Traitor,” Jimin pouts, already winking at the bartender for later.

You move. Harder now. It’s easier to outrun a feeling than to look it in the face. You dance like you owe your body something, like you can sweat this out, like the bass can be a wall.

Someone bumps your shoulder in the crowd and murmurs an apology; someone else asks if you want a drink; a stranger in a too-tight shirt tries to sidle in closer until Jungkook simply appears, big-brothering him with a smile that’s all teeth. Your friends orbit you, constellation-steady, but even with all that, there’s a slice of cold aware in your ribs—because you can feel him, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.

You do not look.

You laugh at something Jin says when he finally decides to return to the dance floor, his hand slicing through the air as he reenacts Namjoon banning kimchi, and you let that laughter sit bright on your mouth, weaponized. You’re fine. You’re glittering. You’re busy.

“Back in two,” you shout to nobody in particular, tapping your chest and miming a sip. You need water. The good kind—flat, unassuming. Something to anchor your mouth around that isn’t his name.

At the edge of the floor, the air thins a little. The bar is a line of elbows and straws and clinking glass, but the bartender spots your wave and slides you a highball of blessedly clear water like you’re a favorite regular. You take two grateful pulls and press the cold glass to the underside of your jaw.

“Happy birthday,” someone says at your left.

You turn your head. It’s the woman from the balcony.

Up close, she’s even more composed. Winged liner like a threat, lipstick that doesn’t dare smudge, a dress that looks like it was sewn on. She’s taller than you by a breath in her heels, and her perfume is a soft, expensive thing that settles around you like a verdict.

You find your manners where you dropped them. “Thank you.”

“Taehyung outdid himself,” she says, amused. Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward the floor, past it. Not calculating—cataloguing. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you answer, neutral, careful. “Enjoying the party?”

Her mouth tilts. “I am now.”

You take another drink of water to cover the sound your throat makes.

“I’m Sori,” she adds, offering her name like a business card.

You give her yours, because what else are you going to do? Pretend names don’t exist?

She nods, as if checking a box in her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your heartbeat trips over itself. “From…?”

“From everyone,” she says lightly. “Small universe.”

You let out a sound that is not a laugh but would like to be when it grows up. “Yeah.”

Silence stitches between you, quick and neat. She doesn’t fill it. She just lets it sit there, poised, like she knows exactly how long to wait before it starts to itch.

“Yoongi mentioned the humor,” she says finally, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “He was right.”

The glass sweats against your palm. “He talks a lot for someone so quiet.”

“That’s the trick.” She lifts her own drink—champagne, of course—and tips it toward you, gaze steady. “Happy birthday.”

You clink without looking away. “Thanks.”

She leaves you there—mercifully—with her perfume and the ghost of her smile, threading back toward the stairs with an unhurried confidence that makes you want to kick something. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know if he’s still where she left him. People like that never do.

You exhale hard, set the water down, and march yourself back into the heat of the dance floor like it’s a battlefield. Namjoon clocks your expression in a second and lifts a brow. You shake your head, a tiny, surgical movement. Later.

Jimin latches onto your hand and spins you again, yelling something about “chorus!” and “arms!” over the music, and you let him, because this is what you can control: the angle of your wrist, the slice of your smile, the decision to keep your eyes anywhere but up.

You feel Yoongi like static earlier; now it’s a low-voltage hum under your skin. You don’t have to see him to know he’s moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s closer.

You won’t look.

“Yo,” Jungkook shouts in your ear, breathless, grinning. “You’re on fire. Whoever breaks your heart is gonna die.”

“Bold of you to assume it’s breakable,” you throw back, dry, and Jungkook howls like you just body-slammed a line of defense.

Hoseok plants a feather-light kiss to your temple when he passes behind you. Jin shouts, “Shots later, water now,” like a dad. Taehyung declares that he’s stealing you for a “birthday twirl,” and you let him tug you three steps left, pivot, laugh, pivot again—

—and then you stop.

Because you know the shape of that stillness. It has a weight all its own.

You can feel him at the edge of your orbit before he says your name.

“Hey.”

It lands low, built for just you, a thread through the noise. You don’t turn for a full heartbeat. You finish the step you’re in, hand still in Taehyung’s, then you let go and face him because pretending to be oblivious in a three-foot radius is a different kind of embarrassing.

Yoongi stands there in a black suit that fits like a decision, hair ink-dark and loose around his face, the chandelier picking out lines of silver at his wrist and throat. The room could vanish and it would still feel too bright.

His eyes are on your mouth, then your dress, then your eyes, and he does not disguise the part where he has to swallow. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you see it in the cut of his throat.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

Your smile is neat. Unbothered. “Thanks.”

A beat. You don’t ask why he’s late. You don’t ask who she is. You don’t ask anything. You’re not giving him that.

He studies your face like he’s trying to solve a song he’s heard a thousand times and can’t quite play.

“You look…” He searches for a word and discards five. “…good.”

“Yeah?” you say, and let your mouth tilt. “Must be the lighting.”

It lands and he almost smiles—almost—but something shadows his eyes when he realizes you’re not stepping into the usual rhythm, not handing him the joke and the soft landing. He shifts, just enough that your shoulders almost brush.

“You met Sori,” he says finally. Not a question.

You look over his shoulder at nothing at all. “She met me.”

“She’s—” He stops, tiny, and you watch him pick between truths. “—Jin’s friend.”

“Everyone’s friend tonight,” you say lightly. “You’re popular.”

His jaw flexes like he wants to bite the word in half before it gets to you. “It’s not like that.”

You lift your brows. “I didn’t say it was.”

Another beat. The bass thumps. Taehyung spins by with a finger-gun and zero chill. Jin is arguing with the bartender about cake plates. Jimin is mouthing, Tell him he’s hot, at you across three bodies because he wants to die.

Yoongi tilts his head, searching your face. “You’re mad.”

You laugh, genuine and bright and a little sharp. “It’s my birthday, Yoongi. I don’t have time to be mad.”

“Jealous, then,” he says quietly.

Your smile doesn’t change. “Of who?”

He flinches at that—not visibly, not for anyone else, but you feel it like a ripple under your feet. For a heartbeat his mouth opens like he’s going to say something he can’t unsay. Then he closes it, looks down, looks back.

“Dance with me,” he says.

You let the smallest silence bloom. You weigh everything inside it—his eyes, the ghost of the balcony, the woman’s perfume, your own stupid heart, the fact that all of your friends are absolutely watching this from the corners of their eyes and pretending they’re not.

You tip your chin toward the crowd, neutral as gravity. “I’m busy.”

It’s soft. It’s nothing. It hits him like a door.

He nods, once. Slow. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.

“Okay,” he says, and steps back.

You turn away before your mouth can do something reckless. You catch Namjoon’s gaze over Hoseok’s shoulder, and he only inclines his head—once, commander-calm, we’ll talk later written in the lines of his mouth.

Jungkook reappears like a wall, grinning, hands up. “C’mon, birthday menace. Show me that murder footwork.”

You do. You move. You laugh too loud at something that isn’t funny and throw your arms up when the chorus hits and let Taehyung spin you until you’re dizzy. You let Jimin scream-sing into your ear and Hoseok beam like a lighthouse and Jin scold you for forgetting hydration. You pretend the entire time that you cannot feel the heat of a gaze trailing the edge of your orbit like a planet that refuses to admit it’s caught.

You don’t look back up at the balcony.

You don’t look when he disappears into the crowd.

You don’t look when, two songs later, the lights dim for cake and everyone howls your name and Jin marches forward with a confection so extra it probably has a birth certificate.

You breathe in. You breathe out. You lean into the noise and the sugar and the sparkler-bright chorus of voices.

You make a wish you refuse to name. And you keep your eyes closed a second longer than you need to, because for one more second, you don’t have to see who’s standing where when you open them.

The garden hits like a slap—cold air and the smell of damp earth, hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, fairy lights strung in polite arcs that make everything look softer than it feels. The bass from inside is a heartbeat through the walls. Your own heartbeat is doing its own fucked-up drum solo.

Bench. Cold. Good. You drop onto it like you’ve been thrown, palms on either side of your thighs, eyes squinting up at a sky that refuses to stand still.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter to no one in particular, lips tingling where that stranger’s mouth was a minute ago. Did you say yes? You said “mmm.” That’s not yes. That’s… not words. Your stomach flips. You swallow it down with the aftertaste of liquor and sugar and something bitter you refuse to name.

Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Then:

“Y/N.”

Namjoon’s voice folds around your name like a blanket you didn’t ask for but kind of needed anyway. He steps into the spill of fairy lights, tie loosened, blazer open, worry etched neat between his brows.

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket.

You try for breezy and land somewhere near winded. “I’m communing with nature.”

He drapes the jacket over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm from his body; you burrow without meaning to. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

You roll your head toward him, slow with the spin of the stars. “I didn’t want to cockblock your… whatever that was with the bartender about poetry.”

He huffs, half a laugh, mostly exhale. Then he crouches in front of you so you don’t have to chase his face with your eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you lie, perfectly, beautifully.

“Try again.”

“Some dude asked if he could kiss me,” you say, airy, like it was weather. “And I said ‘mmm.’ And then he kissed me.”

Namjoon’s jaw does a thing. “Where is he.”

“Relax, Kim Heights. He’s probably back in there telling his friends he blessed the birthday girl.” Your laugh scrapes your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Are you.”

“Yep.” You pop the p. “Just needed air. And fewer mouths.”

His eyes search your face—smudged lipstick, glitter on your cheekbone, the stubborn set of your mouth. “Do you want me to get him thrown out?”

You shake your head. Regret that decision immediately because the sky cartwheels. You catch the bench with both hands, breathe through it. “No bouncers. No scene. Please.”

He nods once, shifts, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small plastic bottle like he’s a magician. “Water.”

“Have you been hoarding hydration?”

“Jimin will over-serve you just to prove he can. I plan ahead.” He twists the cap and hands it to you. “Sip.”

You do. It’s blessedly cold, the kind of clean that slices through fog. You let it sit on your tongue before you swallow, like you can wash the taste of someone else’s decision out of your mouth.

Namjoon watches you drink, then tilts his head. “Jimin told you.”

“About?” You keep your eyes on the hedge line like it’s very interesting.

“Balcony? Sori?”

You shrug, small under his jacket. “He tells me lots of things.”

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gentle, like someone picking up a glass shard with two fingers.

You snort. “No. Why would it. It’s his life.”

“Right.”

You scrape your heel against the gravel, little crescent moons appearing where your shoe skids. “She has very sharp eyeliner,” you add, as if that’s neutral. “Could cut a man.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitches. “You’re allowed to be pissed.”

“I am allowed to be unbothered,” you counter, too fast. You tip the bottle back again. “Look at me. Unbothered.”

He lets the lie sit down beside you without challenging it. That’s the thing about Namjoon—he knows when to hold a mirror and when to cover it. He shifts from a crouch to sitting at your side, angled so you don’t have to move.

“You want to go home?” he asks after a beat. “I’ll get the car.”

Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with glitter or alcohol. “It’s my party.”

“And we can leave it,” he says, steady. “You don’t owe the room your body.”

You stare at the fairy lights until they double, then settle. “Maybe… in a minute.”

He nods, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, the picture of patience. The bass inside thrums through the soil; a night breeze lifts the hair at your temple, cools the heat at your throat.

Gravel again. Another set of footsteps. You don’t have to see him to know; your bones clock him like weather changing.

Yoongi stops at the mouth of the garden path, darkness and chandelier glow cutting him into edges. Black suit. Hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. His eyes find you first, then flick to Namjoon’s jacket on your shoulders, then drop quick to your mouth. Something tightens, minute, in his face.

“Joon,” he says, a greeting that’s also a question.

“Hey,” Namjoon answers, just as neutral. Then he stands, a wall that’s also a door. “She needed air.”

Yoongi nods. His gaze tracks back to you, lingering like he’s bracing for impact. “You okay?”

You take your time answering. Lift the water bottle. Tip it like a toast. “Peachy.”

He absorbs the dryness without flinching. “You disappeared.”

“People do that when they’re magicians,” you say. “Or when they’re bored. Or when a stranger confuses a non-vowel sound for consent.”

Silence slices clean. Namjoon’s head whips toward you. Yoongi goes very, very still.

“Who,” Yoongi says. Not loud. Stripped.

“I handled it,” you reply, eyes on the hedge. “With my legs. I walked away. See? Fully functional.”

Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding a thought down to powder. “What did he look like.”

“Like a man I won’t think about again,” you say, flat. “Drop it.”

Namjoon lifts a hand, a quiet stall. “We’ll deal with it if you want us to.”

“I don’t,” you snap, and regret the snap, and let the sigh chase it out. “I don’t want this to be a thing. I want to sit on this cold bench and not be a headline at my own party.”

The men exchange a look. A whole conversation passes between them in the tightness around their mouths.

Namjoon inhales, decides something. “I’m getting the car,” he says, and when you open your mouth, he adds, “You can decide in sixty seconds if you’re getting in it. If you want to go back in, I’ll walk you. If you want to leave, I’ll drive. Either way, I’m retrieving it because the valet system here is a hellscape.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Coward’s way of giving me an out.”

“Guilty.” He squeezes your shoulder over his jacket, a pressure that says I’ve got you either way. Then he steps past Yoongi, pauses just long enough to stare him down with brotherly menace, and disappears up the path.

The garden hums. Distant laughter. A bottle clinks somewhere inside. A moth flutters idiotically at a light.

Yoongi doesn’t sit. He steps closer, then stops like the air itself is a boundary he’s not sure he can cross. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says, low, like it’s a fact and not a feeling.

“Welcome to women,” you reply, dry. “We get party favors.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to be sick. “I’m—” He cuts off, jaw working. “I should’ve—”

“Been glued to my side all night?” You tilt your head, smile like a blade. “You seemed busy.”

He takes that hit, doesn’t try to dodge. “I was an idiot.”

“Cool,” you say, light. “Add it to the list.”

He finally moves, sits on the far end of the bench like he’s respecting a no-man’s-land only you can cross. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fairy lights buzz faintly, a sound you’ve never noticed until now.

“I saw you on the balcony,” you say after a beat, because alcohol makes a coward brave and a brave person reckless. “Jimin says you went up there the second you got here.”

He exhales through his nose. “I did.” A beat. “I saw you first.”

You bark out a laugh. “Romantic. You saw me, then went the other way.”

“I panicked,” he says, honest in a way that makes your blood run hot and cold. “You looked—” He stops. Shakes his head. “I didn’t trust myself not to say something I can’t take back. Sori said hi on my way to the stairs. That’s all.”

You force yourself to ignore the way your heart flutters hearing the confession he quickly buried.

You stare at the gravel. A moth finally gives up on the light and flutters to the hedge. “She met me, too.”

His head snaps, eyes sharp. “What did she say.”

“That you talk about me,” you say, careful. You roll the cap of the water bottle between your fingers. “That I’m funny.”

He looks at the ground, then at you, like the angle might change the truth. “I do talk about you.”

Your laugh is softer this time, and it hates you for it. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t say shit like that when I’m drunk,” you murmur, tipping your head back against the bench slat. The stars blur into smeared city glow. “I’ll think it means something tomorrow.”

He goes quiet. Not empty—full. Brimming with all the words he keeps barricaded behind his teeth. When he speaks, it’s careful, like stepping across thin ice. “It means something tonight.”

Your throat works. You swallow, water useless against that kind of heat. “You’re late.”

“I know.”

“And you’re stupid.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not a back-up plan.”

His voice doesn’t waver. “You never were.”

You look at him then. Really look. The shadowed cut of his jaw. The suit that fits like he put it on to keep himself together. The way his hands are fisted in his pockets because if they weren’t, he’d be reaching.

“Namjoon’s gonna be back in, like, thirty seconds,” you say, because time is a thing you can hold when everything else slips. “He’s going to ask me if I want to leave.”

Yoongi nods once. “Do you?”

You let the question sit in the cold, let it fog, let it clear. You think of Sori’s perfume. Of a stranger’s mouth. Of the bench and the fairy lights and the way your name sounded when he said Hey in a room that was screaming.

“I want to not be in there,” you admit. “I don’t know what I want beyond that.”

“Okay,” he says, immediate, no argument threaded anywhere in it.

You look back at the path, the slice of light where the building breathes out party heat. “If I go,” you add, voice low, “I’m not doing it so you can play knight. I’m doing it because I don’t want to be watched while I figure out whether I’m allowed to be mad at you.”

His mouth tips, bruised at the edges. “You’re allowed.”

“Cool,” you say, eyes stinging with something you refuse to call anything. “I’m mad.”

Gravel again. Namjoon appears, keys raised like a flag. “Valet miracle,” he announces softly, taking in the scene with a general’s calm. “Car’s out front.”

He looks at you. Not at Yoongi. You.

“What’s the move, birthday girl?”

You breathe in. You breathe out. The bench is cold. The stars are still spinning, but slower now.

“I’m going home,” you say. “With Joon.”

A flicker crosses Yoongi’s face—pain, quickly leashed. He nods like it’s the only correct answer. “Text me when you’re safe.”

You slide Namjoon’s jacket tighter around you and stand. Your knees wobble; Namjoon is there without making a fuss of it. You take two steps, then pause, turn, and find Yoongi’s eyes in the half-light.

“Tomorrow,” you say, the word heavy as a promise you haven’t decided if you’ll keep. “Don’t be late.”

His exhale is almost a laugh, almost a prayer. “Okay.”

You turn and let Namjoon guide you up the path. Behind you, Yoongi sits very still on a bench that remembers your weight, fists his hands tighter in his pockets, and stares at the fairy lights until they buzz like a confession.

The night air is cool against your flushed skin, the thud of bass from the party muffled now, like it’s trapped inside a different universe. Namjoon keeps pace with you, his strides long and steady, his voice filling the quiet.

“…like, honestly, who needs three champagne towers? It’s not a wedding. And don’t get me started on the playlist—Taehyung thinks he’s a DJ but he only knows five songs. Five. Songs.” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The bartender was cute, though. Kept quoting poetry at me when he poured—can you believe that? Like, Rilke over rum. Wild.”

You let him talk, words washing over you, but your mind isn’t with him.

It’s back in the garden.

On the bench.

On Yoongi.

You tell yourself you’re not mad—what right do you even have? He doesn’t owe you anything. He came, he mingled, he spent time with people. He was allowed to smile at someone else. Allowed to stand too close to someone else.

But it was your night. Your birthday.

And he wasn’t really with you.

He wasn’t at your side for the cake. He wasn’t laughing in the circle of friends when Jimin made you blush. He wasn’t with you when Jungkook spun you so hard you nearly fell. All the little pieces that were supposed to add up to tonight—the you-and-him pieces—he wasn’t in them.

And maybe that’s what hurts.

Because it feels like the night was supposed to be about you. But you’re walking away feeling like it wasn’t.

You blink, and suddenly the silver gleam of Namjoon’s car door is right in front of you. Three steps away. Namjoon is still talking, now about stanza breaks and the bartender’s dimples, and you realize you’ve barely heard a word.

“I need to go back.”

Namjoon stops dead, mid-sentence, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I need to go back.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But you said you wanted to leave. You just said goodbye to everyone.”

Your stomach drops. You did? When? The thought slips through the fog of champagne and vodka like a knife—you don’t remember saying goodbye to your friends. You were too busy in your own head, running laps around the hollow ache in your chest.

“I need to tell him, Joon.”

Your voice cracks on the words, thin and begging.

Namjoon doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to. He’s known. He’s known since you bought Yoongi that guitar, since you remembered a birthday you never should’ve remembered, since you started saving your best one-liners for him and him alone.

But he shakes his head, steady, gentle. “Not tonight, Y/N. You need to go home and get in bed.”

The devastation crushes you in a sigh. Your throat burns. Your eyes prickle. “Namjoon—” your voice breaks again, and then the tears come hot, unbidden, “Please, I—”

“I know.” He cuts you off, but his tone is soft, like he’s carrying the weight for you. His eyes glint in the dim parking lot light. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

The words make your chest splinter. You want to say it anyway. Want to shout it out loud just to hear what it feels like leaving your mouth. But the look on Namjoon’s face tells you everything: save it. Save it for Yoongi.

You swallow hard, wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Maybe I can text him then?”

Namjoon exhales, long, patient. “If you do, you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“But—”

“No buts. Not like this. Not drunk, not half crying in a parking lot. You’ll hate yourself if those words land the wrong way.”

You sag against the car door, shoulders trembling under his jacket, phone heavy in your hand like it’s burning a hole straight through your palm.

And still, the ache won’t let go. Because the truth is there, heavy and undeniable:

You don’t want to go home.

You want to go back.

Back to the garden.

Back to him.

You wake up and your head is pounding, pounding, pounding—

Fuck, what time is it?

You glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand. 11:52 a.m.

You groan, ready to roll back into the abyss, when the pounding comes again. Not from your skull this time—from somewhere out in the living room.

Dragging yourself upright is an Olympic event. You crawl to the door, use the handle to haul yourself up, and silently thank the blackout curtains for saving you from spontaneous combustion. The apartment is dark, mercifully quiet—until you unlock the front door and crack it open.

Blinding light sears your eyes. You hiss, slapping a hand up to shield your face. “AGH—fuck.”

Blink, blink, blink. And then—

Yoongi.

He’s standing there, hair swept back casually, black hoodie, dark navy jeans, and somehow he looks so fucking hot your hungover brain considers dragging him inside and—wait. Why is he here?

“Can I help you?” Your words come out sharper than intended.

“Uh. I got your text. Thought you might need some water and stuff from the store.”

You blink again, this time at the plastic bags in his hands. Two of them, filled to the brim. Groceries. Supplies. Nourishment.

Text?

“I… texted you?” You step aside to let him in, then speed-walk back to your room, heart pounding harder than your head.

Your phone is right where you left it. You snatch it up and scroll.

You [9:48am]: might be dying. send me nourishment.

yoon [9:49am]: be there soon.

Your stomach sinks. Because you remember saying it out loud this morning. Into the void. To Siri. “Hey Siri, text Joon.” Not Yoon.

The universe, apparently, had other plans.

You shuffle back, sheepish, clutching your phone like it’s the smoking gun. “Ahh. My phone texted you on accident. Siri was supposed to text Joon. Not Yoon.”

He stares at you. Unreadable.

“Sorry, Yoongi.”

But he just shrugs, unbothered. “All good. I’m here now.”

And that’s the end of it, at least for him.

The grocery bags rustle as he sets them down on your counter like he’s done this a hundred times before. Bottled water, Gatorade, bananas, a loaf of bread, instant ramen, some kind of canned soup. Practical. Quietly thoughtful. So Yoongi it hurts.

You hover near the hallway like a feral animal half-ready to retreat. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He doesn’t look up, just lines the bottles on your counter. “But you asked.”

Your throat tightens, because technically? No, you didn’t. Not him, anyway. But the evidence is glowing on your phone, timestamped, undeniable.

“Thanks,” you murmur, rubbing your temples.

He glances at you then—sharp, assessing—and points at your couch. “Sit.”

It’s not a suggestion.

You shuffle over, flopping onto the cushions with a groan. The pounding in your head has synchronized with your heartbeat, steady and merciless. Yoongi appears a moment later with a cold water bottle and two painkillers, pressing them into your hands without ceremony.

“Drink.”

You obey, swallowing around the lump in your throat, wincing when the pills scrape down. The water’s blissfully cold, shocking you back into your body.

Yoongi sits on the other end of the couch, angled toward you, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. Casual, except not at all—because his eyes never leave your face.

You shift under the weight of it. “You really didn’t have to come.”

His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “Guess I wanted to.”

The room is too quiet after that. Only the hum of your fridge, the faint city noise leaking through your blackout curtains. You fiddle with the bottle cap, unscrewing and rescrewing it, until the words tumble out before you can stop them:

“Sorry about last night.”

Yoongi’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t move. “What are you sorry for?”

You bite your lip, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. Being weird. Disappearing. Getting too drunk. Take your pick.”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, finally breaking his stillness. His voice is low, deliberate. “You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”

You risk a glance, and it’s almost worse—the softness in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to be fragile. You don’t want him to carry you like glass. You want to be wanted.

Your pulse hammers. You clear your throat. “Still… thanks. For showing up.”

“All good,” he says again, simple, final.

But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. He just stays there, steady as ever, like he has all the time in the world to sit on your couch and wait for you to stop spinning.

You tip the water bottle back again, the plastic crackling against your palm. “The room’s not moving anymore,” you say, voice rough, “just… swaying.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Means your stomach hates you a little less.”

He’s still angled toward you, one knee on the cushion, hoodie soft where his forearm brushes the back of the couch. From here he smells like detergent and whatever clean thing lives in the dark fabric of his clothes—cool, familiar, a scent your body recognizes faster than your head does.

“You brought a whole survival kit,” you add, nodding at the lined-up bottles and the bananas he peeled and then un-peeled because you said the stringy bits were “criminal.”

“You texted,” he answers like it’s math.

“I texted Joon,” you correct, then wince. “Apparently.”

“Lucky for you Siri can’t spell.”

“You’re annoying.”

His mouth twitches; he lets it die. “You okay?”

“Define okay.”

He watches you. Not the hungover kind of watch—no pity, no soft head tilt. He tracks your eyes, your mouth, the way your fingers worry the ridges of the bottle cap like you’re trying to sand yourself smooth.

“I should’ve been with you,” he says.

The sentence lands heavy and simple, no preamble, like he ripped a stitch so it wouldn’t fester.

You blink. “At the party.”

“Yeah.”

“You were there,” you say, because that’s the safe version.

“Not with you.”

It scrapes something raw. You chase it with water; it doesn’t help. “Why weren’t you?”

He drags a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the coffee table like he can line his thoughts up next to the Gatorades. “I walked in, saw you on the floor, and—” He exhales a quiet, stuttering laugh with no humor in it. “—my brain just… shorted. You looked—” His gaze flicks back to you, sticks for a second on your mouth. “—and I got stupid. I went upstairs to get it together and then people kept talking and—”

“And Sori said hi,” you say, neutral as a knife laid flat.

His throat works. “She said hi.”

Silence folds in around you. The clock on your microwave stutters out a soft electronic tick every minute; the apartment’s old pipes clink somewhere in the wall like they’re chewing on ice.

He leans in, forearms on his thighs now, voice low enough you feel it in your ribs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t where I should’ve been. I’m sorry you blew out candles without me next to you. I’m sorry you went outside alone. I should’ve been with you.”

You want to deflect—aim a joke at his chest and watch it bounce—but the way he says it pins you to the cushion. “Why say it now?”

“Because you asked me last night not to be late,” he answers, eyes steady. “And I don’t want to be late for this.”

“For what?” Your mouth is dry again. But you don’t reach for the water.

“For the part where I stop pretending this doesn’t matter,” he says, and the words are so bare you almost flinch. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re my best friend.”

Your laugh comes out thin and mean to hide the way your pulse kicks. “Congratulations, you and Namjoon can share custody.”

He almost smiles. But he doesn’t. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I hurt you yesterday.”

You look at the floor, the gray weave of the rug you bought on sale because the reviews said it hid red wine. “I hate that you can tell.”

“I hate that I gave you a reason.”

Something loosens in your chest and tightens at the same time. “Then don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“You say that like you can control the future. Like it’s easy.”

“It’s not.”

You sit with that and so does he. The fridge hums in the kitchen, a car door thunks somewhere on the street. You can feel the apology vibrating in him, the unsaid parts pressing hard against the back of his teeth.

Your phone, abandoned face-down on the coffee table, gives a useless little buzz of an insignificant notification. His, tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, is quiet.

“You know,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t even want a party.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But the one thing I did want was…” You stop yourself, throat hot, eyes stinging. Feeling a little ridiculous right now.

“Me there,” he finishes, no triumph in it, only truth.

You meet his eyes and hate that they’re careful. “Yeah. That’s what I was looking forward to. And where were you?”

He shakes his head, slow. “Not there.”

“Then say it again. Properly this time,” you push, because you want to hear him choose it twice. “What you’re sorry for.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,” he says, steady. “I’m sorry I let the party swallow me when I should’ve found you. I’m sorry that I made you wonder if you mattered more than the people I was with.”

Your living room holds the words like they might break if it breathes too hard.

You drag a fingertip along the sweating ridge of your water bottle. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“It’s a start.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, tension leaking out like air from a pinhole. “I’ll take a start.”

“Hey! Don’t get cocky.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re about to say something reckless and small and yours—something about how you would have let him hold the sparkler while you made your wish—when a low vibration murmurs against denim.

He glances down. The sound is so quiet it could be the building creaking, but you feel the shift in his focus like a draft under a door. He fishes his phone out, checks the screen with that same careful face he wears when he listens to a half-finished demo.

He hits decline.

The buzz dies.

You watch his thumb hover a second too long over the glass, as if his finger can erase a name. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, looks up at you, opens his mouth—

The phone vibrates again. Louder now, insistent, trapped in fabric. He doesn’t move at first, like not acknowledging it might starve it of oxygen. It keeps ringing, patient and relentless.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, voice very calm, like you’re asking if he needs a coaster.

“No,” he says, just as calm.

The ring keeps threading between you.

“Who is it?” You tip your head, trying for breezy, landing on brittle.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Humor me.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight. The buzz goes on, familiar rhythm looping, and something inside you decides it’s done being polite. You reach forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist where the cuff of his hoodie meets warm skin.

“Let me see.”

He stills. Not resisting—shocked still. The privacy reflex hits late; you’ve already slid your hand down, already dipped your fingers into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like you own the right, already brushed knuckles to glass.

The screen flares up against your palm.

It’s only four letters. White text, black background, neat little vibration under your hand like the phone itself is smug about it.

Sori.

You don’t even really know her. Didn’t know she existed until last night. Don’t know if she’s an old friend, a new one, or just a passing shadow to Yoongi. You don’t know if she’s someone who laughs at his sarcasm the way you do, if she knows the way his voice drops when he’s serious, if she’s ever had him smile at her the way he smiles at you like you’re his.

But you know this: the second you see her name, your stomach twists sharp and painfully mean.

It’s nausea, hot and cold at once, like you’ve swallowed something that doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, climbs high, catches at the back of your throat. Your pulse stutters, and suddenly the whole room feels too small, too loud—even though it’s just you, him, the hum of the fridge.

Why should it matter? He can have friends. He can have whoever-the-hell Sori is. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not his anything. You don’t get to have a say.

And still—you hate it. Hate the way her name looks lit up in his pocket. Hate the way it rang twice, like she knew he’d ignore her once and was ready for round two. Hate the way your hand trembled when you pulled it out, like you were already bracing for the blow.

It’s pathetic, you think. It’s not even her. It’s the not-knowing.

Where she came from. Why she knows him. How close they are. If she knew him before you did.

That last thought lands like a sucker punch. You swallow hard against the bile.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t—

“Y/N.”

His voice cuts through your thoughts. Low and so careful.

You look up, and he’s already watching you. Watching the exact way your jaw tightens, the exact way your fingers still press against his wrist like you forgot to let go.

He sees it all.

And the worst part? You see him see it. The flicker of realization in his eyes, quick and sharp, like a spark hitting kindling. He knows.

He knows you’re jealous.

Yoongi tilts his head, still caught under your fingers where they’ve wrapped around his wrist. His mouth curves, faint, the kind of smirk that says he’s decided not to let the silence swallow you whole.

“So,” he says, slow, amused, “we’re just grabbing people’s phones now? That a new birthday tradition or…?”

You blink, throat tight. “I wasn’t grabbing, I was—” You stop. Heat crawls up your neck. “—I don’t know what I was.”

“Investigating?” His smirk deepens, but his voice softens with it. “That’s bold. Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”

The word hits too close. Your stomach flips. “I’m not jealous.”

“Mm.” He leans back, wrist still loose in your hold, like he’s giving you the chance to let go and not making a big deal out of the fact that you don’t. “Sure. Totally. That’s why you look like you’re about to fight Siri for connecting Sori’s call.”

Her name on his lips does something ugly to your insides and you suddenly feel like throwing up again. 

You groan and drop his wrist like it burns all the sudden. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, low and warm, no sting in it. “I mean, you didn’t even ask who she was before you went full detective. Kind of flattering, actually.”

Your chest squeezes. “It’s not—” You rub your temples, voice wobbling at the edges. “I just… I don’t even know who she is, Yoongi. I don’t know how you know her, or if you knew her before, or if she’s—” You bite the words off, sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”

His smirk eases, eyes steady on yours now. “You really want to know?”

You freeze. The question hangs there, heavy, tempting, terrifying.

“…No,” you say finally, lying through your teeth. “I don’t care.”

Yoongi hums, like he hears the truth tucked under the denial. Not pressing, not pushing—just sitting with it. Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dipping quiet.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, simple, sincere, “you’re the one I’d have rather been with last night. Not her. You.”

Your throat works, traitorous. You want to laugh it off, toss the line back, make it light. But the words sit heavy, glowing, and you can’t quite find the air to move them.

So instead, you look down at your lap, tugging at a loose thread on your blanket, and mutter the safest thing you can manage.

“You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling now. “But I’m your annoying.”

You half-smile, acknowledging his words that make your heart flutter more than they should.

He looks down at his lap before finding your eyes again. “And you have nothing to worry about.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “What does that even mean.”

“It means,” he says, confident and steady, “I could never replace you. If that’s why you’re… jealous.”

Your chest goes tight. “I’m not worried about being replaced,” you shoot back, too fast. “I’m worried about—”

You hear yourself hit the edge and slam on the brakes. No. Not like this. Not with last night still in your throat, not with someone else’s name still buzzing in his pocket.

“Worried about?” he asks, softer now. Patient, like he’s learned your tells and is offering you a way down.

You take a breath that doesn’t go anywhere. Then the words arrive all at once, tripping over each other like they’ve been queued for hours.

“Look. I don’t care if you’re having fun and going on dates or fucking around and just looking for casual sex.” Your voice is too bright, too sharp. “But last night I was super fucking annoyed that all your attention was on someone I don’t even know and never even heard of, when I wanted to be having the time of my life with you. You. My hot best friend. The one person I could joke with about that horribly fantastic party. But you weren’t there. And I know you said sorry, and I guess I forgive you, but I’ll be hurt for a little bit, but my point is… I wore that dress for—”

BZZ-ZZZZ.

You flinch like the sound touched your skin. His phone rattles in his hoodie pocket again, insistently, as if the universe just cannot help itself.

You’re halfway to smacking it out of him when you see his face.

He’s looking at you like you just said something holy by accident. Like you hung the moon and he’s been figuring out how to thank you ever since. Warm, startled, wrecked all at once. It’s not a look you’ve ever seen him aim at anyone else.

BZZ. BZZ.

He doesn’t even glance down this time. He reaches into his pocket without breaking eye contact, pulls the phone out, hits decline, and sets it face-down on your coffee table like he’s putting a lid on a pot before it boils over.

Silence spreads, thin and shimmering.

“You wore the dress for who,” he says, voice low, as if he’s afraid of scaring the truth back into its hole.

“For—” The word tangles. You swallow, hate the quake in your throat. “For feeling good,” you say, cowardly. Then quieter: “For… me.”

His mouth twitches—there and gone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and searches your face like it’s the only sheet of music he knows how to read.

“I didn’t give Sori my attention,” he says, measured. “I stood upstairs because I panicked. She said hi because Jin dragged her over. I nodded through a conversation I didn’t hear because every time you laughed, it was like the floor moved. Nothing happened. I left the balcony because I couldn’t stay one more second where I couldn’t touch you.”

Your pulse stumbles, catches, sprints. “You didn’t touch me downstairs either.”

“I tried,” he says, winces at himself, corrects quietly, “I asked. You said you were busy. You were right to say it.”

“I was mad,” you admit. It feels like handing him your throat. “I wanted you next to me and you weren’t. Then there was this… person. This name. And I—” Your voice roughens. “I hated not knowing if you were choosing her over me.”

His eyes soften like that’s the one hit that lands. “I wasn’t choosing anyone over you.” He taps a knuckle against the table, once, a valve for something hotter. “Sori is… Jin’s friend. She works A&R. Last night she wanted to talk about a feature for an artist. I told her no. Twice.”

“But she’s calling,” you say, because the facts are stacked on the table blinking up at you in bold font.

He drags a hand over his jaw. “She’s calling because I texted her at 2 a.m. to give her my number because Jin told me to.” A brief, humorless laugh. “She told me I was insane for texting her so late. Then she said happy birthday to you. Then she left her coat upstairs and thinks I can magic it out of the very locked building.”

“Oh.” The word is light; the drop in your stomach is not. “That’s… anticlimactic.”

“I’m sorry it isn’t salacious enough for your spiral,” he murmurs. “Want me to pretend I eloped?”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ll plan the reception out of spite.”

He smiles properly this time. Small. Real. Then it fades, not because it’s gone but because he’s turning the volume down to say the rest.

“You said you don’t care if I’m dating,” he says. “I’m not.”

“That’s a convenient coincidence.”

“It’s an inconvenient truth,” he replies, and if he were anyone else he’d be grinning at his own line. He isn’t. He’s looking at you like the next choice will rearrange the room.

Your heartbeat is a clumsy thing in your chest. “So what am I worried about, Yoongi?”

He tips his head, patient. “You tell me.”

You stare at him. At the hoodie you’ve seen a hundred times, the one you’ve stolen twice. At the hands he keeps hiding from the space between you like they might give him away. At the mouth that has laughed with you, cut with you, said things drunk that sober-you memorized and buried.

“I was worried,” you say, each word picked out like it’s lying under glass, “that I was the only one who felt… how I feel. And if I say it out loud, and I am the only one, I won’t get to have the part I already have.”

He inhales, slow, the kind of breath you take before you step onto thin ice. “The part where we’re… us.”

“Yeah.”

“And if you weren’t the only one?” he asks, so gentle you want to shake him.

“Then I’m still mad about last night,” you say, because your brain is a wild animal that insists on bargaining even with the door cracked open. “But maybe not… terrified.”

His gaze flicks, quick, to your mouth and back. “You wore the dress for me.”

It isn’t a question this time. It’s a mercy.

You let your eyes drop to your hands, the faint half-moons your nails pressed in your palm. “I wore it hoping you’d look at me and—” You bite down on the rest. Enough honesty for one breath.

“I looked,” he says. “I haven’t stopped.”

BZZ-ZZZZ.

The phone on the table makes a valiant attempt at resurrecting itself, skittering once against the wood. You glance at it, then back at him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“Let it ring,” he says softly. “Please.”

You do. For once you let something that isn’t him wait.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, enough that his knee brushes the cushion seam next to your thigh. The hoodie smells like detergent and something that’s just him; your stupid body registers all of it like facts it’s been starving for.

“Say the rest,” he asks. “The part after ‘I wore that dress for—’”

You breathe out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “God, you’re greedy.”

“I learned from the best.”

You look at him, and it’s like the party, the garden, the bench, the whole world has been a long hallway pointing here.

“For you,” you say. Quiet. True. “I wore it for you.”

His eyes close for a second like the sentence hits bone.

When he opens them, there’s nothing careful left.

“Come here,” he says.

You move first—not because he told you to, but because the space between you has been lying this whole time. You shift across the cushion, knees knocking, and his hand comes up like gravity to your jaw, thumb gentle at the corner of your mouth where last night smudged something you didn’t want.

He pauses, searches your face for a no you aren’t giving.

“Yoongi,” you warn, a wry smile trying to save you both and failing. “If you ask me if this is okay I might combust.”

He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Then save us both.”

You do.

And when your lips touch, it’s not fireworks. It’s not a car crash. It’s the simple, devastating relief of something finding its right place. He kisses you like he’s been waiting at a red light for a year and it finally turned green—he’s careful, then not, then careful again because he knows the shape of your edges. Your hand fists in the front of his hoodie. His fingers slide into your hair like they were always meant to be there.

The room doesn’t sway anymore. It stills.

When you pull back, barely, it’s only to breathe his name against his mouth and see the way it lands. He’s smiling, small and rueful and respectful in a way that makes your ribs ache.

“I’m still mad,” you whisper, because some small, stubborn part of you needs to plant a flag.

“I’ll earn my way out,” he murmurs. “Stay mad. Stay.”

“I planned to.” Your forehead tips to his. “For a long time, actually.”

BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.

You both glance at the table like you’re looking at a mosquito that thought it was a hawk. Yoongi reaches out without looking, flips the phone over with two fingers, and finally silences it.

“I’ll block her later,” he says, almost amused. “Tell her Jin has her coat but she has the wrong number.”

“Please do not drag the coat into your lies.”

“It’s not a lie.” He kisses you once, quick and devastating. “I’ll change my number.”

You snort, breathless, and he grins against your mouth like he just solved something complicated. The headache behind your eyes is a faint pressure now, not a drum. Your stomach is quiet. The buzzing is gone.

“Yoongi,” you say, and he hums, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw like he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops touching you. “I want to be stupid with you for a while.”

“Good,” he says, like he’s been waiting for someone to hand him permission to breathe. “I’m great at stupid.”

“Prove it.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, really look, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes go soft. “I’ll start by making you soup and holding your hair if you throw up.”

“Hot.”

“And then I’ll spend the rest of the day telling you every version of ‘nothing happened’ until even your jealousy gets bored and falls asleep.”

“Ambitious.”

He kisses your temple. “And after you nap, I’m going to apologize again for last night. Better. With sentences that aren’t trash. Then I’m going to ask you if I can take you on a date that doesn’t end with you wanting to fight Siri in the street.”

You blink. That word sits different now. Not heavy. Possible.

“And if I say yes?”

He smiles, quiet, certain. “Then I’ll try not to be late.”

You search his face for a loophole you can hide in. You don’t find one. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

He exhales like a man who’s been underwater and finally broke the surface.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and you do, tucking yourself into the corner of the couch with him like it’s been waiting for this exact geometry. His hoodie is soft under your cheek. His heartbeat is stupid and steady against your ear. The city hums. Somewhere in your kitchen, a Gatorade bottle sweats itself into a little ring on the counter.

When your phone buzzes on the table, it’s a text from Namjoon.

Joon: alive?

You smile into cotton and type with one hand.

you: yeah

you: soup incoming

you: don’t worry about the coat

Three dots. Then:

Joon: …what coat

You huff a laugh you didn’t know you had left. Yoongi doesn’t ask what’s funny. He already knows. He just kisses the top of your head like he intends to make a habit of it.

“Tomorrow,” you murmur, eyes already slipping shut despite yourself, “don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” he says, and the way he says it makes your body believe him before your brain does.

The phone on the table stays quiet. The soup pot waits. The dress is hanging somewhere in the dark of your closet like a witness.

You think about the way he looked at you before he kissed you, like the moon finally turned around and noticed who’d been holding it up.

And you reckon no one has ever looked at you that way before.

The soup tasted better than it should’ve.

Maybe it was because you were hungover and half-dead, maybe it was because Yoongi had leaned against your counter in that hoodie, scowling at the recipe on his phone like broth was a personal enemy, maybe it was because he kept sliding glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

Whatever the reason, you ate it. Slowly, gratefully. He made you drink water in between bites, muttered something about “keeping electrolytes up” like he wasn’t the one who showed up with a bag of bananas and Gatorade in the first place.

You laughed at him. He kissed you quiet.

Later, you curled up on the couch with a blanket big enough for two, his arm slung heavy and sure around you. Movies played half-forgotten in the background, your head on his chest, his thumb tracing idle circles against your arm. The kisses came soft and unhurried, the kind you could fall asleep in.

At some point, you must’ve.

Because when you open your eyes again, it’s morning.

Your room is flooded with pale light that slips past the blackout curtains, painting everything in soft gray. Your head doesn’t hurt anymore; your body feels loose, weightless. For half a second you let yourself drift, float in the warmth cocooned around you—until you realize that warmth isn’t the blanket.

It’s him.

Yoongi is behind you, his chest pressed firm against your back, his breath slow at your nape. His arm is heavy over your waist, tucked under your shirt just enough to graze bare skin. And when you shift, careful, testing—

Oh.

Your ass fits right up against his front.

Every nerve ending in your body lights up like fireworks.

You freeze. Absolutely still. Wide awake now in a way that feels criminal. Your brain, traitorous, starts cataloguing everything at once: the heat of him pressed along your spine, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight against your hip that tells you exactly how real this is.

Shit.

Slowly—so slowly—you breathe in. Out. You try to convince yourself you can relax, that it doesn’t mean anything, that this is just what happens when two people fall asleep in the same bed. Gravity. Logistics. Biology.

But then his fingers twitch at your waist. Just the barest curl, like even in sleep his body knows it wants you closer.

And you realize: you’re not going back to sleep. Not like this.

Your heart is in your throat, your pulse hammering loud enough you’re afraid it’ll wake him. You tell yourself not to move. You tell yourself you can stay perfectly still until he wakes up first. You tell yourself—

Then his breath shifts, deeper, warmer, nosing the back of your neck.

Oh, fuck.

“Yoongi…” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure you meant for him to hear it.

He stirs, the smallest sound in his throat, voice thick with sleep. “Mm. Still dreaming.”

Your chest tightens. “Of what?”

He shifts, breath warm against your neck, words barely brushing your skin. “You. Always you.”

The confession hits you harder than his body pressed against yours. Your pulse spikes, your body aching with the knowledge of how close he is—how hard he is—and how much you want him.

You twist carefully in his hold until you’re facing him, and he looks wrecked in the soft light—hair a mess, lashes heavy, lips parted. Beautiful. Real. Yours.

Your hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, clinging. “We should…” you murmur, breathless, “brush our teeth first.”

That earns the faintest crook of his mouth, still half-asleep. “Practical.”

You slip out of bed on wobbly legs, padding toward the bathroom. He follows a moment later, dragging a hand through his hair, hoodie slouched off one shoulder cause he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

The two of you stand at the sink, shoulders brushing, toothbrushes moving in quiet sync. He’s always had an extra toothbrush at your place. It should feel ordinary, domestic. Instead, the air between you hums, electric, sharp with what you’re not saying.

When you spit and rinse, lifting your gaze to the mirror, you catch him watching you—awake now, eyes dark and unflinching.

You set your toothbrush down, breath caught. “Yoongi—”

But he closes the space before you can finish, hand cradling your jaw as his mouth finds yours, cool mint still fresh on his tongue, and suddenly you’re gone—burning, melting, needing him like air.

It’s not the soft, careful kiss from last night—it’s greedy, impatient, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally decided to inhale.

You gasp, hands fisting in his hoodie, and he uses that tiny opening to lick into you, tongue sliding against yours until you’re dizzy. The counter digs into the backs of your thighs before you even register he’s moved you, his hands braced firm at your hips, lifting, setting you down on the cold marble like it’s nothing.

The world tilts, and then it doesn’t matter—because Yoongi is standing between your knees, kissing you like the end of everything. Hard. Hot. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

Your fingers claw into his hair, tugging, desperate. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating straight through you.

You break for air only long enough to see him—lips red, pupils blown, hoodie collar bunched in your fists. His forehead tips against yours, breaths ragged. “Fuck, Y/N,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’ll never get enough.

His hands roam—up your sides, over your waist, sliding beneath your shirt to find bare skin, warm palms branding every inch they touch. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer until you feel the solid, unmistakable press of him right where you need it.

The sound you make is shameless. His answering groan is worse.

“Been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your mouth. “About you. For so long.”

You kiss him harder, swallowing the confession whole, because if you don’t, you’ll beg. And you’re already half a second from begging anyway.

The kiss doesn’t slow. It only deepens—messier, hungrier, your lips swollen, teeth clashing as his tongue tangles with yours. His hands grip your thighs like he’s terrified you’ll slip off the counter, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there as if reminding himself of the fact that this is real.

“Fuck,” Yoongi groans into your mouth, breaking away just long enough to drag his lips across your jaw, down your throat. “You taste… fuck, you taste better than I dreamed.”

Your head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud, a whimper spilling out before you can swallow it. “Yoongi—”

“Say it again,” he murmurs against your skin, lips hot at the hollow of your throat. “Say my name like that.”

“Yoongi.” It’s desperate this time, broken open.

He bites down gently, sucking a mark into your skin that will brand you tomorrow, and the sound you make has his breath hitching. His hands slide higher, skimming beneath your shirt until his thumbs are brushing the underside of your breasts, not quite touching, just teasing, making your body arch toward him instinctively.

Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging him back up so you can crash your mouth against his again. He takes it, gives it back tenfold, kissing you like he’ll starve without it.

“I wanted this,” you pant against his lips. “Last night. The night before, at the party.” You dive in for more kisses. “All night. You—”

“Me too,” he cuts in, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you so bad I couldn’t breathe. Thought I was gonna lose it if I touched you.”

You whimper, and his grip on your thighs tightens. He kisses you once more, then pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. His eyes are dark, blown wide, but there’s something steady under it, something careful.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough but low and respectful. His thumb strokes against your skin, grounding. “Let me go down on you.”

The question hangs in the air, heavy, sparking against every nerve in your body.

Your breath stutters. Heat pools low in your stomach, your legs already parting without thought, like your body made the decision before your mouth could.

You nod frantically, hips jerking forward, the word tumbling out of you on a broken pant. “Please.”

Something in his face twists—like he’s both wrecked and relieved at once. He kisses you again, hard and quick, stealing your breath before dropping to his knees on the cold tile.

The sight alone nearly undoes you. Yoongi, kneeling between your thighs, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, dark hair falling into his eyes as he pulls off your sleeping shorts and presses your knees wider. Like you’re something to be opened. Something to be savored. But he leaves your lacy panties on.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and gravely, hands sliding up the insides of your thighs. His thumbs trace soft circles there, teasing closer, closer, until you’re arching toward him without shame.

He glances up once, eyes locking with yours, dark and steady. “I need to taste you.”

You moan just at the sound of it, head tipping back against the mirror, and then he leans in—pressing one hot, open-mouthed kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The wet heat of his tongue seeps through, and you jolt, a whimper breaking free.

“Yoongi—”

He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “So sweet already.” His fingers hook under the edge of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs with agonizing slowness, eyes never leaving yours.

When the fabric hits the floor, he nudges your knees apart wider, settling in like he belongs there, and lowers his mouth to you.

The first stroke of his tongue has your whole body jerking off the counter. He grips your thighs firmly, holding you open as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning you by taste.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans against your cunt, tongue circling your clit before flattening to lap at you with long, unhurried strokes. “How do you taste so fucking good?”

Your hands slam against the counter edge, searching for stability. You’re panting, gasping, every nerve ending set on fire as he works you open with his mouth. His tongue teases, licks, sucks, alternating pressure until your thighs tremble around his head.

“Please,” you whimper again, tugging his hair without realizing it, and he moans into you like he likes the desperation, like he needs it. The sound shoots straight through you, white-hot.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth wet, lips red, eyes molten. “Yeah? You want more?”

You nod frantically, words spilling out ragged. “Don’t stop—please, Yoongi, don’t stop.”

His smirk is faint, wicked. “Wasn’t planning to.”

And then he dives back in, tongue relentless, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking until your vision blurs out.

You choke on a moan, your whole body arching, thighs trembling around his head, and Yoongi just holds you steady, eating you like he could live here forever. Like he’s been starving for this exact moment, for you.

You’re so fucking close.

And Yoongi doesn’t let up. His tongue works you with steady, devastating precision—long, slow licks that drag all the way through your folds, sharp flicks against your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until you’re keening, your hips jerking helplessly against his hold.

“Yoongi—fuck—” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling without thought.

He groans like your desperation is feeding him, his mouth sealing over you tighter, tongue pressing into you with purpose. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice wrecked but steady. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.”

Your thighs tremble around his head, every nerve firing, heat winding tight in your belly. He feels it—of course he does—because his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you open as his pace grows just a fraction more deliberate.

He draws lazy circles over your clit with his tongue, building, building, relentless in the way only he could be. You’re panting, breaking apart, teetering on the edge—

“Yoongi, I—I’m—”

“Yeah,” he rasps, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth. “Come for me.”

And right before you do, he slides his middle finger inside you and curls it perfectly.

You gasp, “Fuck—YOON—“

It rips through you sudden and hard and sharp, your whole body arching off the counter as pleasure detonates in waves. Your cry echoes against the bathroom tiles, thighs clamping around his head while he groans into you, pumping and curling his finger just right inside you. His mouth still on your clit, licking you through it, slow and unhurried, savoring every twitch and pulse.

Your grip in his hair turns shaky, your body slumping back against the mirror as aftershocks roll through you. You’re wrecked, panting, dazed—and Yoongi finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, eyes dark and glowing all at once.

“Fuck,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re gorgeous like this.”

You barely manage a whimper before his arms are sliding under you, lifting you off the counter like you weigh nothing. You bury your face against his shoulder, still trembling, as he carries you out of the bathroom.

Each step toward your bed feels surreal, dizzying. The sheets are cool against your back when he lowers you down, settling between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging you in.

He leans down, kissing you deep—mint, salt, and you—and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He doesn’t let you look away, doesn’t give you space to doubt.

“Round one,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hot on your skin. “Now let me ruin you properly.”

His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, slow and chaste even as his hands are shaking with urgency. He kisses you as if he wants to memorize every inch of your skin before he dares take more.

Then he leans back, tugging his hoodie over his head. It falls to the floor in a heap, followed by his t-shirt, leaving him bare chested above you—lean muscle, pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady as he stares down at you.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I?”

You nod, frantic. “Please.”

The shirt comes off, your bra following, and for a long moment he just… stares. His mouth parts, his chest heaves, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe this is real.

“Beautiful doesn’t even come close,” he says, voice raw, almost angry at the limitation of language. “Fuck. I wish I had a better word, but you—” He swallows hard. “You make me stupid.”

Heat floods your face, your chest, all the way down to your core. You reach for him, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing him messy, urgent, because if he keeps looking at you like that, you’ll combust.

His sweats are loose at his hips, and your hand slips down, tugging at the waistband until you find him. Hard, hot, heavy in your palm. You wrap your fingers around him, pumping slow at first, and the moan he lets out into your mouth nearly undoes you.

God, he’s thick. Not the longest, but girthy, solid, filling your hand so completely you know the stretch is going to wreck you in the best way. You stroke him again, thumb swiping over the damp slit, and his hips jerk helplessly against your hand.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, kissing you harder, tongue pushing deep like he can’t control himself. His whole body shudders above you as you pump him, and it makes your stomach twist with heat knowing you’re unraveling him this fast.

But then he breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Stop—”

You freeze, eyes wide. “Did I—?”

“No,” he blurts, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. “It’s not that. It’s—” He exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he looks at you again, raw and unguarded. “This is too much. You’re too much. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, and now it’s actually happening, and if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna last. Not the way I need to. Not the way you deserve.”

Your heart thuds, your chest tight. He’s not joking. He’s deadly serious, like the gravity of this moment is messing with his entire body.

Yoongi kisses you again, slower this time but with more passion. “Let me take it slow first. Let me make it last.”

For a moment, time itself slows down.

You’ve imagined this—fantasized about it in quiet, shameful corners of your mind—but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of Yoongi above you, stripped down and wrecked, telling you he’s waited for this as long as you have. It feels unreal. Like the universe pressed pause just so you could see him clearly: your best friend, the man who knows your darkest jokes and your softest silences, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re so in love with him it feels like your body can’t contain it. Every heartbeat is a reminder: you’ve waited for this. You’ve lived for this. And now it’s happening, right here, in his hands.

Yoongi’s mouth returns to yours, slow and languid, even as his hands tug at the last barrier between you. He peels his sweats and underwear down, dragging them over his hips without disconnecting the kiss. When he’s completely bare, he pulls back just enough to look at you beneath him—really look—and the sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes dark, hungry, but shining with something more. “You’re… god, I don’t even have the words. You’re everything.”

Heat floods through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively. But he’s already there, easing them apart with gentle hands, sliding down the bed until he’s between them again. He kisses along your inner thigh, slow, worshiping your skin, then presses one finger inside you, careful but firm.

You gasp, back arching. He groans at the sound, eyes locked on your face as he works you open, sliding deep, curling just right until your hips jerk. “So tight,” he mutters, kissing your knee. “Need to get you ready for me.”

Another finger joins, stretching you more, and the pressure builds deliciously. You clutch at the sheets, moaning helplessly as he pumps them steady, scissoring you open while his thumb circles your clit. He watches you unravel, his lips parted, his breathing rough. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”

When your thighs start trembling again, he pulls back, dragging his fingers out slowly, leaving you empty and whimpering. He’s already reaching into the pocket of his sweats, pulling a condom out and tearing it open with his teeth.

Your eyes widen. “You—?”

“Always prepared,” he rasps, rolling it down his cock with practiced hands. He catches your expression and gives a small, crooked smirk. “What? You think I didn’t come over here prepared after seeing you in that dress?”

And then he’s there—thick and hot and heavy in his fist, lining himself up against your entrance. He pauses, hovering over you, one hand cupping your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours. His voice is low, almost shaking. “This is it. Are you okay?”

Your body is already begging, already slick and open for him. You nod frantically. “Yes. Please, Yoongi. I need you.”

He exhales sharply, hips rolling forward, and you feel it—his cock pushing into you, slow, careful, stretching you inch by inch. Your jaw falls open, a broken cry spilling out as the stretch burns in the best possible way. He’s thick, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.

“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder, his voice raw. “You feel—shit—you feel so good.”

The stretch has your body clenching tight around him, every nerve alight. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, not in length but in sheer girth, the kind of fullness that makes you dizzy, makes your thighs shake. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in as he bottoms out, burying himself fully inside you.

“Yoongi—oh my god—”

He holds still, chest heaving, giving you time to adjust. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, peppering kisses like he can’t stop himself. “Tell me when,” he pants. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You shift, rolling your hips experimentally, and the shock of pleasure rips a moan out of you. “Now,” you whisper, desperate. “Move, please.”

He pulls back, slow, then thrusts in again, and the world tilts. The drag of his cock against your walls is overwhelming, toeing the line between pain and ecstasy, and you cling to him, panting his name.

“Fuck—” he grits out, thrusting again, harder this time, the rhythm building as he loses his control. “So tight, so perfect—been dreaming about this for so long. About you.”

Your heart lurches, tears stinging your eyes at the rawness in his voice. You kiss him hard, swallowing his moans, your body clenching around him with every deep, deliberate thrust.

He fucks you slow but rough, every push in like a confession, every pull out dragging another plea from your lips. His grip on your hips is bruising, his mouth a litany against your skin: beautiful, mine, always wanted you, fuck, I love the way you feel.

The world shrinks down to this—the stretch, the heat, the sound of his moans in your ear, the way he’s finally, finally inside you.

Yoongi thrusts into you again, slow and deep, and then suddenly pulls out, chest heaving. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, flipping you gently onto your stomach.

“Want to see you like this,” he mutters, voice rough, guiding you onto your hands and knees.

And then he’s pushing back inside, thick cock sliding into you from behind, and the angle makes you cry out, the stretch sharper, deeper. You drop your head forward, moaning his name as you rock your hips back into him.

“Yoongi—fuck, yes—”

His grip tightens, and he drives into you harder, each thrust making the headboard slam against the wall. The sound is obscene, wet and desperate, the slap of skin against skin echoing in your ears.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, and then he stops—just stops moving. His hands hold your hips while you keep grinding back on him, fucking yourself on his cock like you’ll die if you stop. The stretch is brutal, dizzying, but you don’t care—you need it, you need him.

And then his hand reaches around to find your clit. His middle finger makes contact with your bundle of nerves, drawing tight circles on you, and your whole body jolts back, forcing his cock even deeper as you cry out.

“Ahh! Yoongi—mmm—”

He watches you, totally entranced by your sounds alone. Then he rocks his hips—just a little—and he has you aching for more.

You whine, voice wrecked. “Want to ride you.”

He groans, ragged, and pulls out just long enough to shift. “Come on, then.”

He falls back against your headboard, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, cock hard and gleaming. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and take him in hand, guiding him back to your entrance.

The second you sink down, both of you moan in unison—loud, broken, unrestrained. The angle is deeper like this, his cock spearing you open until you feel him in your gut.

“Oh my god,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders. “So—so deep—”

He fists your hips, holding you steady, but it’s your body doing the work, bouncing on him, taking him in over and over as your tits sway with every movement. He leans forward, mouth hot and desperate against your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing.

You cry out, arching into it, and he switches to your other breast, leaving marks on your skin, kissing and sucking like he wants to brand you. Because he does.

Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alive. The words almost spill out—I love you, I love you, I love you—but you choke them down, terrified it’s too soon, terrified it will shatter this moment.

But the way he looks up at you as you ride him—eyes wide, blown, gazing at you like you’re his epiphany—almost gives him away. Like he’s holding back the same words. Like he’s already yours. And you both know it.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, hips bouncing faster, harder, chasing the edge.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, head falling back against the wall, jaw clenched as he watches you take him. “You’re perfect—you’re fucking perfect—”

The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm crashes through you, violent and consuming. You scream his name, clenching tight around his cock, body shaking as you ride it out.

“Shit—” he groans, hips thrusting up into you desperately, chasing his own release. “Can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You grip his hair, pulling his face against your chest as he unravels beneath you, spilling hot inside the condom with a guttural moan of your name. His whole body shudders, his cock pulsing inside you as he rides it out, holding you down on him like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.

You collapse against him, both of you panting, trembling, sweat-slicked. His arms wrap around you, tight, like he’s gluing you to him.

And in the quiet that follows, the only sound your ragged breaths, you realize the truth you almost said out loud: you love him.

And maybe, just maybe, the way his lips press against your temple, lingering, passionate, means he feels the same.

But then—his hands shift. One trails down your spine, settling at your ass, squeezing lightly as if testing the weight of you. He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your collarbone.

“Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Even after that.”

You jolt, still full of him, your body clenching reflexively around his cock where he’s still buried inside you. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on your hip tightening.

“Yoongi—” you gasp, shivering.

“Yeah,” he grits, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot on your lips. “You feel that? Can’t even move without—fuck.”

And just like that, the aftercare melts right back into heat.

You shift in his lap, rocking your hips the slightest bit, and his eyes roll back, a groan tearing out of him. “You’re insane,” he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth clashing, desperation bleeding into every stroke of his tongue.

“Can’t stop,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t want to.”

He grabs your ass with both hands, grinding you down against him, his cock twitching inside you as if his body agrees. “Good,” he growls. “’Cause I’m not letting you off me yet.”

You moan into the kiss, your thighs trembling as you start moving again—slow, steady rolls of your hips that have him swearing, begging under his breath. His lips find your neck, sucking fresh marks into your skin, as if he needs to leave proof that this really happened, that you’re his now.

Every touch, every kiss feels like aftercare and hunger at once—his hands soothing over your back while his cock drags deep inside you, his mouth worshipping your skin while his teeth nip and claim. It’s overwhelming, addictive.

And as you ride him again, slower this time but no less intense, you realize you could live in this loop forever—heat and tenderness, hunger and care, his arms around you and his body inside you, the two of you unable to stop because stopping would mean admitting this isn’t a dream.

You keep moving until your thighs ache, until your chest is heaving and his hands are clutching you like he’ll die if you stop. He kisses you through it, messy and hot, every groan spilling into your mouth until finally your body gives up and collapses against his chest.

Yoongi doesn’t let you go. He rolls with you, easing both of you down until you’re sprawled across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, still connected, still pulsing with aftershocks. His hand drags lazy circles along your spine, his breath ragged against your temple.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice rough with awe.

You laugh weakly into his chest, too exhausted to form words, your smile pressed against his damp skin. He tightens his arms around you in answer, burying his nose in your hair.

The room is quiet but charged, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, your bodies still humming. Every shift of your hips makes him groan, and every groan makes your pulse kick up again.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, teasing, though your voice is thin and shaky.

“Pot,” he mutters, squeezing your ass lightly, “meet kettle.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and let yourself melt into him. His hand drifts down to your hip, his thumb stroking absent patterns into your skin like he’s playing the piano.

It should feel like the aftercare part—gentle, winding down. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because beneath the laziness, beneath the sweat cooling on your skin, there’s still that ache, that pull. The knowledge that if either of you moved just right, it would start again.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his collarbone, and his body jerks, breath catching like the touch alone could get him hard.

Yeah. Insatiable doesn’t even begin to cover it.

—

—

© 2025 JJUNGKOOKII. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim as your own. Sharing links is always welcome—thank you for respecting my work! ♡

—

✨jjungkookii’s masterlist✨

—

The tech lead actually took a physical step back, his bravado evaporating the moment Steve's shadow fell over him.

"Excuse me," Steve said. The frequency of his voice seemed to vibrate right through the frantic noise in your head, obliterating half of your stress instantly. He didn't even acknowledge the other man's existence. His blue eyes locked onto yours, softening with a look of deep, observant concern.

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

You blinked, your brain struggling to switch gears from liquid cooling to your man.

"Steve? I'm right in the middle of a…" You gestured vaguely at the mess of schematics. It was a damned meeting you'd been praying to escape for hours, but the professional guilt still clung to you.

"It's kinda urgent," he repeated, his eyebrows scrunched in a way that made your heart jump. You quickly gave a once-over. He looked alright. Your mind immediately went to Bucky…was he hurt? Was there a mission that you were not aware of? You'd been so busy you felt like floating through the days. Without another word to the stunned tech lead, you excused yourself and followed Steve into the hallway.

As soon as the doors closed behind you, Steve turned immediately, his large hand winding around your waist to pull you into his space. You stumbled slightly, steadying yourself with your hands flat against his firm chest.

"Steve, what's going on? Is everything…"

"You look like you're about to snap in half," he murmured, cutting you off. He reached up, his thumb grazing the pulse point at the base of your throat, feeling the frantic rhythm of your lingering adrenaline. "Bucky's downstairs. The car is packed. We're leaving."

"Steve, I can't," you protested, your hands flying up to gesture wildly at the door you'd just exited. "We're a week behind on the next design phase, and if I don't finish figuring things out, the whole project stalls…"

"You've got five minutes," he interrupted.

His voice dropped an octave, shifting into that 'Captain' tone, the one that had led armies. It wrapped around you like an unyielding vine. It was a gentle warning, but a warning nonetheless.

"Go back in there, tell them what they need to know for the weekend. If you aren't out by the time the clock hits five, I'm coming back in there and putting you over my shoulder. I don't care who's watching."

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him about the deadlines and the arrays, but the steady, burning look in his eyes stopped the words cold. He wasn't joking. He was perfectly willing to carry you through a building full of high-ranking scientists.

"Five minutes," he reminded you, stepping back just enough to let you move, though his gaze never left your face. He leaned in one last time, a mischievous glint glimmering in his eyes. "Personally? I'd love an excuse to come back in and get you."

You rolled your eyes, a reluctant, exhausted smile finally breaking through the stress. You knew when you were beaten, and you were beaten long ago. Turning back toward the door, you prepared to give the tech lead the shortest briefing of his life.

Bucky was leaning against the driver's side door, looking far too relaxed in that blue Henley.

As you reached him, trailing behind Steve with your arms crossed and a pout that was mostly performative at this point, Bucky reached out. He cupped your jaw, tilting your face up.

"Thought for sure you'd be coming out over his shoulder," Bucky chuckled, as he leaned down to press a lingering kiss.

"I would've been if I stayed one second longer," you grumbled, though the fight was rapidly draining out of you.

Steve's grin widened, triumphant and impossibly bright as he tossed your laptop bag into the car. He looked back at Bucky, clapping a hand on the roof of the SUV.

"Told ya," he said, his voice brimming with that insufferable lift. "Five-minute warning worked like a charm. Didn't even have to break out the tactical carry."

"You need a break, sweetheart, and that's that." Bucky reaffirmed.

"I'm just outnumbered," you muttered against his chest as he pulled you into a quick, rib-crushing hug.

"Correct," Bucky murmured, already steering you toward the open passenger door with a smirk. "Now get in the car before Steve decides he wants to jog to the cabin and pull us there himself."

Steve scoffed, pulling you in for a kiss.

Charming idiots.

The transition from the sterile tension of the lab to the silence of the woods was almost jarring. As the SUV crunched over the last stretch of gravel, the cabin emerged from the treeline like something pulled from a dream--surreal, secluded, and perfect. Just stunningly perfect.

The structure was a beautiful contradiction of rugged timber and soft, inviting light. On the north side, the forest seemed to be trying to reclaim it; thick, ancient branches of hemlock and oak draped over the roof like a heavy green velvet cloak, shielding it from the rest of the world.

On the south side, the cabin opened up to a sprawling stone patio. It was laid with irregular flags of slate that still held the dying warmth of the afternoon sun. A set of Adirondack chairs sat perched near a fieldstone fire pit, overlooking a steep drop that revealed a breathtaking view of the valley below, now swathed in the purple haze of twilight.

Heavenly.

It was chilly, biting at your cheeks with a crispness that tasted of damp earth and pine resin. Every time you inhaled, the cold felt like it was scrubbing the scent of recycled office air out of your lungs. Your breathing finally leveled out, smoothing into a steady, deep cadence. For the first time in weeks, the only "thermal array" you had to worry about was the heat of the hearth waiting for you inside.

You gasped at the beauty of it all. As you looked around amazed at the scenary, Bucky decided to give you a piggyback ride and who in the right mind would say no to that.

As soon you stepped in, you were carried straight to the bedroom.

In no time, you were stripped and spread between your two men.

"One more, Plum, you can give us one more," Bucky groaned, his thrusts deepening.

You shook your head, whimpering in pleasure.

"She will, Buck," Steve rasped against your neck, pulling your thighs wider for Bucky to grind deliciously against you. With your back to Steve's front, he easily wrapped an arm around your throat, pulling your head up to give you a kiss.

You cried out loud as Bucky decided it was the moment to suck on your tit. In mere seconds, you were falling apart. Bucky groaned, pulling your face close to look you in the eye as he came.

"So pretty, babygirl," he whispered, tugging you into his arms and you let him. Their intoxicating smell wafting around you and the fire crackling in the hearth put you asleep in mere seconds.

You lay there, head smushed on Bucky's chest, limbs tangled between Steve's thighs, and fingers clutching onto Steve's hand, which was wrapped around your waist. They had cleaned you up and put on a soft, oversized t-shirt.

Steve waited a full five minutes after your eyes closed before he dared to move, gently tucking the edge of the blanket around your chin. "Look at her," he whispered, his voice thick with affection wrapped in worry. "You should've seen her in that lab, Buck. I thought she was going to bite that guy's head off."

Bucky let out a silent huff of a laugh, his chest vibrating against your back. He adjusted his arm protectively wrapping you more closer to him weight across your waist.

"Look at those eyebags, she's fucking sapped," Bucky whispered.

"Stubborn as a mule," Steve said, moving closer.

"You mean to say as stubborn as you?" Bucky raised a brow.

Steve rolled his eyes, scoffing weakly.

Bucky snorted, the sound raspy in the quiet room. "Don't you start, Punk. With all the 'I can do this all day.' Where do you think she learned that it's okay to run yourself into the ground?"

"I am not that stubborn," Steve countered, though his protest was weak.

"Right," Bucky whispered, his eyes gleaming with fond exasperation in the firelight. "Honestly, Steve, between the two of you, I'm the only reasonable one in this relationship."

Steve raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Bucky, "Reasonable? You're the one who wanted to barge in and beat the shit out of the people worrying her."

"Hey," Bucky muttered defensively, his jaw tightening slightly before he softened again, looking down at you.

Steve reached over, his hand resting briefly on Bucky's shoulder, bridging the gap over your sleeping form. "Well, she's here now."

"Yeah," Bucky murmured, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushion. "Mission accomplished."

Bucky had breakfast ready the moment you'd stepped through the door. You tried to sidestep him, your mind still buzzing with the phantom sleep and the orgasms, but Bucky was faster. With a low, rumbling hum of disagreement, he snagged your waist, his large hand anchoring you before he effortlessly pulled you back and settled you firmly onto his lap.

"I'm not hungry, Buck," you insisted, your voice small as you tried to wiggle away from the heat of his chest.

"Oh, I'm not asking, Plum," he countered, his voice a smooth, gravelly command that brooked no argument. He picked up the fork, his metal fingers glinting under the kitchen lights as he held a perfect bite toward you. "Now open your mouth."

Your protests were wild, a flurry of "I'm fine" and "maybe later," but he simply waited you out with that steady, unimpressed gaze until you finally gave in. You let him feed you, one bite at a time.

"Good girl," Bucky murmured with a soft, satisfied smile, leaning in to press a warm kiss to your cheek the moment the plate was clear.

"What's he up to?" you asked, glancing toward the empty hallway, curious about the sudden lack of your other man.

"He's outside," Bucky said, shifting his weight comfortably beneath you. "Chopping some wood."

Your eyebrows shot up instantly, a devious spark lighting up your eyes as you realized exactly what that entailed. "And we're sitting here and missing out?" you asked, a breathless chuckle escaping you as you started to scramble off his lap. "Absolutely not. Let's go."

Bucky let out a short, rhythmic snicker, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched your sudden surge of energy. "Yes, ma'am," he said, offering no resistance as you grabbed his hand and began dragging him toward the door, eager to find where the sound of the axe was echoing through the trees.

You and Bucky settled on the weathered, wooden porch stairs. You leaned into him, your shoulder tucking under his, and he didn't hesitate, draping his thick arm around you, his thumb tracing absentminded circles over your arm as he rested his cheek against the top of your head.

Steve stood planted, his legs set wide for stability, the heavy splitting maul resting momentarily on the block. His skin is already gleaming, a light sheen of sweat catching the warm light, accentuating the deep, familiar contours of his physique...the broad slope of his shoulders, the thick ropes of his biceps, and the V-taper leading to his waist.

Good lord!

With an easy grace, he hoisted the maul high. The muscles across his back bunched and tightened. Muscles so fucking defined that it made you want to climb him up. He paused for a heartbeat at the apex before unleashing the downward swing with smooth power.

The maul dropped with brutal speed, hitting the dead center of the log. There's a sharp CRACK that echoed off the trees, and the two halves of the log spring apart symmetrically, landing neatly at his feet. Steve barely broke the rhythm. Before the sound even faded, he'd bent down to hoist the next piece of oak onto the block. He took a breath, his chest expanding, a slight ripple passing through his abdominal muscles as he readied the maul once more. The fragrance of pine resin and freshly split wood drifted thick on the cool air, mingling with the primal scent of your soldier.

Fuckin' hell!

What did you do to deserve your godly men? You were a lucky bitch, alright.

"Here to help me?" Steve asked, his voice carried effortlessly through the clearing. He didn't stop his rhythm. He reached down, calloused fingers hooking into a fresh log of oak, and hoisted it onto the stump with a grunt of effort that made the muscles in his forearms cord like steel cable.

Show off.

"No," you said, a traitorous giggle bubbling up as you watched the way the rising sun caught the sheen of sweat on his shoulder blades. You tucked your chin closer to Bucky's chest, hiding a devious smirk. "We're strictly here for the entertainment. It's a very high-quality show."

Steve paused, the heavy splitting maul resting near his boots. He looked over his shoulder, squinting against the golden hour light, his hair tousled and damp against his forehead. "You coming, Buck? Or are you just going to sit there with our girl and objectify me?"

Bucky didn't move an inch. He just squeezed you a little tighter, his chest vibrating with a low, rumbling chuckle. "What she said," he jested, his voice raspy and relaxed. He tilted his head, eyeing Steve's form with an appreciative sort of mischief. "Besides, you look fine without my help. Real fine."

"Real fine," you echoed with a dramatic, dreamy sigh, letting your head fall back against Bucky's shoulder so you could take in the full view of Steve's V-tapered back.

Steve let out a huff. With one final, fluid motion, he brought the maul down, burying the blade deep into the heart of the last log with a final, echoing thud. He left it there, the handle quivering, and turned fully toward the porch.

He stood there for a moment, chest heaving with the exertion, hands settling on his hips. He was flushed from the work, his skin glowing in the amber light, but it was the stupidly cute, lopsided smile on his face that really did you in.

"Tease me and see where that'll get you," he declared, his voice dropping into that low, 'Captain' register that usually made people stand at attention, but here, it was a playful promise.

That, of course, was all the permission you and Bucky needed. The teasing only intensified as Steve finally bridged the gap between the chopping block and the porch, smelling of fresh wood shavings and salt. He didn't just give you a good time, he showed you a real fine time.

Well? 😏

Take a moment to reblog if you enjoyed reading it. 🥹

So you wrote Yelena.

You wrote her number.

You wrote her most recent address

Again and again and again, on medical forms, on paperwork, on apartment leases, on job applicants and anything that asked who should be contacted if something happened to you.

It had always been Yelena.

Once, a hospital called her at two in the morning after you dislocated a shoulder in a rooftop in Queens, and she had arrived in the ER in pajama pants, combat boots, and a face so flat with irritation it was almost comforting.

“You are lucky I love you, sestryonka,” she had said, watching a nurse snap your arm back into place.

“You are not much older than me,” you murmured under your breath, not even flinching. 

Another time, when you had been grazed by a bullet and insisted it was “basically nothing,” she had threatened to staple your mouth while a doctor stitched you up because, apparently, your pain scale was “made by idiots, for idiots.”

That was Yelena. She was not gentle, not exactly. But she was there for you. Every time a hospital called, she came.

She was your best friend and your sister in every way that mattered. You had not shared parents or a childhood in the traditional sense, not even in the sense that Natasha had been to her. Still, you had shared training rooms, handlers, bruises, and survival. You had shared the particular feeling of being made into weapons by the same machine and then escaping with pieces missing, only to decide, stubbornly and badly, that you were going to be normal people anyway.

Yelena had been your emergency contact because she was the person you trusted to be there.

She was also the person who understood, better than anyone, that your definition of an emergency was not normal.

“You do not have to stab every man who deserves it,” she had told you once, bailing you out of jail in the early hours of Saturday morning. The cops had let you off on self-defense later, which was true but Yelena found it pleasantly shocking, especially considering how bad the wound you left was. She had her suspicions: mostly that you must’ve tampered with the documents, but who was she to judge? 

“I don’t stab every man who deserves it.”

“No,” she said, dry as dust, “only because there are not enough hours in the day.”

Which was probably why, for years, she had answered the emergency calls with the patience of a saint who had accepted her role in your life as sister, accomplice, and getaway driver.

Then Bucky Barnes happened.

—

You and Bucky lived next to each other in the Tower because Valentina had decided the New Avengers needed a base, a schedule, and probably several court-mandated group therapy sessions.

Not just you two, really. All the new avengers, after the Void incident, got crammed into one still-in progress building with too much fragile glass, too many cameras, and far too many sharp objects for people who pretended they were “doing better.”

You noticed Bucky because it was impossible not to.

He was quiet, but not empty. He was always careful, and you always saw him against a wall. He was always watching doors, windows, reflections, and hands. He moved through life like a man who had learned the world could turn on him without warning.

You understood that.

Maybe he noticed you for the same reason.

You both had old ghosts in different rooms. You might have had different handlers, but they did the kind of damage.

The first kiss happened after a mission.

You had made it home. You had showered. You had told Yelena you were fine, which made her stare at you like you had insulted her intelligence. Then you went to the training room because your body was still buzzing with murderous adrenaline and there was nowhere else to put it.

You hit the bag until your knuckles ached.

That was when Bucky said your name.

You stopped and turned. He stood by the door in a black Henley and sinful grey sweats, hair loose, brows furrowed as if he understood.

“I’m fine,” you said, pretending your knuckles weren’t bleeding through the wraps.

His mouth curved up, but he was not really amused. “Yeah. I know that one.”

You looked away.

He came closer, giving you every chance to tell him to leave. 

You didn’t. 

You just stood there, breathing hard, throat tight.

Bucky stopped in front of you. Suddenly, the room felt smaller.

You told yourself it was because he was being a good leader. That was all.

He was checking on his team. Emulating Steve, maybe, in that painfully earnest way he did when he thought no one noticed. He was just making sure everyone made it back from the mission in one piece. 

That was what leaders did, right? They noticed when a member went too quiet. They followed them to the training room. They stood too close with that gentle, worried crease between their brows and made it almost impossible to breathe normally.

It was definitely not because he was getting closer to you.

Definitely not because, over the last few months, he had started caring about you in ways that felt too intense to be casual. He had stitched you up when Yelena hadn’t been around, sitting close enough that his knee touched yours while his fingers worked carefully over your skin. He had found you in the common room after a nightmare once, shaking in the dark with your knees tucked to your chest, and instead of asking too many questions, he had disappeared for two minutes and come back with one of his too-big hoodies. He had handed it to you without a word, then sat beside you until the sunrise turned the windows gold.

It was definitely not because you had almost kissed him three times in the past two weeks.

Not in the kitchen at two in the morning, when you had both reached for the same mug and ended up standing too close, his eyes dropping to your mouth before he looked away.

Not in the elevator after the Berlin mission, when the power had flickered and his metal hand had caught your waist on instinct, steadying you even though you didn’t need steadying at all.

Not in the hallway outside the med bay, when he had brushed blood from your cheek with his human thumb and froze afterward, like he had only just realized he was touching you.

No. This was not that, right? 

Bucky Barnes was merely being responsible. 

He was your teammate. Your leader, technically. He cared because he cared about everyone. That was all.

Except he was looking at you like you were not everyone.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said.

That almost broke you. So, naturally, you tried to get mean about it. “I’m not pretending.”

Bucky’s eyes did not change. “Okay.”

You hated that. You hated his stupid patience, his awful gentleness, the way he didn’t push and somehow made you feel more transparent because of it. 

Anyone else would have argued. John or Ava would have told you to sit down. Alexei would have made some loud, affectionate declaration about strength and soup. Bob would’ve given you a self-help book and hoped it fixed you. Yelena would have stared at you until you confessed out of irritation alone.

But Bucky just stood there.

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, turning away from him. “You can go back to bed.”

“I could.”

“Great.”

“I’m not going to,” he tilted his head. 

You let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you’re not.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The good man thing.” You gestured vaguely at him, at his stupid stance, the stupid caring voice, the stupid beautiful blue eyes that kept finding every crack in you no matter how hard you tried to cover them up with plaster and concrete. “The checking-on-the-team thing. You’ve done it. Congratulations. I’m checked on.”

Bucky’s teeth  tightened, just barely. “I’m not here because of that, and you know.”

That made your throat close, looking away too fast.

“Don’t,” you said.

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to give me hope.”

The words left you before you could stop them.

Bucky could only stare at you, and for one terrifying second, you thought he would step back. You almost wanted him to; it would have been easier if he did. It would’ve been easier if he proved you right, if he retreated into duty and all the safe, noble reasons a man like him would follow a woman like you into a dark room after a bad mission.

But he didn’t move. He only said your name, not like scolding you. Instead, it sounded like he was trying to give you a rope, a lifeline, something to reach out to so you could get yourself out of the well you had willingly jumped in yourself.

Your eyes burned, and you hated him a little for it. 

Not really, but almost. 

Because Bucky had always gotten to you in ways no one else had, not even Yelena. Yelena knew your damage because hers had grown beside it, root tangled with hurt twin root, rotten as a result of the same poison in the same soil. She understood you like a blade understood a knife made in the same forge.

Bucky was different.

Bucky looked at you like he knew what it was to be made into a weapon and still wanted to touch whatever soul was still left underneath. He looked at you like he was not afraid of your pain, because he had spent a lifetime bleeding on his own. He didn't meet your defenses with force. He just stood there, ruinously patient, until your walls began to feel dumb for being up at all.

You shook your head and stepped back.

“I don’t need this.”

“I know you don’t,” he said. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Bucky took one careful step closer.

“You can push me away,” he said. “You can tell me to leave. If you really mean it, I’ll go.”

Your chest ached.

“But don’t lie to me because you think it’s easier.”

You swallowed hard.

His eyes dropped briefly to your wrapped hands, to the tremor you had not been able to hide, then came back to your face.

“I know easier,” he said quietly. “Easier doesn't mean it helps.”

And that was it.

That was the stupid, gentle thing that finally cracked you open.

Your shoulders lowered by half an inch. Your breath went thin. You looked down at your hands, at the loose wraps, and suddenly the whole room felt too bright, too much like the place you had been trying to run from inside your own head.

“I hate when it comes back,” you whispered. “I hate that they still get to have me like that.”

His face changed, not out of pity. Instead, it was recognition.

His hand lifted carefully, like touching you was sacred and dangerous all at once. When you didn’t move away, his fingers settled against your cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

Bucky didn’t look shocked by the confession. He looked like he had been waiting for you to stop holding it alone.

“Look around,” he said, voice almost rough.

You swallowed. “Buck—”

“No,” he insisted. “Just look.”

So you did.

Past him, past the punching bag still swaying faintly from where you had been hitting it, past the mirrored walls and polished floor and bright lights. Beyond the training room doors was the rest of the tower. You could see the hall that led to the common room where Yelena kept pretending she didn’t leave snacks out for you when she knew you hadn’t eaten. The kitchen where Alexei made too much food and called it portion control. The hallway Ava drifted through like a ghost when she was tired. The pool table where John had taught Bob how to play when he was close to relapsing, just so he could take his mind out of the drugs he was craving. 

You were here, in the strange, broken, impossible home all of you had built because none of you knew what normal looked like.

“You’re safe,” Bucky reassured. “You’re in the tower. You’re surrounded by the only people in the world who could maybe come close to understanding you.”

Your throat tightened when he stepped a little closer, his hand still on your face.

“We protect each other,” he said. “We look out for each other. Because we’ve established, pretty clearly, that none of us can be left alone without causing some kind of international incident, right?”

A broken laugh slipped out of you despite trying to hold it back.

Bucky’s mouth gentled, but his eyes stayed serious.

“They don’t have you,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Your breath shuddered as his thumb moved once over your cheek.

“We have you,” he said, smaller now. “Yelena has you. The team has you.”

He hesitated, as if the last part would cost him something. As if saying it out loud was more dangerous than any mission he had ever walked into. But because it was you, he said it anyway.

“I have you.”

Oh. 

Bucky looked at you like he meant every word. 

It was not duty, not leadership, not the good man thing you had accused him of earlier. He was simply standing there in front of you, asking for nothing, offering everything, and trying very hard not to look terrified by how much he wanted you to believe him.

You stared at him.

His hand was still warm against your face. His body was close enough now that you could feel the heat, close enough that you could see the rapidly healing little cut on his forehead from the mission, the bruise blooming near his neck, the way his eyes dropped to your mouth and then dragged themselves back up like he was trying to be good.

He was trying so hard.

That was what undid you: the way Bucky Barnes, who could have taken apart the whole room without breaking a sweat, held you like you were sacred and waited for you to choose.

So you did.

“Buck,” you whispered.

His breath caught. “Yeah?”

You rose onto your toes and kissed him first.

Just like that. 

You were aware of how warm, aching, and sudden it was. Your hands held the front of his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric. For half a second, Bucky went completely still, like his body had forgotten what to do with being wanted.

Then he made a small sound against your mouth, not quite a groan as much as a sigh of relief. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, while his metal hand settled at your waist like he needed to anchor you without trapping you. He kissed you back like he had finally snapped, but softly. He had been holding himself back for weeks, maybe months, and now that you had crossed the distance first, he still refused to rush you.

You pulled him closer, and he came willingly.

The kiss deepened, enough to make your heartbeat trip, enough for his breath to turn uneven against your lips. Your hands moved up his chest, and Bucky’s fingers flexed at your waist before he forced them to be gentle again.

You felt that too.

When you finally pulled back, barely, his forehead rested against yours.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The punching bag had stopped swinging. Your hands had stopped shaking.

Bucky’s eyes stayed closed, his breath warm against your mouth.

“I have you,” he whispered again, like a promise.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I know.”

You kissed him once more, smaller this time. 

When you finally pulled away, Bucky looked wrecked.

Yours, though neither of you had said it yet.

You touched his stubble with your thumb.

“We don’t have to talk about it tonight,” you said.

His eyes closed for half a second.

“Mmm,” he hummed, then he kissed your forehead, right between your brows.

And when he took your hand and led you out of the training room, neither of you let go.

—

It took a week for anyone to mention it.

A full week.

Which, considering you all lived on the same floor and had the collective subtlety of a grenade launcher, was honestly impressive.

You and Bucky had not exactly been hiding it well, anyway. He stood closer now. His hand found your lower back when he passed behind you in the kitchen. You wore his shirts more often than your own clothes. He had started looking at you across rooms with this horribly longing expression that made you want to throw a magazine at him and kiss him stupid in equal measure.

The whole thing came apart in the common room on a Thursday evening, because John Walker had the social grace of a brick through a window.

You were reaching over the counter for the ketchup when John looked up from his steak, frowned slightly, and said, “You smell different.”

Every single person at the table froze.

You turned your head. “Excuse me?”

John, apparently realizing too late that this was a weird thing to say out loud, gestured vaguely with his fork. “Not bad. You just smell like Barnes.”

Bucky stopped chewing.

Yelena’s eyebrows shot up.

Ava looked down into her mug like she could already see where this was going and wanted no part in preventing it.

Alexei leaned forward with immediate interest. “Like Barnes how?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. His soap? Cologne? Whatever old men use.”

Bucky looked offended. “Old men?”

Before you could save the conversation, Bob, who had been peacefully munching on his fries at the end of the table, said, “Oh. It might be because they were making out in the sauna earlier.”

What followed was utter catastrophic silence.

Your hand tightened around your mug.

Bucky stared at Bob like he had just launched a missile.

“You saw us?” you hissed.

Bob looked up, mildly confused by everyone’s reaction. “Yeah.”

Bucky’s voice went very careful. “And you didn’t say anything?”

Bob thought about it. “You both looked busy.”

John dropped his fork with a clatter. “I’m sorry, what?”

Alexei slapped both hands onto the table. “In the sauna?”

“It wasn’t—” you started.

Bucky said at the exact same time, “We were not—”

Yelena pointed at both of you. “Oh my god.”

You looked at her, bracing yourself for the protective sister routine. Maybe an interrogation, or a threat. Instead, Yelena broke into the most smug, delighted grin you had ever seen.

“I knew it.”

Bucky’s head turned toward her. “You knew?”

“Obviously.” She leaned back in her chair, looking disgustingly pleased with herself. “You two have been making eyes at each other for months. It was pathetic.”

“It’s really not,” you said.

Ava hummed, because apparently this was a good time to speak up. “It was a little.”

You felt betrayed. “Ava.”

Alexei looked between you and Bucky with shining eyes. “This is beautiful. Two damaged assassins finding love in luxury wellness room.”

Yelena waved a hand. “Whatever. You two are perfect for each other.”

That, weirdly, was what shut you up.

Bucky froze beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. You could feel him looking at you, you could feel that private warmth that had started between you in the training room and somehow survived a week. 

“You think?” you asked, more vulnerable than you meant to.

Yelena’s eyes softened just slightly. Then, because she was Yelena, she ruined it immediately. “Yes. You are both dramatic, emotionally constipated, and terrible at pretending you are not in love.”

Alexei looked near tears. “I support this union.”

“There is no union,” Bucky said, ears pink.

You glanced at him, half joking. “No?”

His mouth opened, but closed almost immediately. 

“Yet,” Bob said under his breath. 

Yelena made a triumphant noise. “Ha!”

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face while the entire table erupted, everyone talking over each other at once. John was asking when it started. Alexei was demanding to know who kissed who first. Ava calmly said she had assumed it happened months ago because Bucky had stopped looking like a kicked dog whenever you walked into a room. Bob asked if the sauna was now off-limits for everyone else.

And through all of it, Bucky’s hand found yours under the table.

You looked at him.

He looked mortified. Happy, though.

So happy it made your chest hurt.

You squeezed his hand back and smiled into your drink while Yelena loudly declared, “Finally. Maybe now the sexual tension in this Tower will stop clogging the ventilation.”

—

For six months, Yelena thought the whole thing was very funny.

At first, anyway.

It was funny when Bucky started leaving his jackets in places you could “accidentally” find them, as if anyone in the tower believed you just happened to keep ending up swallowed in navy cotton that smelled like him. It was funny when you and Bucky tried to sit normally on the couch and still ended up pressed shoulder to shoulder, your knee hooked over his, his hand resting on your thigh like he had forgotten other people had eyes. It was especially funny when Alexei called him your American house cat and Bucky looked personally wounded while you gave him doe eyes, trying to convince him that you both should adopt an actual house cat.

Yelena teased him mercilessly. She teased you worse.

But mostly, she liked it.

Because in the end, Bucky was good for you. He understood the coldness you wrapped yourself in after bad missions. He didn't flinch when you woke up violently from nightmares. He never asked you to be smaller than you were.

And, irritatingly, you were good for him too.

You made him laugh more. Not loudly, not often, but enough that Yelena noticed. You made him less haunted in the mornings. You made him complain about normal things, like burnt toast and John stealing his protein powder and Alexei singing in the shower. You made him human in little ways he had forgotten he was allowed to be.

So, yes, for six months, Yelena thought it was cute.

Until one night, when she decided it wasn’t.

It was one of your nights.

You had it once a month or so. You called it “me time.”

Everyone else called it, “the night you went out alone to random bars, played darts against biker gangs, wagered full-grown men out of their cash, and came home at two in the morning smelling like beer and smuggled cigars.”

Bucky hated those nights, and not because he wanted to stop you. He knew better than to try. You were not a houseplant. You were not fragile. You were a former Red Room operative with excellent aim and a deeply concerning fondness for humiliating men named things like Tank and Moose at bar games.

Still, the second you left, Bucky became useless. He checked his phone. He checked the windows. He made coffee and forgot to drink it. He stood in the kitchen like a widower in a war film, staring at nothing until Yelena threw a peanut at his head and told him to sit down before she sedated him.

Yelena didn’t worry. At least, not openly. She knew you. She knew you liked the adrenaline, the anonymity, the very specific joy of walking into a place where everyone underestimated you and leaving with an ego boost and cash in your pocket. It was stupid, yes, but not unusually stupid for you.

Besides, you always came back.

So once a month, everytime you went out for your “me time,” Bucky and Yelena would hang out together and pretend they were not both slightly empty without you.

They played cards. Sometimes they watched terrible action movies just to complain about the fight choreography. Sometimes they made food neither of them admitted you usually supervised. They never called it waiting up. But they were definitely waiting up.

The two of them were embarrassing without you. Truly embarrassing.

That was how they had ended up at the kitchen island playing heads-up poker with ammunition.

Yelena had dumped a box of bullets onto the counter and divided them into two little piles like poker chips.

“This is bad gun safety,” Bucky scolded.

“These are not in gun,” Yelena said, dealing the cards. “So it is fine.”

“That is not how it works,” Bucky complained, but took the cards anyway.

“You are losing,” Yelena insisted. “Stop distracting.”

“I’m not.”

“You have three bullets left,” she pointed out.

Bucky looked down at his sad little pile, and Yelena smirked. “Very tragic.”

“I’m distracted.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Because your girlfriend is not here and you are useless without her.”

He gave her a look over his cards. If this was how she was going to act, then two can play at that game. “You’ve checked your phone six times.”

“I am monitoring,” She sneered.

“You’re useless too.”

She kicked him under the counter, and he just glared at her.

This, somehow, was what they had become.

Two people with probably the highest body count in the tower, sitting in the kitchen past midnight, playing poker with loose ammunition because neither of them knew what to do with themselves when you weren’t there.

Yelena tossed a card down. “Raise.”

“With what?” Bucky sighed. “You have all the bullets.”

She slid one bullet forward. “I am generous.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but his phone rang before he could answer. He looked at the screen to see: Unknown number.

He furrowed his brows before he picked it up.

Yelena saw it and sat straighter, all the teasing draining out of her face.

“Barnes,” he answered.

What followed was a couple of seconds of terrible silence as he listened to the voice on the other side. 

Then his eyes flicked to hers. Yelena was already standing.

“What happened?” he asked, her voice low.

Her chair scraped back. “What is it?”

Bucky lifted one hand slightly, as if to say wait. His fist clenched slightly. “Is she conscious?”

Yelena’s stomach dropped. She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and threw Bucky’s at him before he had even ended the call.

“Metro General,” Bucky said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up. “It’s her,” he said.

“I figured that out, genius.” Yelena shoved her arms into her jacket. “How bad?”

“Forehead cut and a possible concussion,” he repeated back the information. “Awake, but mostly being difficult, apparently.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose. “So alive.”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she said, “I can kill her myself.”

They moved fast. Bucky barely remembered to grab his keys. Yelena scooped the ammunition back into the box with one sweep of her hand, because even in crisis she was not leaving loose bullets on the kitchen counter for her papa to find and turn into a story.

They hit the elevator together and the doors slid shut.

For two floors, neither of them spoke.

Then Yelena frowned. “Wait.”

Bucky looked at her, tilting his head. 

“Why did they call you?” She narrowed her eyes. “I am her emergency contact.”

For a second all Bucky could think was why does that matter so much— oh.

You had changed it.

To him.

Bucky looked down at his phone.

He tried very hard not to react. He really did. His face went blank in that deeply annoying winter soldier way, but Yelena had known him too long now. She saw the tiny shift, the warmth growing under the panic. She saw the stunned realisation in his eyes.

The pleased, fuzzy glow.

He was worried, obviously. But underneath it, was this absurd, boyish pride.

You had chosen him over her for emergencies. For hospital calls. For the ugly, inconvenient, blood-on-your-shirt parts of being loved.

Bucky looked like you had just handed him the moon and told him he was allowed to keep it.

Yelena stared at him. “Do not,” she said.

His head snapped up. “What?”

“Do not look all pleased.”

“I’m not pleased.”

“You are very pleased.”

“She’s in the hospital,” he insisted. “I’m worried.”

“And yet your face is saying, oh, I am her emergency contact now, this is very special for me.”

His ears went pink.

“You are pleased!” Yelena gasped. “This is disgusting. She has head wound and you are having moment.”

Bucky dragged a hand over his face. “I’m worried.”

“Yes, and pleased,” she crossed her hands over her chest. 

“I didn't even know she changed it,” Bucky said, exasperated now.

“I know.” Yelena sighed.

“I didn’t ask her to.”

“I know, Barnes.”

His voice lowered after a moment of silence, feeling a little guilty now. “She didn’t tell you either?”

Yelena looked away.

There it was: The small hurt she had been trying not to feel.

For years, it had been her number. Her phone ringing at two in the morning. Her job to show up with a jacket and a lecture. Her name on your forms because she had been your person before either of you had learned how to have people properly.

Now it was his.

Which was fine. Obviously.

Normal.

Healthy.

Terrible.

“I am fine,” Yelena forced out, knowing it wasn’t the answer to his question

He did not say anything, but she could tell he didn’t buy it. 

She hated him a little for that too. For not believing her. For knowing what fine meant in their shared vocabulary. Her reflection looked back at her in the elevator doors, blonde hair loose around her face, teeth clenched enough to ache.

“I mean, it is practical,” she said, forcing a shrug. “You are her boyfriend. You are tall. You can carry things.”

The elevator kept descending. 

His mouth twitched, barely. Apparently, he thought this was a good time to be the leader he always was during difficult moments. “She still loves you,” he said.

Yelena scoffed. “Obviously. Everyone loves me.”

Then the elevator dinged.

Saved by the doors.

She stepped out first. “Come on, emergency contact. Your girlfriend has probably insulted three hospital staff by now.”

—

Metro General smelled like antiseptic, cheap coffee, and fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like they were either guilty or about to confess to a hidden treasure on a death bed.

By the time Bucky and Yelena found you, you were sitting on an exam bed in a curtained-off bay with your boots dangling above the floor, one knee bouncing restlessly, a wad of gauze pressed near your eyebrow, and the loose, bright-eyed expression of someone who had definitely been drinking before getting into a fight she absolutely considered justified.

A doctor stood in front of you with gloved hands, carefully stitching the cut along your forehead. He looked like he had already asked you to sit still several times and had not been listened to once.

“Okay,” he said, leaning closer with the needle. “I need you to stop moving your eyebrows.”

“I’m not moving them,” you said, “it’s just my face.” You frowned then, which made him pause immediately.

“See?” he said.

You tried not to laugh. It came out anyway, both tipsy and unhelpful.

Yelena reached the edge of the curtain first, already halfway into her usual annoyed rescue mode, one where she would call you an idiot while checking the color of your lips and the steadiness of your pupils. But Bucky was beside her, stupid and all boyfriend-y. His eyes went to the gauze, then your hands, then the doctor, then back to your face, cataloguing every visible inch of you like he could put himself between you and the past hour if he tried hard enough.

Then you looked up.

The second you saw them, your whole face changed.

“Bucky!” It came out warm and embarrassingly kind. His name left your mouth like he was home, like even a little drunk and bleeding beneath hospital lights, some part of you knew exactly where safety was standing.

He moved before he could stop himself, stepping into the bay like the sound of his name in your mouth had pulled him by the ribs.

Yelena froze, just for half a second.

Of course. Bucky. Not her.

Her mouth curved up into a fake smile because that was easier than letting disappointment show.

“Right,” she said under her breath. “Him. Not me. I am just the sister, obviously. Not important.”

“Hey, trouble,” he said when he got to you.

You smiled up at the nickname, sweet and entirely too pleased with yourself. “You came.”

His frown was a little devastating then. It was as if the part of you that thought he would not come had hurt him. He looked like it made him want to gather you up and never let anything touch you again.

“Of course I came,” he said, holding his human hand out to yours.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Please don’t lean forward while I have a needle near your face.”

You blinked, realizing you had leaned toward Bucky without noticing. “Sorry.”

“You are not sorry,” Yelena said from behind him.

Your gaze drew past Bucky, and your expression brightened again. You had missed her entirely the first time, though you still sounded pleased. “Oh. Lena is here!”

Yelena’s smile went thin.

Lena is here.

As if she would not be. As if she had not once crossed three boroughs at three in the morning because you had texted only the word problem and a blurry picture of your own bleeding arm. As if she had not been showing up for you since before either of you knew what showing up was supposed to look like.

“Wow,” she said. “Lena is here. Incredible. Shocking. Who could have foreseen this plot twist?”

You squinted at her, trying to understand why she sounded like that through the warm blur of alcohol and adrenaline. “Are you mad?”

“No,” Yelena said immediately.

Bucky glanced back at her.

Yelena pointed at him. “Do not.”

He wisely turned back to you.

You reached for more of him without thinking, fingers curling around the hem of his jacket. Bucky noticed. He noticed everything about you, every wince you tried to bury, every joke you used as misdirection, every time your breathing went uneven. His hand covered yours, warm flesh over bruised knuckles, and you melted a little under the touch despite the doctor still working at your forehead.

You loved him so much it felt stupid sometimes.

It felt especially stupid now, with blood drying at your temple and your head pleasantly spinning, because all you could think was that he was so beautiful when he was worried, beautiful like a storm held back by sheer will. 

Bucky’s thumb moved across your knuckles. “How much did you drink?”

You considered lying.

Yelena snorted before you could answer because she knew that look. “Do not.”

You knew exactly what she meant and scoffed. “I was not.”

“Tell him the truth.”

You looked back at Bucky. “A few drinks.”

“How many is a few?”

“Less than many.”

The doctor made a sound like he was trying not to laugh and it was taking everything for him to stay professional.

Bucky closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them again, they were still worried. He was not angry with you. You could handle anger, but Bucky looking at you like you were precious and reckless and his made you want to crawl directly into his arms in front of medical professionals, which was inconvenient.

“What happened?” he asked.

You sighed, because this part was obvious to you and apparently baffling to everyone else.

“I was playing darts with Moose and drinking,” you said. “Normally. Like a normal person.”

Yelena made a rude noise.

“I was,” you insisted, looking offended. “But then there were these guys.” You gestured vaguely, almost hitting the doctor’s wrist.

The doctor caught your hand midair and placed it firmly in your lap, resuming the stitch. “Hands down.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

You looked back at Bucky, lowering your voice like you were sharing state secrets. “They were being gross.”

Yelena tilted her head. “To you?”

You hesitated. “At first.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, as if he was going to find these very same guys in here and was going to massively increase their hospital bills.

You waved a hand quickly, or tried to, before remembering the doctor had forbidden it. “I ignored it. Then I had to scare them away. It worked.”

“Mmhmm,” Yelena said.

“But then they started harassing the bartender while she was working,” you continued, ignoring her, “and these guys kept bothering her. Like, they asked for her number once, and she said no.”

Bucky nodded.

“But they didn’t stop,” you said, voice losing some of its tipsy brightness. “They kept leaning over the bar and calling her sweetheart and asking what time she got off. One of them said she was being stuck-up, and another one tried to grab her wrist when she turned away.”

The air in the little bay changed.

Bucky went quiet, and Yelena’s expression flattened. You shrugged, though your own fist tightened at the memory. “So I told them to leave her alone.”

The doctor tied off one stitch and moved to the next. “That’s not exactly how the police report phrased it.”

You frowned. “The police report lacks emotional context.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched up despite himself, as if thinking, that’s my girl.

Yelena crossed her arms. “And then?”

“And then one of them told me to mind my business.”

Bucky looked at you. You looked back at him.

“And I felt,” you said carefully, “that it had become my business.”

“Reasonable.” Yelena nodded once. “So you threw hands.” 

You brightened again and confirmed. “I threw hands.”

A nurse, who had been mindlessly standing at your side, looked at your report and said, “this says you threw a barstool.”

“I used the environment,” you shrugged.

“And a pool cue,” she flipped a page.

“That was already in my hand.”

“Ummm,” the nurse started, reading more, “this said it wasn’t.”

Bucky looked down at your bruised knuckles, trying his hardest not to sound proud. “How many?”

You pursed your lips.

The nurse answered before you could. “Seven injured men were brought in separately. None critical.”

You looked offended. “Eight.”

The doctor blinked. “Eight?”

“One slipped on beer,” you nodded, “I feel like I contributed to that.”

Yelena let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself.

The nurse glanced up from your chart. “You did tell the paramedic, repeatedly, that he should see the other guys.”

You pointed at her. “Because he should.”

“You also asked if anyone had written down your dart score.”

“That was important,” you frowned. “I had a winning streak.”

“You might have a concussion,” the doctor corrected.

You sighed and looked at Bucky, as if he hadn't just heard it himself. “They’re saying concussion.”

Bucky’s thumb stroked the back of your hand again, and the motion pulled your attention back to him like gravity. He loved you so much. It was everywhere when you knew how to look. In his hand around yours. In the set of his shoulders. In the way he kept glancing at the doctor’s needle like he disliked it for hurting you, even though it was helping.

The doctor finished the last stitch and began cleaning around the wound.

“So,” he said, returning to a more professional tone, “the CT was clear, which is good. But given the head injury, the alcohol, and the history, we’re treating this as a mild concussion. She’ll need to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. No alcohol. No strenuous activity. No driving. No sleeping without periodic checks. If there’s vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, vision changes, unusual behavior—”

You smiled sweetly, interrupting him. “They know concussion protocol.”

Bucky repeated, “We know concussion protocol.”

Yelena said, “Unfortunately.”

The doctor looked between them, then at you. “Right. Avengers.”

How fortunate.

—

Yelena drove because Bucky refused to be more than an inch away from you, and because you were still tipsy enough to keep trying to wave goodbye to the hospital security guard through the back window.

It was late enough that the city had gone a bit quieter for New York standards. Streetlights streaked gold across the glass and rainwater from earlier in the evening shone black on the road. The heater hummed, filling the car with warmth, while you sat in the back seat tucked so securely into Bucky’s side that you might as well have been part of him.

His human arm was wrapped around your shoulders. His vibranium hand rested carefully over your knee, tapping every so often when your head began to loll too comfortably against his chest.

“Stay awake, sweetheart,” he cooed.

“I am awake.”

“Mhmm.”

From the driver’s seat, Yelena snorted before she could stop herself.

She was still bitter. You could tell, even through the pleasant, cottony haze in your head. Yelena’s bitterness had a very specific texture: too sarcastic and too much focus on the road. She had her hands at ten and two like she was angry at the steering wheel. She had been making jokes since the hospital, which meant she was hurt enough to hide behind them.

Bucky noticed too.

His thumb moved gently over your knee. “You doing okay?”

“Mmm.” You tipped your face up toward him. “You’re very handsome when you’re worried.”

His ears went pink.

Yelena made a gagging sound from the front. “Please remember I am trapped in this vehicle.”

You smiled lazily. “But he is handsome, Lena! Don’t you think?”

“Gah,” she said, not even wanting to think of him that way.

Bucky’s mouth turned into a faint smile, but the amusement faded quickly. His eyes dropped to the bandage near your forehead, then to your bruised knuckles, then back to your face. He had been doing that all night, checking you in pieces like he could not trust the whole of you unless he inspected every injured part.

Finally, after a bout of silence, he asked, “Can I come out with you next time?”

Your eyes opened properly, widening in an instant.

In the rearview mirror, Yelena’s eyes flicked up. This was going to be fun.

Bucky looked almost embarrassed as soon as he said it, but he kept going anyway. “Not to stop you. I know you can handle yourself. I just…” He looked away a little. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

Oh.

Your poor heart melted stupid inside your chest.

You reached up and patted his cheek with perhaps slightly too much affection and not enough coordination. “I love you,” you said, very seriously, “but don’t dote.”

He huffed despite himself. “Come on, sweets. Why not?”

“Because,” you almost scolded, “you’re no fun.”

Yelena laughed then. It was a small, surprised laugh that broke through her mood before she could lock it down again.

But Bucky frowned.

He wasn’t exactly heartbroken. It was just a little crease between his brows, his mouth settling into that wounded line he got when he was trying not to take something personally and failing because he loved you too much to be casual about anything you said.

Immediately, you gasped, hearing yourself.

“No. No, no, no.” You pushed yourself upright from his chest, and Bucky’s arm tightened at once like you had attempted to dive out of the moving car. “Baby.”

“It’s okay,” he said, which meant he absolutely was not.

“Baby,” you repeated, cupping his face with both hands. Your palms were warm against his stubbled skin, your thumb brushing clumsily near the corner of his mouth. “Baby, baby, I don’t mean it like that.”

His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, then winced because nodding was apparently not your friend. “Ow. Anyway. I mean… if you come with me, then no one underestimates me anymore.”

Bucky blinked blankly.

You pointed at him with one hand, nearly poking his cheek. “Because you’re all… this.”

“This?”

“Big,” you said. “Beautiful. Scary. Murder boyfriend.”

Yelena coughed so hard it was almost a laugh.

Bucky stared at you for a second.. “Murder boyfriend?”

“You know what I mean.”

He shook his head. “I really don’t know if I do.”

“You do. You walk in and suddenly no one thinks I’m harmless.” You sounded genuinely disappointed by the concept. “Then it’s not fun anymore.”

Bucky looked torn between fondness and despair. “I’m sorry my presence ruins your bar ecosystem.”

“It does.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“You can’t,” you sighed, hiccuping a little before continuing. “You’re too threatening.”

This time, Yelena did laugh. 

Then your whole face brightened, like a solution had dropped straight out of the sky and into your concussed little head. “Oh! I know.”

Yelena’s smile vanished with immediate suspicion, because that sounded like you just came up with a bad idea. 

“Lena should come with me next time!” you exclaimed.

Oh. 

What?

Yelena looked at you in the rearview mirror. “Huh?”

You smiled at her, tipsy and so painfully sincere that Bucky looked like he was actually considering it. “You should come with me. It’ll be fun.”

Yelena didn’t know what to make of it

You leaned forward, eager now, and Bucky immediately caught the back of your jacket to stop you from lunging yourself forward over the center console.

“Careful,” he warned.

You ignored him completely, eyes still on Yelena in the mirror. “We barely go out together anymore.”

Her hands tightened on the wheel.

The streetlights passed over her face in brief yellow flashes, there and gone, there and gone. Yelena was never gentle in the way people usually were, but her anger faltered, just enough for you to see the hurt underneath it.

“I miss going out with you.” Your voice went smaller. “I miss you.”

Yelena looked away from the mirror too fast.

Fuck.

You did?

All this time she thought she was replaceable, you missed her?

She blinked hard, and if her eyes watered a little, no one in the car was stupid enough to point it out.

“You are just concussed,” she said, trying not to sound too sentimental. “And drunk.”

“But I still mean it.”

Bucky’s hand slid over your arm, warm and steady. You settled back against him, still looking at Yelena, your smile hopeful now instead of bright.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? You loved Bucky. God, you loved him. You loved him with the dizzy certainty of a weapon who had found a place to lay down her weapons and still be known. You loved his worried eyes, the way he said sweetheart, the way he looked at you like he was lucky to hold you at all.

But Yelena was your sister. The one you knew as child soldiers in the battlefield. The one who yelled because she was scared. The one who had dragged you through survival and gave you a life.

You had always known that there was room enough in your heart for both of them.

Yelena just needed to hear it.

Bucky seemed to understand that, too, because he lifted to the rearview mirror, meeting Yelena’s eyes there, as if saying, see? She does care.

“She’d be safer with you,” he said.

Yelena swallowed.

The car hummed through another stretch of wet road before she nodded once, like she was accepting a mission.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take care of your girlfriend, Barnes.”

You sighed happily and melted back against Bucky’s chest. “See? Perfect.”

Bucky pressed his mouth lightly to your hair, careful of your injury. “Perfect,” he echoed.

“Now,” you added, holding up one finger with great importance, “you can be both our emergency contacts!”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Now that is pushing it.”

Bucky laughed then, his chest shaking beneath your cheek. You giggled into his jacket as he pulled you closer.

Up front, Yelena pretended to be annoyed. She rolled her eyes, muttered something in Russian under her breath about how grossly in love you two were, and kept both hands firmly on the wheel.

But she ended up avoiding all the potholes she had planned to run over on the way home.

Jeno always felt he was missing something—he figured he would fix it later in life. He never knew it would hurt this much, he never knew it would be this hard to fix it. Frankly, he wishes it was something else that would be the glue to fix everything in his life.

It's not that Jeno hated you, no, he loved you. So dearly—he's never ever felt anything so intense in his life. Every time he looked at you, it was like he was reading his favorite book, unable to peel his eyes off the pages. Every time he heard your voice, it was like listening to the soft chirping of birds in the morning—the breeze in the afternoon—the comforting sounds of the bustling city in the evening. And when you touched him, a hug, or even something as simple as a high-five, it's as if you're a fireplace in winter, keeping him warm, inside and out.

God, he wanted you. Bad. Jeno never know one could yearn so deeply. He was never one good with words, but you make him want to write thousands of poems and sing melodies dedicated just to you.

The echoing questions that all his friends constantly ask him haunt him.

'Why don't you tell her?'

'She doesn't know yet?'

'What's the worst that could happen?'

'Why are you so scared?'

That's what Donghyuck always asks him. Jeno can't begin to tell him, he doesn't know where to start, Donghyuck wouldn't understand the turmoil he feels.

Jeno's scared that he's not what you expect. That you have a completely different vision of him than who he actually is. Jeno thinks you need someone who is able to love you loudly, who isn't afraid to give you everything that you not only need, but want, too. Jeno is sure that he's not your ideal man.

Today's his birthday. 25th. He knows because Jaemin greets him the very first this morning, calling him 'halfway-50 year old'. Jeno only rolls his eyes at his usual strange antics, pushing him out of the way of the fridge to grab his yogurt from the fridge.

When Jeno checks his phone, he realizes that Jaemin isn't the first one to say happy birthday. He finds out with a mouthful of yogurt, and a heart full of love, that it was you. On April 23, military time 00:12, you left a long paragraph wishing him a happy birthday, thanking him for everything and for being a great friend, and wishes of love and luck.

"Friends don't send birthday messages that long."

Jeno barely catches on that Jaemin is shamelessly peeking at his phone, throwing him a pointed look. "Maybe she does."

Jaemin's eyebrows raise—a deadpanned look. "She sent me a sentence on my birthday. At 5pm."

"That's cause you gifted her a giftcard for her birthday."

"That's what friends do!" Jaemin retorts. "You gifted her animal crossing—that shit's expensive!"

Jeno has to admit, he's right. About one thing. Friends don't send an essay's worth of a birthday message.

Okay, yeah, saving up for animal crossing for you took some time, but Jeno would do anything for you. And he means everything.

Like meeting up at your place for a birthday celebration with others. He would much rather spend it with only you, but that doesn't seem to be an option, considering how you love to make a huge deal about his birthday every year.

Now here he stands, at your door, knowing full well that you've planned some 'surprise' party. Despite that, he'll still pretend to be shocked—just to make you happy.

Jeno only needs to wait about 3 seconds right after he knocks, before the door swings open, the music inside finally distinguishable and—oh, it's... you. Just you.

Nobody else is seen behind you in your apartment, the familiar living area he recognizes so easily dimmed with a low, warm light, the walls filled with handing streamers of red and green—his favorite colors.

Jeno's heart has never swelled this much with love, his head has never been so clear and unbelievably messy at the same time, his practiced surprised smile completely fading in an expression of shock, his jaw hanging lightly.

"Hello, birthday boy," You grin. God, Jeno might kiss you.

The way you can't seem to stay still in excitement, the anticipation on your face and the way you wear his sweater, something he's definitely left accidentally somewhere inside there—he adores it all.

He never thought his feelings could get even more eager and heartfelt, and yet here he is, feeling it tenfold right in his heart.

"Come in," You smile, grabbing and tugging at his sleeve gently.

You want to laugh at his surprised expression, your excited smile falling shy. "Surprise! I bet you thought it was like all the surprise parties I hosted, huh?"

Jeno should have seen it coming. The fact that you saw through him almost immediately. A soft huff of a laugh leaves his lips as he nods, growing more comfortable as he ventures deeper into the surprise. His eyes trail over the streamers reflecting the warm light from your lamp, his gratitude growing almost unbearable.

Finally, his eyes land on the cake. Unlike the usual ordered or store-bought cake you make Mark Lee get every year for the party, it's sloppy, and it's clear that you made it yourself. The icing barely covers the full surface of the cake, leaving blank, splotchy spots along the cake.

"I tried my best," You comment, noticing his gaze on your cake. You really did, practicing some nights and watching multiple videos to find the best recipe to use.

Jeno grins even more his gaze shifting to you. If you weren't mistaken... he looks at you differently. Well, he looks at you as he always does, with a twinkle in his eyes and with utmost attentiveness, but tonight... it's different.

You think—and this is a big assumption—that he's looking at you with love. You could only dream that he would admit it.

"I love it," He reassures, slowly approaching you. "thank you, Y/N, I love everything about this."

Your cheeks feel sore from all the smiling, but you can't seem to stop smiling, pulling him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. "I'm glad. You deserve the best, Jeno."

Jeno holds you tight, his nose burying into the depths of your hair, eyes shutting to savor the moment as long as possible. His hands are warm, you can feel it through his sweater that you wear, one hand on your lower back, the other between your shoulder blades.

It's as if his hands have burnt through the fabric, because you feel every single movement his hands make. The way his thumbs rub gently up and down—the way his palms tensing up as he holds you closer—this feels better than it should.

When you pull away, the warmth finds it's way to your heart, beating faster suddenly and soaring, as if it was searching for his own to entangle in.

When you lead him to the couch to finally blow out the candles (with he candles now about a third of it's original height), Jeno has never felt happier, leaning in close to the cake.

He laughs when you suddenly panic, halting him to search for your camera.

"Why do you even need to film this?" He chuckles softly, it's a rich sound you find yourself enjoying more than you should.

You roll your eyes, finding the camera on your messy study desk, hidden behind a stack of books you never seem to finish reading. "To remember this! I want to look back on this when I'm eighty and reminisce like a stubborn old lady."

When Jeno blows out his candles after an awkward minute of you singing him 'happy birthday' by yourself, he finds himself wishing that you'd be a stubborn old lady with him. He wishes with his whole heart that he'd be there, reminiscing with you, that'd your grandchildren would be gagging at your love story, he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

Jeno gives you the first slice of the cake, despite your protests, handing it to you with a stern look. His heart melts when you take it from his hands, a small playful scowl on your lips. "I wanted you to taste it first..."

"Fine," He sighs, picking up the two forks you prepared. "we'll eat it together, yeah?"

Jeno dismisses your objections, already stabbing the forks into the cake and scooping it up. He laughs heartily when your words die in your throat, offering the fork to you.

You stare at the piece of cake on your fork with intent. "If it tastes like shit, I'm sorry,"

Even if it did, he'd pretend it was the most delectable delicacy he'd ever eaten. He would believe so, with his whole being. Even if it was bad, your stunning smile would be sweet enough for it to substitute the taste.

You're surprised when Jeno brings his own fork up to your lips, blinking in shock. When you look up at him, he gives you an encouraging look. "I'll feed you, you'll feed me."

You don't think he's aware of how intimate this is. Not when he's looking at you with such innocence and care. But with the dim, warm lighting from the distant lamp, and the music that still plays softly in the background, this feels too romantic—too real.

You go along with it anyway, knowing that you'd do anything and everything for him.

As your lips come in contact with the cake, and your teeth clash just slightly with the metal of the fork, you realize the strawberry jam you used for each layer—it's sour.

Instantly, you gaze up at Jeno, to gauge his reaction and his opinion of your cake, only to see that his mouth is closed, lips stretched into a soft, loving smile as his face his dodged from your fork.

"Jeno, you—how could you!"

In a moment, both forks are on the ground as you lunge forward to grab at his shirt. On your lips is an embarrassed smile, your eyes shut as you shake him back and forth. "You ass! I made this for you..."

"Sorry, sorry!" Jeno laughs, his hands enveloping yours, holding on top of them as you continue to shake him. "You just looked so cute—all anticipated and excited,"

"Yeah! For you to taste it!"

"Fine, fine! I'll taste it! Just stop shaking me!"

When you scowl and release his collar, his hands don't leave yours, instead, he takes your hands in his, his fingers slotting almost perfectly between yours with ease. You don't shy away from this, it's normal for him to do this. It's a typical tactic he uses so you don't start fooling around once more—but this time... it feels different. His touch seems gentler, his thumbs rubbing softly up and down the sides of your palm. You have to admit, it has your heart in a twist.

"How are you going to try it if you keep holding my hands?" You smart him, sticking your tongue out at him.

Jeno's eyes search yours, his gaze deep. It's almost as if he's trying to look into your soul—trying to find the place you keep the thought of him. He should look into your heart, then.

His right hand suddenly leaves yours, and just as you think he's about to grab the fork once more, his hand inches towards your face. You don't dodge it, despite your shock, your lips parting in surprise, and Jeno knows that he's interrupted one of your sassy, smart retorts that he loves so much.

It's like instinct when his palm envelops your cheek, that you lean into his touch, your head tilting into his hold. As his thumbs rub at your cheek, his eyes search your entire face, searching for any signs of discomfort or rejection. He searches, and keeps searching, only to find nothing. You want this. As much as he does.

"...so are you going to try the cake?"

"Give me a minute, you dork,"

You laugh, and he laughs when you laugh. Your laughter entangle in the air and echo, like a resonating song on repeat—the kind that no matter how many times you play over and over, you never get sick of it.

Suddenly, Jeno's nose is brushing against yours. His thumb gently caressing at your bottom lip. He searches your eyes once more, and at this proximity, he can finally tell what you feel. In your eyes, it's him. In his eyes, it's you. In your heart, is his. In his soul, is yours.

The tender exchange of affectionate looks screams only one thing.

I love you.

When Jeno's lips press to yours, you're not surprised. Instead, you welcome it warmly, reciprocating and leaning into it.

His hands travel, one to your neck, the other your waist to tug you closer. Your own find comfort in the hairs of the bottom of his neck, tousling the strands there. You feel his lips curl into a smile, as his neck cranes to find an angle to grow closer to you, if it were possible.

Jeno slowly and gently lowers you to your back, his hand protecting the back of your head as he settles you down on your carpet, hovering over your body. As your arms wrap around his neck, his tongue finds yours, tangling tenderly and lovingly, declaring his care and affection, all his feelings for you.

You smile against his lips as Jeno's laugh vibrates against your own, content and devoted, finding the whole situation unbelievable. Luck truly is in his favor, and he thinks he's one step closer to his birthday wish coming true.

When Jeno pulls away, his breath is warm against your lips, the tip of his nose grazing against yours.

"...tastes sweet," He finally elates, smiling. His eyes find yours, pupils dilated with love.

You laugh out, eyes squeezed shut, and head throwing back against his hand that still holds you protectively. You snort when he gives you a confused, almost lost puppy-like look. "The cake jam was sour, Jeno,"

"Oh," he hums. "must've just been you I was tasting, then..."

You push playfully at his shoulder. "Oh my god, you sappy idiot!"

"No, no," He retorts with a grin. "you taste sweet. I didn't get a single taste of sour,"

"Taste the cake, then!"

"Don't wanna, just want you,"

Despite his words, you make him taste the cake, laughing as his nose scrunches up. "It's—oh god—it's sweet! I swear!" He insists.

Finally, Jeno feels complete. He no longer feels an empty void inside of him, he no longer feels lonely or hurt when he looks at you—though he does feel his heart hurt, swelling with the amount of love he has for you. He can finally say wholeheartedly that he's satisfied with his life, that he feels fulfilled.

He's doing really well in University, he's got amazing friends, the best girlfriend he could ask for, and a steady side job to support himself and his girl, you.

┆彡 SMOKED WOOD — johnny. includes petnames (sugar, darlin', misses), suggestive. word count 614.

days on the ranch were hectic lately. the boys left a couple days ago, with their return date remaining unknown. only the youngest stayed, along with renjun, yangyang, jisung, kunhang, mark, and johnny. surprisingly, taeyong's left hand insisted on staying on the ranch. "in case any thugs come looking for trouble" he reasoned.

the memory of his words made your body react reflexively, eyes rolling and tongue clicking. as if you didn't know how to handle your guns.

johnny irritated you in general and you weren't sure why. perhaps because he was unlike others. he treated you like a lady. and among those savages, you weren't sure if that's a mocking or flattering manner. he always insisted you stayed put, out of danger. that meant doing the most boring chores.

speaking of which.

you finished your black coffee and grabbed your hat off the table. just from looking outside the window you could tell the weather was scorching hot and you didn't want to risk a sun burn. rolling your sleeves up, you left your crib.

"let's get it over with" you grunted to yourself. wood chopping was never your favorite, but you came to terms with it. you'd rather do it alone than let ryo or sakuya get hurt.

among other girls on the ranch you were the strongest. so naturally, the daunting task fell on you shoulders. on the other hand, you preferred to sweat for a little while and get your arms sore than milking cows or disposing literal shit.

if johnny had never joined, you could have been hunting with the others right now.

a rhythmic sound reached your ears. your brows furrowed, and thanks to your hat that protected your sight from the blinding sun rays, you were able to spot the source right away.

speak of the devil.

johnny was chopping wood. it made your blood boil… but it was tempered by the sight in front of you.

his bare arms. flexed and nicely toned from all the hard work he did. sweat was glistening on his honey colored skin, dripping down his forearms. in his white tank top, that was almost drenched, and allowed you to see a glimpse of his formed torso. his hair was glued to his damp forehead, which he wiped with his hand after tossing away the chopped wood.

"you look like you're about to devour me, misses"

you didn't even realize your mouth went dry and gaze turned hungry. maybe johnny wasn't so bad after all?

"i am. mind telling me why you're here? you're barkin' at a knot, suh." you approached closer, the smell of wood mixing with the smell of his sweat and cologne. his ebony eyes turned into crescents, cat-alike smirk dancing on his stupid… stupidly kissable lips…

"i'm just helpin' you out, sugar" he fiddled with the axe in his hand. you crossed your arms, cocking an eyebrow.

"no need. i can handle my wood" you barked, trying to yank the axe from him. but he was faster, sneakier. one hand swiftly grabbed both of your wrists in a tight gasp, the other ramming the axe into the tree stump. he pulled you closer, now his smell filling all your senses.

"oh i'm sure you can, darlin'" johnny hummed, eye contact so intense you thought sparks would fall. "don't strain yourself, will ya? i'd have to give you a massage"

he let go and winked before walking away. leaving you speechless, you weren't sure if the wood smelled like him or the other way around.

you decided to pour out your emotions - whether anger cracking like fire or adoration that slowly bloomed in your heart - on those wood pieces.

┆彡 SALOON FLIRT — yuta. includes petnames (darlin', doll), alcohol consumption, weapons. word count 518

tying your horse securely to a fence post, all you could think about was a cold glass of whiskey. you could almost taste the bitter, rye flavor at the tip of your tongue. you just wanted to relax after a long, tiring day of chasing cattle that this mush-head haechan let escape.

with your cowboy shoes still stained in mud and dirt, you walked into the loud and buzzing saloon. the cheerful melody that someone was playing on the piano was almost falling deaf on your ears due to the loud chatter of men inside. here and there you saw familiar faces, also resting at the end of the day.

hands in your pockets, you walked to the bar. without needing to say a word, the barman already started preparing your usual. you leaned against the counter, head hung low, hat almost falling. you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, the smell of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat filling your lungs. every muscle in your body was itching with pain and strain. oh, you sure will be sore tomorrow.

ice in the glass clanked, and you opened your eyes to see your drink. just when you were placing money on the counter, someone put their tin. you shifted your gaze and saw a handsome man with a smirk adorning his lips.

"this one's on me, darlin'" he hummed, voice deep and husky. you tipped your hat and took a sip. you could feel life flowing back into you, liquor muting the strain in your muscles. the stranger didn't peel his eyes off you for one bit. "are you new here? i haven't seen you before."

"not new, just not from around here" you replied. "could say the same about you, partner"

"pretty much the same." he shrugged, tracking the rim of his glass with his finger. a colt was sitting nicely in his holster — he must've noticed you're eyeing his weapon. "you got sand, don't ya? ogling my darlin' like that"

"i got my lover with me too" you bit back, flexing your own weapon and tossing it on the counter top. the man just scoffed, and you took another sip. "what's your name?"

"yuta" his tone was playful, his dark eyes shining with mischief. you put your gun back to your holster. with a roll of your eyes, you moved closer. "and yours, doll?"

"listen here, yuta. how 'bout that: you treat me to one or two drinks more and i show you that i ain't a doll in the slightest" you glared at him. if he wanted a fragile lady to spend a night with, he was oh so far away from that.

"bet. whatcha like? i'll pay for everything your heart desires" yuta called the barman over.

and once you were content, with whiskey running in your system, you showed yuta what you really meant.

by making him chase you on your horse, deep into the night under starry sky. townspeople thought you were a pair of looneys, yelling and laughing but no; it was just a beginning of a story of two wild hearts.

┆彡 DEER HUNTER — kun. includes petnames (doe), hunting (no explicit descriptions tho). word count 639

"are you sure about that?" kun asked, worried. you remained silent stubbornly, zipping your shoes. the cheerful yells of your companions came from outside, as if there was not a single worry in the world.

"yes, kun. i need to get some fresh air, and i need— i have to do something useful for once!" you grunted, grabbing his hat.

"but you do, you take care of the gang, and- and everyone loves your meals" he started but just let out a sigh when he saw the determined look in your eye.

"just once, kun. i know how to shoot" you grunted and your features softened upon looking into his ebony eyes. "i learned from the best, ya know?"

he just scoffed and took his hat from you, only to messily shove it onto your head. pulling it down on purpose, so it fell over your eyes.

"hey!" you yelped.

"your sugar coatin' ain't gonna do anything here. let's go. but remember, if you puke on me… i'm gonna leave you in the woods" he warned but you know well those were empty threats. he loved you too dearly.

thanks to his horse's stamina, you were on the hunting ground sooner than you expected. you observed as he traced the trail, fingers shoving away fallen leaves.

"see here? a deer was nearby." kun pointed at the fresh tracks and bite marks on some plants. "stay low and follow me"

you fixed you bow on your back and crouched down. the breeze was pleasant and hopefully helped mask your scent. kun would stay focused on hunting down the deer, but occasionally looked back through his shoulder to check up on you. finally, he froze. hiding behind a bush, he grabbed your hand and pointed at something.

"look" his voice was barely a whisper.

there it was.

a cute, pretty doe. white spots on her fur made it easier to spot it. she peacefully gnawed on grass, unaware of what's about to happen. you reached for your bow and as silently as you could, you drew it. the feather fletching gently tickled your cheek as you aimed. kun was watching you closely, syncing his breathing with yours.

your blood was rushing, primal instincts suddenly awaking. you released the arrow.

the air was cut with a swish! but… the arrow landed in the ground, mere centimeters from your prey. it hopped away, startled.

"damn it" you grunted through your teeth, lowering your bow. then, you landed a punch on kun. "why didn't ya tell me i will miss?"

''what's the point of learning if you don't discover the mistakes yourself?" he laughed.

"i'm gonna hunt you! hunt you and chop, and serve for dinner tonight!" you threatened him through giggles, shoving yourself onto him. kun played along, flipping you onto the ground in no time.

"yeah? i'd like to see you try!" he snickered, tossing your bow aside. the ground was cold, leaves rustling underneath your back and dirt covering your clothes but you didn't care. wrapping your legs around his hips, you pulled him closer, small branches cracking nearby.

"take this, hunter!" you teased and in one swift move, nibbled at his ear. kun let you play and squirm, trying to release from his grip. but just when you thought you can flip him over again, he leaned in and started pressing hot kisses along your jawline, down to your neck and your collarbone. this left you speechless.

"i think i win this one, my pretty doe" he hummed, looking at you through his hooded eyes. you were breathing heavily whereas he didn't seem to break a sweat. a playful smirk danced on his lips as he stood up and reached out his hand to help you. "now, let's try again. we ain't comin' back until you hunt somethin' for real."

┆彡 GUNS'N'ROSES — sicheng. includes guns, shooting. word count 463.

the soft click of a gun reloading made sicheng's skin crawl, instantly making him freeze even before hearing the order:

"don't move one inch, rascal"

his heart was thumping in his chest like a stallion galloping through fields. it was not supposed to look like that.

"turn around, will ya?"

he did, painfully slowly. hands in the air, teeth clattering. when he did and saw you, his eyes widened.

"don't act surprised, partner. you thought could trespass freely? well, maybe if you were a sheep, i'd let you go" you grunted, let letting go your shotgun, still aimed at him. "you ain't a sheep but you sure do look like a scared deer!"

his eyes were wide, truly scared and limbs trembling like an animal caught in a trap. he was speechless, just staring.

admiring your beauty.

ever since he saw you in that saloon, he fell head over heels. he was not used to women like you, though. living in a small town, nowhere near open fields and mean cowgirls like you.

snarly, wild, dangerous… currently pointing a gun at him.

and he swore he just fell more.

"i'm talking to you!" you grunted, after your question fell deaf on his ears. you aimed at the sky and fired a warning shot, sicheng letting out a scared yelp. his body jerked, chest moving up and down maniacally.

you're crazy. actually lunatic!

"i'll ask one last time and you better listen up close: what are you doing on my ranch?" you snarled, the sound of reloading your gun making shivers run down his spine.

"i– well, um, i figured i… i pay you a visit! i've got you somethin'" sicheng wasn't even sure if you understood him through his clattering teeth.

you seemingly did, as you pointed with your gun at his hand.

"r-right, this! i got you this!" he grinned, finally remembering the rose he brought you. it was one hell of a ride to get it, he had to pay–

"drop it on the ground and leave unless you want a hole in your head" you said calmly, the corner of your lips twitching subtly.

he did and swallowed, wide eyes still glued to you.

"shoo! you got a death wish or somethin'?" you yelled out and sicheng ran off with a yelp.

he heard you laughing. he turned around to take a peek – you were now holding the rose in your hand… and laughing.

he took it as a good sign. maybe next time–

a loud bang, and pieces of ground and small rocks splattered next to him. a warning shot that landed mere millimeters next to his feet.

"yeah, yeah, i'm goin' now!" he yelled out and decided not to tempt the devil anymore.

he'll be back next week.

┆彡 FRESH FLANNEL — mark. includes (girl, ma'am, pretty girl). word count 508.

the buckets in your hands clanked softly against each other as you tried your best not to spill the milk in them. stepping out of the cool barn, you were met with sticky and humid air. you had a couple minute walk to your home, where you would begin bottling the milk.

sweat dribbled down your temples, the buckets getting heavier with each step.

a loud, long whistle cut through the air like an arrow. you looked up and noticed a maple colored horse approaching. you already knew who it was.

"damn girl, where are you going?" a deep, husky voice called you. with just a scoff, you shook your head.

"home"

the horse approached you, matching your step. you looked up to glance at the rider. beige hat sat on his raven hair, pleaded shirt almost falling off his shoulders. lips curled into a boyish smirk, he caught your gaze.

"you're lucky i'm a cowboy because i know how to ride into your heart" he grinned and you just rolled your eyes. "are you lost though, ma'am?"

"no, i certainly am not!" you bit back, fixing the hold on the buckets. the horse's steps were chanting a soft melody along your footsteps.

"because heaven's a long way from here!"

"mark."

you two just laughed, the facade falling off — but that didn't stop him from coming up with more pick up lines.

"you must be a tumbleweed, 'cause you just rolled into my heart" he hummed, hips swaying rhythmically along with his horse's tempo.

"mark" you warned again.

"'wait, one last chance. i promise this one is good!" he exclaimed excitedly and you just breathed heavily. "are you a horseshoe? because i feel lucky every time I see you."

you stopped in your tracks, sighing heavily. you started to get sore from the buckets.

"lee minhyung. those are lame and we are married. keep trying. and for now, would you mind helping me out?" you asked. mark stopped, eyes widening. he must've just realized you're carrying the milk buckets.

"oh damn, my bad. let's switch, pretty girl" he hummed and hopped off his horse. when you put down the buckets, your husband handed you the reins, his hoarse hand brushing against yours. you stood there, looking into his eyes. "what?"

"you're a total looney, y'know that? still trying to pick me up with those cheesy lines" you scoffed and his features broke into a wide smile.

"what can i say? i'm mesmerized every day by your godly beauty" he hummed and leaned closer, lips brushing against yours. the smell of freshly washed clothes and his cologne tickles your nose. you quickly pecked his pink lips and wasted no time hopping on the horse.

you leaned over and stole the hat from his head with a giggle.

"hey, misses!" your husband yelled out, swinging his fist in fake annoyance.

“are you sure you are a real cowboy? or do you just look that good in flannel?” you teased and rode off with a laugh, leaving the stunned man behind.

┆彡 BEEF JERKY — jeno. mention of alcohol, word count 471

"are you sure you wanna do this, sugar?" you teased, your hand resting above your eyes to block the sun. jeno nodded almost maniacally, more ready than ever.

finishing chewing up on your beef jerky, you just shrugged.

"why are we doing it, again?" you asked, finally reaching for your lasso

"so you could train your skills on a living target" jeno replied. right.

as if you're not the best at handling the herd. but jeno is pretty new around here, having joined just two months ago. he hasn't seen you in action yet — and who are you to turn down an opportunity to tie down and embarrass a man?

a big, beefed man at that.

the salty aftertaste of dried meat in your mouth made you lick the cavern of your lips, tsking your tongue at the end.

"fine by me" you hummed, gripping your lasso. you stretched it loose and held the end in your non dominant hand. the ending with the loop rested in your other one.

"what on earth are you doing? do you want to kill the guy?" haechan's voice was amused.

"good, we have a crowd. now watch and learn, everybody." you grinned at winked at jeno.

he started to regret his idea. what did haechan mean by that, exactly?

"are you just gonna stand there, fool?" you yelled out, starting to whip your lasso. drawing bigger and bigger circles in the air, jeno's throat began to go dry.

"i advise you to run while you still can!" haechan laughed.

jeno's legs jerked involuntarily, carrying him as far away as they could.

whiiiiiiiiiiiiish!

harsh restraint suddenly gripped him, bringing his arms together. like a tied piece of meat, he couldn't budge. but he could still run, as his legs remained free.

"you think… you can… run?" you breathed out, digging your heel in the sand. he had strength. but no balance.

so with a sudden, forceful tug, he fell in a heap with a thud. the lasso bruising his bare arms, he felt himself getting dragged closer. you struggled a bit, he was a muscular man after all.

"holy shit, he fell faster than mark after a sip of bourbon!" haechan called, and jeno could swear the ringing in his ears might not be his imagination.

you walked up closer to him, leaning over and checking up on him.

and this fool was smiling.

"oi, you need help? did y/n cause you trouble?" you heard johnny's voice.

"don't save him!" you replied, grabbing him by his shirt. his eyes were focused on you, that stupid grin asking to be teared off his face. "he's exactly where he wants to be!"

with a snort, you stood up and left him. mid-bite on your beef jerky, you heard him yell:

"wait, can we do it again?"

┆彡 WILD RIDE — sion. includes petnames (kinda? good girl lol), horse riding - bare in mind im no specialist so if any horse enjoyers sense some bullshit. no u didnt. word count 567

sion had an awful, gut wrenching crush on you. it didn't help that he was shy as hell, trying to occupy his mind with something else. every time he saw you, his eyes looked away. for the past few days, you were trying to approach him. key word: tried. he always kept running away, like a scared deer.

today was hot, sun prickling at his skin. he ditched his flannel somewhere on the fence, only pulling his hat lower. the sound of his horse's scoffs were a sign of protest but he had to train her.

"i know, baby, i know. you've been causin' me trouble lately, that's why we are doin' it" he patted the animal's neck, his hips swaying rhythmically to the horse's walk rhythm.

"oh sion!"

he froze in the saddle, grip loosening on the reins. you had him caged, as he was in the training field. he looked up and saw you leaning over the fence, waving your hand at him. guess he had to face it.

slowly, trying to seem casual, he approached you. your eyes watched his horse with adoration.

"howdy, y/n." he greeted you, tipping his hat. from his horse he had a nice view. you looked so pretty, sun kissed, with a twig between your teeth. you chewed on it, eyes not leaving his horse.

"you seem to be avoiding me, oh. and i have a question" you said and finally looked up, tossing the twig somewhere in the ground. sion gulped, trying to remain calm on his horse.

"my bad. i've been busy." he offered you an apologetic smile.

"it don't matter no more. sion, can you teach me how to ride a horse? i'm ashamed to admit but… i ain't got a clue and it's embarrassing. we live on a goddamn ranch!" you grunted, pout forming on your lips. flattering your lashes, you looked him in the eye. "please?"

his horse grunted.

"fine…" sion swallowed hard. maybe it will bring the two of you closer and he will finally get to confess? hell, the bare fact of spending time alone with you was a price. "but let's start with something mild. mind opening the gate for me?"

you did so. sion left the training ground, his horse huffing again.

"stay put now." he patted her neck gently and then reached his hand out to you. "hop on. i've got you"

sion helped you get on and you were now sat in front of him. he figured you should be in a more comfortable position as he was used to it anyway.

"good girl" he grunted and blood came rushing to your cheeks. you weren't sure if he meant the horse or you, so you tried to stay calm. it was hard, though. his bare, toned arms were wrapped around you, your back glued to his chest; him basically towering over you.

sion rushed the horse and you squealed, not used to such movement.

"try to stay calm. horses can sense your feelings, fear included. try to observe how i operate and lead her. my girl's moody lately but maybe a short trip to the woods will cheer her up. hold on tight" sion said casually.

you passed by jaehee and riku, who just sent you thumbs up.

sure, their plan worked and you got what you wanted. you just weren't aware of the upcoming ride yet.

┆彡 HORSE KICK — sakuya. word count 581.

"i ain't gonna lie, i'm afeared!" sakuya trembled, looking at you with eyes wider than two plates. you fixed his hat and then moved his bangs so they wouldn't cover his eyes.

"you've got this, saku. i'll be here, i've got you covered" you hummed and patted his back, kneeling on the ground. shaping your hands into a small platform. "hop on, boy"

"are you sure…" he mumbled but obeyed, stepping on your hands. you rose them up forcefully, helping him get on the horse. it scoffed, throwing its head.

"easy boy" you grunted, patting the animal's neck. sakuya grabbed the reins and fiddled with them nervously, heart thumping against his ribcage like a prey in a trap. "all comfortable in there, partner?"

"i think so!" he replied. he wasn't used to sitting in a saddle but it wasn't halfway bad as he imagined.

"okay, now listen up real close. remain calm. horses can sense your fear and you're trembling like a wet dog" you grunted and began to walk next to them. "you're a tenderfoot now but i''ll teach you how to ride a horse like a real cowboy— woah!"

the horse started huffing and snorting, wiggling its head lively.

"hey, calm down!" you yelled.

"me or the horse?" sakuya asked, panic in his voice. all his muscles were tensed, panic written all over his face.

"ya both!" you said, trying to calm the horse down. you predicted sakuya would be nervous and for a first ride you specifically chose the calmest horse on the ranch. but he was acing up, starting to kick his back legs. "hold on tight, partner!"

"i'm trying!" sakuya screeched, his hat bouncing on his head, mere seconds from falling off. the horse began kicking harder, clearly wanting to throw the newbie off. the boy was bouncing in the saddle, grunting painfully as the jumps almost sent him flying.

quite frankly, you were shocked he was still holding on.

"y/n make it stop, please!" he whined, squeezing his eyes shut.

"well, you got your first rodeo now!" you tried to ease his nerves. you remained at a safe position, and tried to calm the horse down, talking softly to the animal: "hey, please, calm down. you're scarin' him. easy, easy boy"

it seemed to work, the horse listening and calming down gradually. once it was calm, you glanced at sakuya, his face as pale as a wall. tying the horse to the fence, you helped sakuya get off.

on his wobble legs, he immediately glued himself to you, hugging you close. patting his back gently, you realized his hat eventually did fall off.

"i'm sorry, saku, i don't know what got him so moody" you whispered, calming the boy down. you could practically feel his heart thumping against his ribcage, heavy breathing against your neck.

sakuya slowly began to relax, breath becoming more stable. he just squeezed you closer.

"it's fine, i'm in one piece" he mumbled, deep voice shaky. you caressed his dark locks in a soothing motion, glaring at the horse.

"maybe it was a bad idea. we don't have to do it no more if you're scared" you hummed. you felt him smiling against your skin.

"y'know what? i kinda liked it"

with a scoff you leaned away and scanned his face. brushing his bangs out of his eyes, which glued to his forehead with sweat. despite his body still slightly trembling, he flashed you a boyish smile.

"let's try again!"

masterlist <3

It's not like you’re obsessed with Lee Haechan. You just enjoy looking at him. You barely even know the guy, but, annoyingly, he's difficult to ignore. Difficult not to notice. And it’s not like you’ve spoken much to each other either, apart from the rare exchange of a few words here and there or the odd nod of acknowledgement in corridors.  

There was this one time where he sat next to you in class, but that was only because he was late and the seat next to yours was the only empty one that was close to the entrance of the classroom. That was the first time he smiled at you. Nothing more than casual and polite but it still made your heart race.

Then, of course, there was the time where you bumped into him on the street, while you were on your way to a date, which ended up being disastrous, but that didn’t really bother you. What bothered you was the fact that he was also on his way to a date. With a girl. A girl he chose to go on a date with. A girl that he probably found pretty. A girl that wasn't you. Regardless, that didn’t negate the fact that, that night you had your first ever conversation with him. It was brief, but it happened, and it certainly left you with a bittersweet taste in your mouth, which was probably why you later couldn’t focus on the boy you matched with on that godforsaken dating app. And as mean as it sounded in your head, you hoped Haechan’s date went as badly as yours. 

Next time you saw him, was at a campus party you got dragged to by Chenle and Ningning. Mark convinced Chenle, who convinced Ningning, who forced you and it’s not like you don’t enjoy a fun night out with friends and alcohol, you just weren’t in the right mood that night and you were convinced that being in your luteal phase had definitely something to do with it.   

You remember instantly spotting him in the kitchen, leaning lazily against the counter as he was speaking to a girl you didn’t recognise and you could tell just from her side profile that she was nothing but attractive. You watched as she reached and took the drink he was holding, bringing it up to her lips, tasting the contents of the cup but also him, and you decided to look elsewhere before witnessing anything that would (but definitely shouldn’t) ruin your night.   

You were determined to spend the rest of the party as far away from him as possible, forcing poor Chenle to go and refill your drink in the kitchen every time you ran out. You were more than aware it might have sounded silly to anyone else, but you didn’t want to go down the rabbit hole of trying to get someone’s attention, when they were clearly not interested. You’d been that person in the past, and you refused to make the same mistakes again. At the end of the day, it was just a crush. It would go away eventually. Right?  

When the party started to die down, you found yourself in the back garden with no one else other than the lovely Na Jaemin, after you stumbled upon him being sick in a fake plant pot. You could have left him in his own fate, but knowing yourself, you would definitely feel guilty for the rest of the night, if you didn’t make sure he was safe. You started to regret your decision about 10 minutes later, when he had already fallen asleep with his head in your lap and you were sure he was drooling on you, but that was the least of your concerns in that moment. Thankfully, Chenle picked up on the first ring and when you asked him to come outside with reinforcements, he immediately said, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

The reinforcements, of course, being Jeno and Haechan, wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, but you weren’t in a position to be picky. You found out shortly after that Haechan had only stepped outside for a smoke and got dragged into ‘helping’, which he refused to do since, according to him, Jaemin had put him in that position countless of times and he’s sick of looking after a grown ass man who’s got the alcohol tolerance of a twelve year-old. You found his point more than valid, but you didn’t say anything.   

When Chenle and Jeno disappeared back inside, carrying a whiny and barely coherent Jaemin, you found yourself alone with the boy you had initially tried to steer clear of at all costs. Your mission miserably failed that night and at the end of it all you realised one thing; whatever it was that you felt for Lee Haechan, wasn’t just a harmless crush.   

“I gotta admit, that was slightly entertaining.” He said as he took the seat that Jaemin had previously been occupying next to you on the wooden bench.   

You must have sat there with him for about an hour, talking about everything and nothing, while enjoying the early summer breeze and the freedom that came with the end of finals. He insisted on getting you an uber home when you announced that you were going to walk because your phone had died and when you asked if you could pay him back somehow, he said, “Just don't be a stranger next year.”  

Autumn  

You were aware Zhong Chenle was an evil little thing, but you hadn’t pegged him for a traitor. And betrayed is what you felt as you read the message on your screen over and over again.   

@kh1000le: greetings folks, party at my new place this saturday @8 – I'll add the deets later but feel free to invite more people. ps. don’t forget to bring extra booze.  

You look up from your phone, remembering you're still in class and the professor is still talking stats. Your eyes instantly land on Haechan, still sitting two rows ahead of you, between Jeno and Jaemin and you can tell he’s looking down, probably reading the message you were reading just seconds ago. Jaemin shifts closer to whisper something in his ear and Haechan leans in to hear better. He quickly nods his head agreeing to whatever Jaemin says. 

You turn your attention back to your phone again as more notifications flood your screen. Other people in the group chat responding and reacting to messages. Haechan is still silent. No reactions or responses. You wonder what he's thinking. But most of all, you wonder if he's noticed you're also in that group chat. Would he recognise your username? You only started following each other the day after that party before summer, but it’s been almost four months now and there has certainly been no exchange of messages.   

Suddenly, you notice people have started packing up their belongings and you quickly start doing the same, hoping you can flee the scene as fast as possible, before Jaemin comes up to you with questions about the party.   

The second you step outside the doors and into the corridor, you exhale, relieved to have succeeded and as you start walking towards the main building exit you realise you spoke too soon.   

"Y/n, wait up!"

You close your eyes muttering a quiet “shit” to yourself. You put on a smile and turn around, Jaemin quickly approaching you. Haechan, who's trailing a few steps behind him, isn’t really paying attention, already in a conversation with Jeno.   

“Jeez woman, you sure walk fast. You got somewhere to be?” He speaks fast as he tries to catch his breath.  

“Hey Jaemin, yeah, sorry, I'm in a rush, how can I help?" You try and respond as nonchalantly as possible.   

"I just saw you're in that group chat and I'm assuming you'll be there on Saturday?" He asks with eyes full of hope.   

"Yes sir. I'm actually meeting up with Chenle now to talk logistics." You explain quickly, seeing Haechan getting closer from your peripheral.

"Ahhh that makes sense, I just wanted to ask if we should bring anything else other than alcohol?"   

"Just your drink of choice will be enough for you I reckon, don't want you ruining any of his new plants." You say with a teasing tone. 

"Yah!" He complains with a pout that is nothing but laughable. 

"Hey Y/N." Jeno approaches with a smile and joins your conversation. “Is this man bothering you?”   

“Not really, just making sure he doesn't die of alcohol poisoning on Saturday.” You try to keep your eyes on Jeno, avoiding the handsome boy who's also joined your little group. 

”I thought you were a nice one.” Jaemin whines like a little child while a frown adorns his face.   

“You’ve been fooled my friend,” Jeno comes to stand next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders, shaking you playfully. “She’s evil.”   

You're mid eye roll when Haechan’s voice cuts through. “Seems pretty harmless to me.” He’s standing next to Jaemin now. One hand in his pocket, the other holding the strap of his bag. You notice the two rings adorning his middle fingers. Such a pretty hand, you think, the veins prominent, running down his smooth arm, disappearing underneath an oversized check shirt he's wearing over a white t-shirt. You then notice he's got a pair of jorts on and you can't help but wonder who can even pull off jorts that effortlessly nowadays.   

Your attention drifts back up to his face, the most adorable boba eyes are twinkling as he looks at you and his captivating mouth offers you a cheeky smile. A small dimple appears, barely there for you to see and you think you're on the verge of throwing up. His lips move again and you watch him carefully like he’s moving in slow motion. "Hi." His hand leaving his pocket and raising in the air to offer you a quick wave. It's annoying how such a small and casual gesture makes your heartbeat faster and your cheeks feel warmer. You're pretty sure your eyes are giving you away, showing how affected you are behind the stoic expression you’re struggling to maintain. You never thought you'd be here, but you have Chenle to thank. Or maybe strangle. You haven't decided yet.   

"Hi." You return the smile as calmly as you can, foregoing the wave. You don't think your limbs are working properly right now and you're pretty sure your fingers are slightly shaking by your sides. And you’re now thankful for Jeno’s arm still draped around you, the weight grounding and necessary. You feel your phone vibrate a few times in your back pocket, assuming it's either Chenle or Ning checking if you're alive and that pulls you out of your trance. “Evil is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”   

”That’s funny, remember when you told me to go fuck myself and read a book whilst I’m at it?"   

“Oh, I’m sorry,” You shove his arm off you in fake annoyance. “Did I offend you?” You feign concern dramatically. “Remember when you asked me if I’ve got any friends who need, and I quote, an unforgettable dicking down session and then proceeded to say, and I quote again, ‘is Murakami the fella who wrote that book about some Norwegian guy’s dick?’” You get slightly irritated just at the memory. 

"Ahhh that explains it! This guy came back home a few months ago asking if anyone’s got a copy of Norwegian Wood." Jaemin looks at you as he explains, whilst pointing a mocking finger at Jeno. 

"Oh? You actually read it then?" You ask with a hopeful smile and Jeno offers you a shy nod. Maybe there's hope for him after all. 

“Read it? He actually cried when he got to the part where Naoko kills herself.” Haechan snorts at Jeno’s sour expression and reaches out to lightly pinch his cheek. He instantly gets shoved away. “Aw come on, I thought it was endearing.” Haechan turns to look at you now. “I was wondering who made him read that.” He holds your gaze while you hold your breath, and you wish someone could hold your heart as it’s about to beat out of your chest. “I love that book.” He admits with a smile, and you celebrate internally, because you knew he wasn’t just a pretty face, and you feel giddy knowing that you’ve both loved the same thing, even if it’s just a book. 

You picture him sitting in a pink cafe, wearing a cozy sweater, looking all warm and comfy while turning page after page. You find yourself wanting to ask if he’s read it more than once, like you have and what his thoughts are on the ending. But you don’t. Not yet. 

“Well maybe you two nerds should join a book club.” Jeno bitterly says.   

“I mean, I’d be down?” Haechan raises his eyebrows suggestively at you. Mothefucker.   

“I would, but unfortunately I have somewhere to be right now.” Your response causing his tongue to poke in his cheek, trying to fight off a smile. The gesture making him look incredibly handsome and boyish at the same time and if you were a cartoon character, pink heart eyes would be bulging out of your eye sockets. You force yourself to look away from Haechan's face, opting to divert your gaze between the other two boys instead. They're both carrying amused expressions, looking between you and Haechan and you feel like you’re missing something.   

“Ouch.” Jaemin says with a laugh, now mocking Haechan.   

“See?” Jeno looks at both of his friends, crossing his arms over his chest as if proving a point. “Told you she’s evil.” He smiles like he’s proud of you.   

And that’s your queue to escape. ”Right, well, as lovely as this has been, I actually have to go.”   

“Okay, busy queen.” Jaemin snaps his fingers and you can instantly picture him getting along with Chenle. “We’ll see you Saturday then.” He smiles sweetly.   

”You will indeed. Don’t be too late.” You say with a warning, pointing a finger between all three of them.  

”Yes, mam.” Jeno nods in agreement.   

You look at Haechan one last time. His expression contemplative, almost like he's torn between saying something else and keeping quiet. The way he's observing you makes you feel like he's already got you all figured out. Like there's no way he doesn't know you’re having trouble breathing, all because of him.

“See you Saturday.” He says in the sweetest tone, smiling at you like he's done it a million times before.  

You give him a small nod goodbye and when you start to walk away you try your best to do so at a normal speed, not wanting to give away the fact that you're practically running away.   

You hear Jaemin's loud voice again. “Bye Y/N!”   

”Bye Jaemin!” You respond, mimicking his cheerful tone without looking back.   

As you head towards the exit, you've already decided you're going to go with the option of strangling Chenle. Because there’s no way you’re surviving Saturday night without going clinically insane. Not if Haechan holds your gaze the way he did just a few moments ago. Not if he talks the way he talks and certainly not if he looks as good as he always does. 

You’re done for.   

_

You’re baffled as to how and why Chenle knows this many people. You assume majority are friend of friends and acquaintances, because you’ve known the boy for three years now and never has he mentioned more than five names. You’re also starting to get worried he might get a noise complaint from the people occupying the flat downstairs, but you assume he has already warned them about tonight.   

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud exclaim and you feel like laughing when you hear Chenle’s screechy voice shouting Mark’s name excitedly, announcing his drunkenness along with the older boy’s arrival.   

"Lover boy still not here?" Ningning teases you as you check the time on your phone for the umpteenth time that night. She takes a sip from her drink and looks over your shoulder. "Relax, it only 9pm." 

"I'm relaxed." You defend quickly. She takes in your stressed expression and pauses to think for a second. "What?"  

"Nothing, I just realised I haven't seen you so excited about a boy before. It's refreshing." She smiles while trapping the straw between her pearly whites. "Speak of the devil." She jerks her chin towards the direction of the door and you instantly know who she’s referring to, but you don't dare to turn around and look yet. You feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest and Ningning sets her drink down on the kitchen counter before taking hold of both your shoulders. "Y/N, we talked about this. There's literally no reason to freak out. If he flirts, flirt back. Let it happen naturally yeah?" Her tone serious, as if you're both on a mission. 

You widen your eyes comically to match hers, nodding your head quickly while trying not to laugh at her expression. It’s almost as though she’s more anxious than you are. "Ning, I'm good. I got it."  

"Just saying, he'd be a dimwit not to like you." One of her hands pushes a strand of hair behind your ear and the comforting act gives you the reassurance you didn’t know you needed. "Plus, this dress makes your tiddies look yummy." She smirks and you wack her hand away with a laugh when she reaches out to poke into the bit of cleavage that spills from the top of your dress. You can tell she's entered the realms of tipsiness, and you wish you were there with her too, but the tequila shot from earlier definitely didn't do its job. 

"Fuck me, didn’t think this many people would turn up." Jaemin's loud voice startles both of you, making you turn around and you're met with the three boys from your stats class. "Good thing we brought reinforcements, huh?" He says excitedly, shaking a Jack Daniels bottle.   

"Are you a middle aged man by any chance?" Ningning's face scrunched up in disgust as she inspects the whiskey bottle in Jaemin's hands. "What happened to just drinking plain old vodka at parties?"

"Ah, Jeno is your guy." Jaemin points his thumb behind him and Jeno raises the hand holding a vodka bottle.   

Jeno's face lights up when he spots the unused cups and heads over to start making drinks for him and Ningning. "Lemonade?" He asks, looking at her and she nods excitedly. "Same for you Y/N?" His eyes on you now.  

"Nah, I'm on gin tonight, thanks though." You smile appreciatively at him.  

"Guess I'm your guy then."   

Fuck.  

Your eyes instantly meet. He's already smiling down at you, and he looks so good. Too good for your respiratory system to function properly. His dark hair is messily styled, fringe almost covering his eyes. He's got a black button-down shirt on, top three buttons undone, collarbones on display and sleeves rolled up revealing his veiny forearms, all effortlessly combined with dark blue jeans and black converse. Pretty. Perfect.   

Without permission, his hand engulfs yours, wrapping around your drink, bringing the cup to his lips, your own hand slipping down as he downs the liquid in one big gulp. The cooling feeling of his rings lingers, and you can’t help but stare at his neck as he swallows and then his eyes are on you again, his tongue slightly darting out to lick his bottom lip where there's a drop of liquid. His eyebrows furrow and he nods in approval. 

"Lemonade it is." He casually says, like he didn’t almost just cause your heart to fail. He takes your now empty cup with him, joining Jeno at the counter.   

"Well then," Jaemin feigns disappointment, eyebrows furrowing dramatically. "I guess I'm having this whole whiskey bottle to myself."  

"I'm sure Chenle would help you out." Ningning half jokes. "Good luck finding him though." 

"Yeah, what the hell, this place is so crowded." Jeno returns with two drinks and hands one of them to Ningning. "It might be a bit strong, sorry." He warns her.   

Her face grimaces slightly when she takes a reluctant sip, proving Jeno right, making you both laugh. "Eh, it'll do." She says carelessly, "I've had a stressful week."  

"Here to help." Jeno raises his cup, and they do a quick cheers. They start conversing comfortably about why her week was stressful and you're pretty sure they've never met before but that's Ningning. Top yapper, never awkward.   

"Yours might be a bit on the strong side too." Haechan says apologetically as he stands in front of you, handing you back your now full cup. You smile at the sparkly straw he's added. Cute. "Try it."  

And you do. It feels too intense, almost intimate, drinking while holding eye contact with someone, let alone this fine man, so you don't. But you feel his eyes on you as you take a sip. And you really do hope the drink is strong, because if you're going to survive tonight, alcohol will be your savior. He's looking at you, carefully taking in your expression as you taste the drink, almost as if he's sat on the edge of his seat waiting for your reaction.   

"It's good. Thank you." You smile appreciatively as you welcome the slight burn in the back of your throat and he mirrors you excitedly. 

"Good." He nods with a satisfied expression. Then he lets his eyes wander downwards. He takes in your dress in a not-so-subtle way, and you could swear he’s checking you out. You watch his eyes move on you and you love how he's still holding his cup close to his lips, touching the bottom one. You fight against the urge to reach out and drag it down with your thumb. Would he mind if you did that? You reach behind you instead, resting one hand against the counter to somewhat ground yourself, and the action seems to bring him back to reality. Is he always this obvious? 

"Did you also have a stressful week?" He asks casually, like he wasn't just staring at your boobs a second ago. His eyes on yours now.  

"Huh?"  

"Your friend said she's had a stressful week," He explains, chuckling at your confusion. "Was just asking if it was the same for you."  

"Oh right. Umm, I dunno." You shrug. "A little, I guess." 

"How come?" His head tilts to the side slightly.  

"It's always fine until Thursday to be honest." Your admission holds a double meaning and he seems to catch on as the sides of his lips slightly lift amusedly.   

"Really? I thought Thursday was our day, no?" He playfully pouts and you’re trying your best not to let his smooth words affect you. Our day? What a little shit. You notice the silver chain around his neck and you can't help but feel a tinge of shame at the inappropriate thoughts that flood your mind. 

"Just not a big fan of stats." You make up an excuse with a slight delay, hoping that he can't tell you're practically ogling him. 

He nods understandingly. "You and me both. I've been seriously thinking about dropping it next semester."  

"What would you choose instead?" You ask curiously, trying to cover the frown that takes over your face at the thought of not sharing any classes with him. 

"Why, you interested in joining me?" Is he flirting or have you already gone insane?   

"Depends." You shrug, twirling the sparkly straw, eyes not leaving his. 

"I think I'd go for creative writing." He studies your face for a reaction.   

“Oh?” Your eyebrows raise in surprise. “So you really did mean it when you said you wanted to join a book club.” You tease with newfound confidence and he lets out an airy chuckle. 

“That offer's gone now, you turned me down.” He says with a smirk.   

"I'm sure I could convince you to reconsider." You say with a suggestive tone, catching him off guard and before he can retort with a witty response, you return to your initial subject. “So, you wanna be a writer or...?”  

"Well, no, not exactly.” His voice is hesitant, eyes lowering to look at his drink, almost as if he’s embarrassed. Does he think you’ll judge him? You suddenly get the feeling that you might have overstepped.   

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to-”  

“No, no, you’re good.” His words are rushed, his head shaking quickly, hand reaching to touch your arm reassuringly. It’s light, quick, barely there but his fingers feel hot against your skin. Before you have time to react, he continues. “I just- I don’t really go around talking about personal goals and what not, don’t want you to think I’m flaunting.”  

“Why would I think you’re flaunting?” Your perplexed tone causing him to smile. 

“I wanna make music.” Eyes carefully watch you as he waits for a reaction. When you just nod for him to continue, he almost looks surprised but quickly recovers, clearing his throat. ”So, I thought creative writing would help.”  

"So, you wanna write songs." You state as if to make sure that you heard him correctly and he nods, still watching your face. "Or have you already?" You ask carefully and he chuckles at your attempt to keep your nosiness to a minimum but failing.   

He moves to stand next to you, leaning against the counter. You feel like you can breathe again, now that his eyes aren't on you, but his arm brushes against your shoulder and you almost shiver when you feel the warmth radiating off him. You get a whiff of his scent, subtly inhaling, cologne and detergent mixing into an intoxicating potion that clouds your senses. He's too close but you somehow want him closer. You suddenly wonder where Chenle is and instantly feel bad for threatening to cut his air circulation. This is good. This feels good.   

He looks down at his drink, in thought. "I play the piano, so creating a melody is relatively simple if I really put my mind to it." Oh? He looks at you again and you feel scrutinised under his gaze. Suddenly, your shoes are very interesting to look at. "It's just the words I struggle with." He admits.   

"Maybe you need to find some sort of inspiration?" You suggest.  

"Maybe." He puts his drink down and leans against the counter, crossing his hands on his chest. "Got anything in mind? 

"I mean, it could be a person." You say nonchalantly, without really thinking. "Unless you’ve already got that covered?" The bold question comes out before your brain can process the thought and you internally scream.   

He smiles wide now. Pearly whites on display. His eyes back on yours. "I thought you didn’t mean to pry." He teases and laughs when your eyes widen. “I’m joking.” He elbows your side softly and you almost gasp as the touch. Why does he keep touching you?   

“I tend to get nosy after a couple of drinks, sorry.” You huff a quick laugh before taking another sip of your drink, trying to distract yourself.  

“You can be nosy, I don’t mind.” He says in a more serious tone now and you feel his gaze on you. Choosing to keep your eyes on your drink seems like a wise choice, watching as you swirl the liquid in your cup. "To answer your question though, I currently have no clue what or who I'd write about." He responds indirectly, but the implication is clear. He reaches for his drink again in thought. "Maybe ask me in a year's time? Hopefully I’ve found a source of inspiration by then."   

“That’s fair.” You pick up your phone from the counter and after unlocking it you click on your calendar app. You scroll until you find next year’s October and select today's date. He looks over your shoulder and laughs when he reads 'Ask Haechan about his songwriting' as the reminder's title. You show him your screen and smile when you see the approval on his face.   

"Yeah, that works." He nods.  

You look around and notice that all your friends are now gone. "We should probably mingle." You suggest.   

"Right, yeah." He agrees with a nod, looking around just like you did a second ago. 

When you spot Ningning in the crowd, she's laughing with Jeno and Jaemin. Their attention on Chenle and the girl who's got her tongue down his throat. You and Haechan find the situation just as comical.   

The rest of the night flows smoothly. You get to meet a few more people as well as the other two boys Haechan, Jeno and Jaemin live with and you wonder how all these insanely attractive came to be friends. Renjun and Jisung are both equally as lovely. You find Renjun’s mother figure hilarious and Jisung’s shyness endearing. You don't fail to notice that Haechan always hovers close. Not necessarily standing or sitting next to you, but always close enough that you can see him from your peripheral and you can't help but wonder if it's intentional or just a coincidence. 

You’re mid conversation with Mark when you feel a hand on your lower back. You easily recognise the now familiar scent of his cologne, and you instantly turn your head and look at him. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol deceiving you, but he looks even more irresistible than he did before. His hair slightly stuck to his forehead from the heat surrounding the crowded living room, cheeks and lips a deeper shade of pink now that he’s had his fair share of alcohol. You wonder if his lips taste the same as yours since you’ve been having the same drink all night.

“Shots?” Haechan shouts over the music and you and Mark follow him into the kitchen, where Jaemin and Jeno are preparing tequila shots and you wonder who assigned these two clowns with bartender duties. Chenle is now gulping down a glass of water and you’re thankful to whoever made that decision for him. 

As soon as you’ve downed your shot, you take a sip of your drink as a chaser to minimise the burning sensation in your esophagus. “Wanna go get some air?” Haechan leans in and you almost shiver as his warm breath fans against your naked shoulder and you internally thank Ningning for prompting you to wear a strapless dress.   

You respond with a quick nod and he smiles. “I got you.” He mumbles as he takes hold of your hand and leads you to the big balcony doors. On the way, he grabs a hoodie you assume he dumped earlier on the couch and the second you’re outside and he shuts the door, you feel the ringing in your ears. You’re thankful for the fresh air infiltrating your lungs and brain, feeling a little less intoxicated now. “Maybe that shot was a bad call,” Haechan laughs quietly at your dazed expression. “Didn’t take you for a lightweight.” He teases.  

“Yah!” You elbow him, your voice louder than you intended it to be and he giggles softly, clearly also affected by the drinks he’s had all night. “I’ve had the same amount as you.” You pout drunkenly.   

“I’m just teasing.” His smile soft now.   

“Yeah, you seem to keep doing that.” You say with a complaint in your tone, eyes narrowing.   

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t keep getting all flustered every single time.” His words take you aback; a surprised laugh escaping your throat at his boldness.   

Before you have time to speak, he notices your arms coming up to conceal a shiver and without a word, he’s closer than he’s ever been before. His arms circle around you, hands hovering just above your shoulders as he holds up the hoodie, waiting for you to slot your arms through the sleeves. You look up at him before you obey, his intense stare not giving much room for any objection.   

Once it’s on you, his hands come to your front to fix the neckline that connects to the hood and when you think he’s about to zip you up, he reaches behind you again, playfully dragging the hood up, over your head, covering most of your face with the thick fabric and you whine loudly, causing him to laugh. You push the hood back down, with a frown.

“Aww, cute.” He coos as he gently tames the mess he created on your head, fingers untangling and smoothing down the strands and he smiles endearingly when he’s happy with his work. "There you go, all done." 

“Thanks.” You say in a bashful tone.   

“For keeping you warm or calling you cute?” He asks with a smirk and you can’t help but scoff, feigning annoyance as you swat away the hand still playing with a strand of your hair.   

Desperately needing to escape his daring eyes, you walk past him and towards the railing as you take in the view of the twinkling city lights and you withhold a smile when you feel him follow after you.  

You feel his stare on you as he leans against the railing, taking a vape out of his pocket. He takes a puff and exhales the smoke through his nose, as he takes in the view himself, before turning to meet your eyes again. The action shouldn’t feel this intimate and it definitely shouldn’t make him look even more attractive than he already is. 

You instinctively reach out and fix the chain that’s somewhat tangled around his neck. He doesn’t flinch, just moves his head to the side to make room for your hand and the sides of his lips twitch, fighting a grin. “What flavour is it?” You drop your hand from his collar and step a little closer to take a look at the fruit-flavoured stick in his hand.   

“Cherry ice.” He holds it out for you. “Wanna try it?”   

When you do, you can't help but scrunch your nose at the sugary taste. “Hmm.” Your uncertainty obvious as you exhale the smoke. “It’s too sweet.” You cringe at the aftertaste, your funny expression making him laugh. And you feel your heartbeat fastening at the sound. Because you're right. It's too sweet. 

“I like sweet things.” He says in a hushed voice, as if he's letting you in on a secret. The dual meaning of his words causes a blush to creep up from your neck to your cheeks. You can tell he notices, but this time he holds back on teasing you and turns to look at the view again, taking another puff.  

You gawk at how handsome he looks from this angle. His long lashes, the slope of his perfect nose, his incredibly kissable heart-shaped lips, his sharp jawline, his neck. Pretty. Everything about him. 

“Yeah, I bet you do.” You mutter in a daze. He looks at you again and you don’t look away this time. His brown eyes sparkle, reflecting the city lights below. You realise that you’ve never actually been around him in a setting like this. It’s always been daytime with him. Always crowded. Always surrounded by noise that you had to block out. But now it’s all new.   

Nighttime. Just you two. Quiet.   

“That dress looks good on you, I like it.” His eyes trail down your form again, a lot quicker this time, but still noticeable and at this point you're convinced he's not even trying to hide it. 

Your face feels warmer than before as you look down at your dress, your hand instinctively smoothing down the material. You can see the smoke he exhales from your peripheral and then you choose your words boldly again. “I know you do.”   

“Really?” He steps closer and his hand comes up, thumb delicately tracing the tiny bow at the centre of your cleavage. “What gave me away?” Your heartbeat increases when his fingers trail upwards, pushing your hair behind your shoulder and settling on the base of your neck, his thumb on your jaw, giving you no option but to look up at him.   

“You’re just-” You pause to inhale sharply when you realise how close he is. Your noses almost bumping into each other. You tip your head back slightly, to look at him properly.  

“I’m what?” He urges you to go on.  

“Not very subtle.” You finally finish your sentence.   

“Y/N-” He says with a breathy laugh and you don’t think you’ve ever liked the sound of your name so much before. The tip of his nose rubs against your own just once and the sweetest smile takes over his features. You feel yourself leaning into him even more. His thumb still caressing your jaw and you know he wants to kiss you, but you wait. You let him take the lead. Because you need him to. “I don’t think I ever intended to be subtle with you.”   

Your gaze drifts down to his lips and you so desperately want them on yours now, you think you might cave and close the gap yourself. One of your hands travels up and your pointer finger curls around his chain, pulling just a tiny bit.  And the second he closes the gap you think you’re going through an out-of-body experience. His lips feel soft, and you can instantly tell he’s a good kisser.   

His mouth slots perfectly against yours, slow at first. But he doesn’t waste time when your lips eagerly part against his. He licks at your bottom lip teasingly before briefly sucking, tongue easily finding its way in and the second it glides against your own, hot and wet, you moan. Both your hands find their way in his hair, slightly pulling, and you feel him sigh against your mouth. The hand on your jaw drags slowly to the back of your neck and into your hair, tilting your head to get the angle he wants. It's filthy, the perfect amount of sloppy and careful. A thousand times better than what you’ve imagined. He sucks on your tongue, forcing another moan out of you.   

You try to pull away for a second to catch your breath but the hand in your hair silently instructs you to stay put. “Mmh-mm.” He protests with a whine and the vibration against your mouth feels delicious. Arousing. And you feel pathetic at how wet you already are just from kissing him. He licks into your mouth one more time before pulling back, allowing you to catch your breath, a string of saliva still connecting your lips as you both breathe heavily and your fingers tighten around the collar of his shirt in desperation.   

“Fuck.” He exhales against your lips, sounding beautifully wrecked, chest moving up and down rapidly against your own and your erect nipples feel so sensitive rubbing on his shirt. Even with your eyes still closed, you can sense him looking at you, making you feel exposed and incredibly turned on at the same time.    

You fully come back to your senses when he starts walking you backwards until you’re eventually backed up against the wall next to the balcony door, suddenly reminding you of your surroundings. You don’t have much time to think before his lips are on yours again and you immediately turn into mush in his arms, mouth pliantly giving him access. The only things audible are your heavy breathing and the wet sounds of your lips smacking. The faint music coming from inside, barely noticeable now.

Haechan wraps a hand around your throat, gentle but possessive and you love the weight of it on your sweaty skin, just resting there with intend. His other hand grabs the side of your thigh, raising your leg to rest on his hip. And that’s when you feel the hardness, grinding slowly against your tummy, testing the waters, and you can’t help but gasp in response. 

His mouth leaves yours, trailing gentle kisses down your jaw and the side of your neck, leaving wet patches of your combined spit on your skin, and when he reaches the dip of your collarbone, he bites gently, soothing the skin with his tongue afterwards. You can’t help but clench around nothing.   

He angles your head to the side, giving himself more space to suck and lick where he pleases as his other hand trails from your thigh to the curve of your ass, squeezing the flesh and bunching up your dress in the process. You whimper at the feeling of his rough hand, your eyes rolling back when he grinds into your front again, with more urgency this time.  

"Fuck." You whisper breathlessly, feeling lightheaded.   

“Yeah?” He mumbles against your sensitive skin, and you cup his face in your hands, guiding him to look at you again. “What do you want?” He gives you a sweet peck and you instantly melt, your insides turning into mush as you hold him there, kissing him deeply again, squishing his cheeks between your hands and he smiles into the kiss, biting your bottom lip playfully, letting lets it snap back into place, making you whine softly. “Talk to me baby.” It’s barely audible, and he says it with ease, like he’s been calling you that for a long time and your eyes almost roll back at the pet name. A few hours ago, you were high on nerves because of him and now you’re just high on him, touching you and kissing you and calling you ‘baby’, like he owns you.   

Your thumbs caress his cheekbones before you trail your hands back up into his hair, nails gently scratching his scalp and he closes his eyes, humming in satisfaction. “Want you,” You murmur and kiss the side of his mouth as you drag a hand down his arm, giving his bicep a squeeze, before sneaking down to his hand that’s casually resting on your ass like it belongs there. You interlock your fingers with his, bringing both your hands between your bodies, guiding him under the front of your short dress, pressing his fingers against the seat of your lacy underwear. “Here.” You whisper against his lips and he inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring and you almost laugh at his reaction. Your leg wraps securely around him urging him closer by pushing the calf into his ass.   

“Jesus Christ.” He whispers and his eyes are on his hand as his fingers now start rubbing slowly against your sensitive clit, the delicate lace somewhat helping with the much-needed friction, but you desperately want to feel his skin on yours with no barrier.   

You kiss him again and he pliantly parts his lips for your tongue to invade, allowing you to taste the remnants of cherry ice. Your wet muscle glides against his slowly, and you moan when he pushes the flimsy material of your panties aside, like he’s read your mind. The moan turns into a whine when his middle and ring fingers make direct contact with your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles around the nub with precision, like he knows exactly what you like and you kiss him harder trying to distract yourself from the sensitivity, because there’s no way you’re cumming just from a few touches like a horny teenager.

You both moan in the kiss the moment his fingers dip lower and drag through your wet slit and he doesn’t waste a second, rubbing up and down slowly, spreading the wetness messily.   

“You're soaked, fuck.” he mumbles in awe and you bask in the feeling of him finally knowing how much you want him; how much you need him to do something about it. “Messy baby.” His filthy words cloud your brain as your head lulls back against the wall to watch his face. He looks so pretty, his bottom lip trapped in his mouth, his glazed eyes focused on his hand still working between your legs. 

He must feel your eyes on him because he looks up at you and watches your reaction with a satisfied expression as the tip of his middle finger catches at your entrance before coming back up to your clit, spreading more of your wetness. He smirks when your jaw drops and your eyes roll back as he starts rubbing the bundle of nerves in firm and quick side-to-side motions with three of his fingers. 

"You're so pretty." He mutters against your lips and your stomach flutters at the words, along with your pussy.

“Fuck.” You whine when you feel him delicately suckle on your bottom lip, his tongue playfully dipping out to lick before he starts kissing down to your neck again and your arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him close, tugging at the fabric of his shirt in desperation. “So good.” You breathe into the night air, relishing in the intense pleasure the pads of his digits are giving you, flicking with just the right amount of pressure, exactly how yours would.   

“Wanna make you cum.” He breathes heavily into your neck, dragging his lips up until he gently bites your earlobe. His fingers move faster now, abusing your poor clit, circling and massaging harder, and you feel a bead of sweat rolling down the back of your bent knee.   

“Yeah, want it.” You nod eagerly, your hips jolting forward and he inhales sharply.   

“Yeah, baby?” His eyes on you now. “Think you can take it?” His fingers now slowing down, teasing.  

“Uh-huh.” You manage to get out in urgency as his fingers dip down again. “Please.” You stare into his eyes, and you feel yours starting to water when his middle and ring fingers slowly slide into you with ease. Your jaw drops, the stretch delicious and so needed, so welcome. Your vision blurs when he slowly starts pumping them in and out, testing the waters first and your eyes roll back in relief. A squeal escapes you when he curls his fingers just the right amount and starts fucking in and out of your pussy at a rapid pace, like he’s on a mission.   

“Oh fuck!” You exclaim in shock, your hand flying to his bicep as you look down at his hand, the veins protruding on his tan arm, the sight so sinful you have to close your eyes again. The heel of his palm rubbing against your clit each time he fucks into you, creates a deliciously warm vibration. The sounds are obscene, your wetness making every thrust loud. 

Another pornographic moan breaks out of you when his pace gets a little rougher and Haechan has to shut you up with a hand on your mouth. Your shaky fingers are clawing at his chest, over his shirt, and he lets out a low grunt against the hand he’s got pressed on your mouth, his forehead resting on yours and his eyes closing when you clench around his fingers. Your legs start shaking from the intense pleasure and he opts to wrapping his arm securely around your waist in order to help you maintain your compromised balance. He doesn’t hesitate to replace his hand with his lips, silencing you with a wet, tongue-filled kiss, swallowing all your noises. You’re not really kissing him back, your lips parted against his at a pathetic attempt of reciprocating, just panting and whining, completely lost in pleasure. 

“I’m so close.” You whisper and you feel like you’re on the verge of crying.   

“I’ve got you, baby, c'mon.” He murmurs into the messy kiss breathlessly, saliva coating both your chins and you love every second of it. The pads of his fingers now abusing the spongy spot at the front of your walls at an intense speed, hitting it just perfectly and you think you might pass out. Your walls flutter around his fingers, sucking him in and you're sure he can tell you're right there. Slick is dripping down his wrist, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Fuck yeah, there it is.”  

“Haechan, I'm-“ Your eyes slightly widen, and you can’t even finish your sentence as you stumble over the edge. “Oh my god.” Your voice strained, your lungs struggling to keep up. The heat from where his fingers are burying repeatedly, starts spreading and your stomach clenches. Your walls clamp down on his hand, kneading his fingers and for a second, his eyes close, seeming to enjoy the constricting feeling. Your own eyes roll back at the pleasure, eyebrows creased, jaw dropping in a silent moan, breaths coming out quick and you're sure he can feel your leg shaking uncontrollably against his hip.   

“Fuck, you feel so good.” His words make you smile in your daze, and you bite on your bottom lip knowing he finds pleasure in your own. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, letting you ride out your high for as long as possible and when your eyes open, you see him watching your face in awe, and ironically, you feel shy.

His fingers slow down when you whine from overstimulation, until he completely halts and buries them inside to enjoy the feeling of your sensitive walls for a little longer. He kisses your cheek sweetly as he carefully pulls out of you, his fingers bumping lightly against your clit, causing you to flinch. He buries his face in your neck to conceal his laugh, hot breath fanning against your damp skin as he scatters little kisses.

You sigh and relax contently when his warm hand cups your soaked centre and he keeps it there in a comforting manner.   

"Good?” He whispers, nose delicately rubbing against your flushed skin and you almost don’t hear him due to the ringing in your ears still lingering after the intense high.  

"Yeah." Your forehead is sweaty; you feel baby hairs sticking to the damp skin and you lazily smile at how fast his heart is beating against your palm. Your eyes are staring dreamily at his face and you rub your nose against his, your hand coming up to stroke his cheek affectionately. Your thumb drags across his bottom lip and he bites on it playfully, his nose scrunching cutely, making you swoon. It scares you how comfortable you already feel around him.   

Your leg drops from his hip, and you wince at the soreness. His hand now trapped between your legs, still cupping your heat. An idea pops into your head, making you smirk and he watches your expression with an inquisitive look, eyebrows raising slightly in question. 

"What?" He asks, eyes innocent, seemingly lost. 

You firmly wrap a hand around his wrist, trying not to whimper when you feel his fingers drag against your sensitive clit and your hold tightens. He lets you lift his hand between both your faces, his eyes inspecting the strings of wetness stretching between his long digits. Without warning you lean forward, wrapping your swollen lips around the two fingers that were inside you just a few minutes ago and Haechan whimpers at the sinful gesture. It’s erotic, filthy and you don’t even know what took over you but you certainly relish in his reaction. Your eyes watching him carefully, his pupils dilated as he watches you hungrily, cheeks flushed, swollen lips parted prettily.   

“Shit, baby.” His voice on the whiny side now, and you feel his other hand tightening on your hip. He’s very clearly turned on and you almost feel bad for torturing him, considering he’s done nothing but please you. He pushes his fingers deeper inside your mouth wanting you to taste yourself and you swirl your tongue around them, harshly sucking, making a mess on purpose. You let a satisfied hum around his digits, closing your eyes as you pull them out with a wet pop.   

“You’re being unfair now.” He grunts and grabs the back of your neck, crashing his lips against yours in an open-mouthed kiss. Teeth clashing and tongues tangling messily as he licks into your mouth obscenely, moaning at the taste of you. You let out a surprised yelp when his fingers find your oversensitive cunt again and he dips them between your puffy lips, rubbing them up and down, like he did before, unforgivingly ignoring your protesting sounds. “Still so wet.” He mutters into the kiss and you whine pathetically.   

“Mmf-, too much.” You force the words out against his mouth and grab his wrist in urgency this time. He laughs meanly but obliges anyway. He brings his soaked fingers up to his own lips this time and you can’t seem to be able to break eye contact as he slowly sucks on them, making a spectacle, the act much more intimate when he’s the one doing it.   

Once he’s done, he drops his hand on your waist, wiping the wetness on the material of his hoodie and kisses you again, this time slow, languidly, wanting to savour your taste and he moans when your hands start unbuckling his belt. “Can I make you cum?” You murmur into the kiss and he’s contemplating but just as he's about to kiss you again, the moment is ruined by a wandering Jaemin, who rolls the doors open and lets out a shocked sound when he steps out.   

“Oh shit, sorry.” His eyes widen when he realises it’s you and Haechan he’s walked in on and not a couple of strangers. “Oh shit.” He says again, with more emphasis this time and you bury your face in Haechan’s shoulder to hide your embarrassment. His arm around your waist tightens in reassurance, sensing your unease and you smile against his neck in silent gratitude. “Yo!” Jaemin says loudly and points an accusatory finger at both of you. "What the fuck? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”   

“Jaem, read the fucking room.” Haechan’s tone is slightly harsh but his touch feels delicate where his hand strokes gently on your waist. “Go back inside, we’ll join you in a bit.”   

Jaemin grins mischievously. “Well, most people have gone home now, I just came out to have a smoke, but I’ll leave you to it.” He moves to head back inside but before shutting the big glass door he pokes his head out again. “Oh, just fyi, Chenle is passed out on the sofa and Mark is still in there somewhere, just in case you’re planning on fucking out here.” His expression then changes, eyes narrowing as he inspects both of you from head to toe, a look of realisation taking over his face. 

“Unless you already have?” He poses quizzically. 

“You’ll go back inside now, unless you want Jeno finding out about last-“   

”Kay bye!” Jaemin quickly shuts the door, fleeing the scene before Haechan can finish his sentence.  

“Sorry about him.” Haechan mutters, burying his face into your shoulder and lets out a sigh. “Half his brain cells appear to be dead.” You snort at his jokey comment but you can sense the irritation in his voice. You run your fingers through his hair, scratching on the back of his neck and smile to yourself when you feel him shiver against you, his cheek resting on your shoulder.   

He lifts his head, looking down your figure as his hands slide down your hips and onto the tops of your thighs, dipping under the hem of your dress and before you can protest, he slips your underwear back into place. His knuckles drag against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and your breath hitches when you feel him tap his fingers against your core lightly. He laughs when you slap his hand away and you narrow your eyes at him scoldingly. You relax when he smooths over the fabric of your dress to make it look less wrinkled and you find yourself fighting a smile at the sweet gesture. It feels domestic almost. 

“Thanks.” You say softly, eyes locking with his. He smiles and leans down to quickly peck you on the lips. His hands caress your sides one last time and then they slide up, squeezing your tits softly in the process, the pads of his fingers lightly dipping into the flesh that spills over the top of your tight dress.  

”Pretty.” He mumbles almost to himself and if you were under the impression he was an ass man, now you're thinking you might have been wrong. He continues his journey upwards, taming your messy hair, gently combing stray strands behind your ears. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”   

When you step back inside, you both quietly laugh at the sight of poor Chenle sprawled face first on his new sofa and you’re pretty sure he’s drooling on it. Haechan heads into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water, which he places on the coffee table next to Chenle’s unmoving body. He then maneuvers him carefully, turning him on his side so he doesn’t choke to death in his sleep with his face buried in the cushions. You smile at the thoughtful gesture, and you move to grab your bag from the coffee table to distract yourself from the fluttering in your stomach.   

“’Will he be okay on his own?” A tinge of concern in his eyes.   

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. He always passes out like this when he gets too drunk.” You lean down and leave a small kiss on Chenle’s temple, brushing the hair away from his forehead. “I’d say he looks angelic but he’s actually the devil incarnate.” You whisper, observing Chenle’s cute face, and you can confirm he’s actually drooling on his sofa. 

_

The walk back to your place is mostly quiet but comfortable. Haechan swings your interlocked hands distractedly as you’re both walking at a slow pace, trying to prolong the night for as long as possible. 

“What’s Jaemin’s dirty laundry then? You threatened him you’d tell Jeno earlier.” You break the silence and he chuckles at your question. 

“He had sex in Jeno’s bed last year.” He chuckles as he spills the secret and looks at you, gauging your reaction. 

“Sounds like someone needs to teach that boy a lesson.” You say, and before you can stop the words tumbling out of your mouth, “Maybe we should fuck in his bed.” Your eyes widen at your own words and Haechan’s head snaps up to look you, mirroring your shocked expression. And then he laughs loudly. A kind of laugh you’ve never heard from him. His hand rests on his abdomen as if his stomach is in pain.   

“Alright it’s not that funny.” You pout in embarrassment. “In my head it sounded kind of sexy.”   

His laugh gradually dies down until there’s just amusement written on his face. “I mean, we can do that if you actually want to, but I have other priorities.”   

“Meaning?” 

“Well..” He trails in thought. “Ideally, I'd like to take you out first,” You feel like exploding but you maintain a stoic expression, gesturing him to continue. “And I'd rather fuck you in my own bed before moving on to Jaemin’s or anyone else’s.”   

Your breath catches at his forwardness and you’re suddenly struggling to find the right words. “Umm,” you think carefully. “What about my bed?” You ask innocently.   

"Don't worry, it's up there." His smirk makes you feel weak and you feel him squeeze your hand in his, running his thumb over the back of it.   

“You sound awfully confident.” You say calmly, fighting a smile.  

He pulls you closer by your hand. “What, you think I’m playing?” He almost sounds offended.   

“I dunno, don’t really know much about you.” You shrug. 

“Do you want to?” He asks and for the first time he sounds nervous.   

You squeeze his hand the same way he did with yours, hoping to reassure him. “I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I do.” You halt your movements when you reach your building and look up into his eyes. “A lot.” His fingers stay intertwined with yours lazily. A relieved smile takes over his expression, and you really feel like kissing him again. He looks shy all of a sudden and a giggle escapes your throat. “Cute.”   

He clicks his tongue to show annoyance, and you can see him poking the muscle against the inside of his cheek, trying to hold back a smile when he looks away for a second. Then he steps closer, invading your space again. “You wanna give me your number? I don’t really use instagram.”   

“Okay, green flag.” You say playfully and he snorts. You hold your hand out for him to pass you his phone and when you’ve saved your contact, you text yourself a “hi” so you can save his number too.   

“Cool.” He says casually as he shoves his phone in his back pocket.   

“Cool.” You say back and step closer to him, wanting to feel his warmth one more time before parting ways. He smiles in understanding and pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around your waist to hold your body flush against his. You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your head on his chest. “I had fun tonight.” You murmur.  

He rests his chin at the top of your head. One of his hands sneaks up and holds the back of your neck gently while the other strokes the small of your back. “I did too.” His fingers bury in your hair, gently pulling to make you look at him but you don’t get the chance, because his lips are on yours instantly, dragging slowly, carefully. Both his hands cup your face as he licks your bottom lip for access, which you give without a second thought and his tongue sneaks in to play with yours, letting you taste him. Your body completely relaxes against his, enjoying the warm feeling of his chest against yours.  

You whine when he pulls back to look at you and he smiles when your lips trail after his. He gives in with a smile, chastely kissing you again. No tongue this time, but he playfully sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, and you love how safe you feel in his arms. He trails up, kissing the tip of your nose and back down again as he gives you another wet smooch before creating a tiny bit of distance between your lips while still maintaining the closeness between your bodies.  

You smile against his jaw as you slip your hand into his empty back pocket, lightly squeezing his ass cheek and he laughs at your playfulness.

“Okay, you better go now before I drag you upstairs with me.” You give him a little kiss on the cheek before slipping away from his warmth. You take off his hoodie and hand it back to him.   

"Mmm okay." He moves away reluctantly. “I’ll text you yeah?” He says with a cute smile.  

“I’ll try and text you back.” You tease and he rolls his eyes, his smile not faltering.   

“Night, Y/N.” He quietly says in the night air and you melt at the way your name rolls off his tongue.  

“Night, Haechan.” You give him a small wave goodbye and watch him walk away.   

_

The next morning, you're quietly munching on your cereal, lost in thought, reminiscing last night like it’s a distant memory, when you see a hungover Jeno messily stumbling out of Ningning's room, carrying his shoes in one hand and his jacket in the other. "Didn't care to take off your shoes at the door?" Your voice seems to startle him in the quiet of the morning.   

"Shit!" His reaction making you laugh. "Fuck, Y/N, you scared me."  

"Sorry." You're really not. "Are you pulling a French exit on my friend?" Your serious tone seems to intimidate him.  

"No, she's awake, just snoozing." He says quickly. "I swear." You try not to laugh at the nervousness written all over his face. "Nothing happened, we just cuddled."   

"Relax, I'm just fucking with you." You chuckle at his disheveled state. "Want some breakfast? I can offer three kinds of cereal." You point at your selection of boxes.  

His eyes widen eagerly at that. "Sure, thanks." He walks towards where you're sitting at the kitchen table, dropping his shoes on the floor and his jacket on the back of his chair, before taking a seat across from you. "I'll just have what you're having." He says with a sweet smile, eyes almost disappearing and you realise he sort of looks like a Samoyed puppy but refrain from making a comment. You’re not that close after all.  

You nod and get up to grab him a bowl. He's looking at his phone when he speaks up again. "So, you and Haechan?" You hold back a smile as you pass him a bowl with a spoon and the milk. He looks at you again and he explains when he sees your questioning stare. "Jaemin messaged the group chat."  

"Ah," You nod in understanding. "Of course."  

"So?" He asks expectantly, chewing loudly after he's poured the milk in his cheerios.   

"What, you can't wait until he tells you himself?" You ask sarcastically.  

"Girls' perspectives are always better." He pauses mid munch. "Plus, Haechan is the most private dude when it comes to stuff like that." For some reason that doesn't surprise you.   

"Good for him." You get up to wash your bowl after finishing. "Maybe you're just too nosy."   

"Oh c'mon, it's not that big of a deal, is it?" Your silence seems to intrigue him. "Or maybe it is?"  

You turn to look at him when you're done washing up, leaning next to the sink and you see he's already devoured the contents of his bowl. "Feel free to go for seconds." You say pointing at the box in front of him and his face lights up before he starts pouring more cereal.   

"Do you like him then?" He asks casually as he starts munching again and the question makes you falter. "Because, if you do," He swallows. "I can confirm it's reciprocated." Your eyebrows lift at his confession and Jeno smirks at your shocked expression. "Just spill, I won't tell him." And you trust his words, but you suddenly feel shy, thinking about your intimate moments with Haechan.   

"I'll tell you if you tell me about you and Ning." You like knowing boys' perspectives too.  

"Sounds fair." He nods with his mouth full.   

"You want the TMI or PG-13 version?" You appreciate he's still eating so you don't want to ruin his breakfast.

"TMI, always." He says casually.  

"He fingered me on Chenle's balcony and then said he wants to take me out." Jeno chokes at your confession.  

"Jesus woman!" He coughs lightly and clears his throat before continuing. "No tact whatsoever."  

You snort at his reaction. "You said 'TMI always' no?"  

"Was it good?" He asks in a quieter and more serious tone now. Like he's asking you to share one of your deepest secrets. And here you were thinking you weren’t that close. You can’t help but laugh because that sounds like what Ningning would have asked in a situation like this. Maybe they are a good match after all.   

"The fingering?" He nods at your question, eyes not leaving yours, having paused his eating, spoon still in hand hovering over his bowl. "I mean, I thought I was gonna pass out at some point so, yeah, pretty good."  

An eyebrow raised in fascination. "Damn, go Haechan." Then he asks carefully. "So, I take it you'd go out with him?"  

You shrug. "Maybe, but I don’t think I want a situationship or anything like that."  

"You're in luck, he's not into that shit either." 

"We'll see, he hasn't texted yet." You try to sound casual but you know Jeno can see right through you.   

"Don't worry, he will."   

"Who says I'm worried?" You huff a humorless laugh.   

He rolls his eyes and gets up to walk over to the sink, taking his bowl with him. "If he said he wants to take you out, he meant it. And trust me when I say, that boy has had enough of casual flings. He might be going about it a bit backwards, but he’s definitely interested." He states like it's a fact and you're thankful he's trying to reassure you even though he doesn't owe you anything.   

"How do you know it's reciprocated?" You ask carefully, referring to what Jeno said earlier and he smiles cheekily.   

"I thought you weren't worried." He teases, moving his eyebrows up and down and you flick the back of his head. "Ow! Okay okay, jeez." He rubs the sore spot with the inside of his wrist to prevent his soapy fingers from touching his hair. He then proceeds to dry the clean bowl with the kitchen towel he spots on the counter and hands it to you with a sweet smile on his face.   

"Thanks, you didn't have to wash up." You say, putting the bowl back on its shelf. He waves his hand, gesturing that there's no need to thank him for something so small.  

"He said he thought you were ‘pretty cool’ after we hounded you on Thursday and for the first time in, like, forever, he was stressing about his outfit before a party."  

You give him a pointed look. "How’s that an indication of anything?"  

"Trust me, that's enough indication for Haechan. He's probably already planning your wedding as we speak." You roll your eyes at his exaggeration. "Y/N, he likes you. It was so obvious that both me and Jaem knew he was gonna make a move last night." He sits down again and starts putting his shoes on. "Obviously, I didn't think he was gonna finger you in a public space and what not but-"  

"To be fair, I initiated that." You interrupt him and he snorts.  

"I'm sure he didn't mind." Jeno jokes with a smirk, and you cover your face in embarrassment, earning a chuckle from him. He must be enjoying this because he proceeds to tease even more. "If anything, he probably found that incredibly hot." You groan at his words. "Seriously, there's nothing hotter than a woman who knows what she wants."   

You look at him through your fingers still covering your face, a teasing comment pops in your head. Two can certainly play this game.   

"That explains why you didn't sleep in your own bed last night." You notice the blush that creeps up on his cheeks and you can help but cross your arms over your chest proudly.  

"Yeah, something like that." He says sheepishly, his hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck and you suddenly can't wait for your debrief with Ningning later. "Anyway, my point is, I think you should give him a chance." He finishes putting his shoes on, both feet on the floor now and he looks at you, his back leaning against the chair and his arms crossing over his chest. "He's a great guy." 

"Alright, enough about me, your turn now."   

_

Haechan likes to think he's a decent guy. He's got his life together; he's on top of his coursework, he gets decent grades, he's got good friends and he's got a part-time job at a record store that pays relatively well. At least well enough to cover his own personal expenses. His parents help him out with rent, but they do appreciate his efforts and he does his best to not feel like a burden. He's a good son and a good big brother to all three of his siblings. 

He's polite to old people and even helps them cross the street when he needs to, he loves his friends and always looks out for them, even if he gets grumpy sometimes, he never holds grudges and is upfront about things that bother him. He likes buying his loved ones presents and not just for special occasions. Not because he's a people pleaser, but because he just likes making them happy whenever he can. He tries not to lie except for the odd white lie here and there.

He doesn't fuck around or date aimlessly. At least not anymore. He went through a phase during his first year of uni but it's been two years since then and he's currently embracing single life. Yes, he sometimes does cave into the temptation of bringing a girl back after a party, but it's a rare occurrence and he's always honest about what he wants. He hates leading people on. It's not that he's afraid of commitment, he often finds himself wanting a girlfriend but he's not actively searching for one either.   

He knows he doesn't lack in the looks department, or in any other department really. Yeah, he's got his silly insecurities like everyone else but he's a confident guy overall. Although, he does admit that he can sometimes be cocky, that's because he knows he's the most mature out of his friends. Yes, Renjun mostly looks after everyone and has a motherly figure, but Haechan gives the best advice when it comes to most serious life dilemmas, and he's aware of that. He might not be the brightest when it comes to academics but he's confident when it comes to navigating life sensibly and responsibly. That's why he was completely and utterly flabbergasted when you came into the picture. His picture.   

He's always noticed you before, yes, and he's always thought you were good looking, but that's about it. He doesn't just go around hitting on every girl he finds attractive. He's more of a 'personality above all else' type of man, so when he first saw you, even though he thought to himself 'wow, pretty', he didn't think it would be appropriate to just come up to you and ask for your number. Plus, you seemed somewhat reserved from the few times you had exchanged words. Not that he didn't like that, because he did, he did find you intriguing, he would get to know you if the opportunity posed itself to him, but he also didn't feel like chasing after you would be something you'd like or even welcome. You didn't seem cold, just indifferent. And so, he kind of just opted to observing you from afar.

Sometimes you were alone, other times you were with a girl whose name he didn't know, others with a boy whose name he couldn't remember. He was sure they'd met before though, maybe at a party around campus or maybe through a friend? He couldn't quite place him. Other times you were with them both, laughing your heart out at whatever you three were talking about and he found himself wondering what makes you laugh that hard.   

He knew you always sat two rows behind him in his stats class every Thursday afternoon, his last class of that day. However, he rarely got to see you on Thursdays, even though you were both in the same room for an hour and a half. You always arrived after him and left before him, so, whenever he turned his head at the end of the lecture to look for you, you were already gone. The times he did get to see you, were the times he would turn up a little later than normal, which was exactly one minute before the professor started speaking. Even then, he wasn't really able to observe you for as long as he'd ideally like. He would just get to see the back of your head for a few seconds before reaching his usual seat. He sometimes would pretend to crack his back, just to turn around twice and look at your pretty face for a few seconds. Your attention was always on the notes in front of you though. One time he did catch you already staring at him. You looked away the second his eyes met yours, almost shy. He found it cute and thought to himself; 'maybe she's not that indifferent after all'.   

He knew you and Jeno were somewhat friendly because you shared a few classes and he was sure he'd caught you speaking with Jaemin a couple times in corridors. He wasn't jealous or anything, but he definitely wouldn't mind being on first name basis with you too. And it's not like he was obsessed with you. He didn't really think about you that much, but his intrigue definitely intensified when he got to speak to you properly for the first time at that party just before summer. He can’t clearly remember what you two exactly talked about, but he does remember not wanting to leave, he remembers thinking you looked unreal and he certainly remembers wishing he could relive that moment sober so he could memorise every word that came out of your mouth.   

Things have changed now though. Drastically and unexpectedly. Because just two days ago he got to speak to you again and his curiosity morphed into excitement.

You pleasantly surprised him. From the way you handled yourself around Jaemin's obnoxiously loud personality to the way you put Jeno in his place like no girl ever has before. You were witty and smart and sweet. Too sweet. And he knows that, because he's quite literally tasted you now. Just a few hours ago he had you pinned against the wall of your friend's new apartment. Just a few hours ago he had you gasping and writhing and pathetically whining his name, simply because his fingers were too much for you. And he loved every second of it.   

Haechan didn't really go to Chenle's party thinking he'd get some. He was just excited to get to know you and speak to you one on one. He went into the situation hoping he could maybe flirt with you and end up with your number in his contact list at the end of the night, which he did. And maybe he was hoping he could get to walk you home and get a kiss from you, which again, he did. But he didn't expect you'd reciprocate his flirting like you were prepared for it. He definitely didn't expect you'd ask him who and what he wants to write songs about and he definitely didn't expect you to kiss him back the way you did.

He's kissed many people before. He's had good kisses, bad ones, a few memorable ones and certainly a lot of forgettable ones. He's never kissed anyone the way he kissed you, though. And he's equally never had anyone kiss him the way you kissed him. Not even ex-girlfriends. Not that he's had many, but the two he's had don't even come close. And that scares him. Because if Haechan thought he wasn't obsessed with you before, he really doesn't know what to think now. But what he does know is that it’s incredibly unfair of you to make him feel and think this much, this soon.

It's still early, the sun barely out. He's maybe managed to get four hours of sleep before getting woken up by the sound of someone retching in the bathroom down the hall. Most likely Jaemin. He almost fell asleep again after that but the sound of a door slamming, completely ruined his slumber. So, now he's just staring at his ceiling, one arm supporting his head on the pillow and the other resting lazily on his naked stomach. He feels tired but he knows he won't be able to go back to sleep now. And that's fine, because he can at least think about you. He can think about your voice and your scent and he can think about how you touched him and how you let him touch you. He can think about how you tried to keep quiet in the midst of pleasure but miserably failed repeatedly. And he's definitely going to think about how good you felt around his fingers. Perfect. There are so many things he can think about when it comes to you and there's not a single bad one. Everything related to you is good.   

You said you wanted to get to know him 'a lot', and that was exactly what he wanted to hear, but he can't help but wonder when you started to feel this way. Not that it matters that much, because, regardless of the timeline, he's going to make it happen. He's going to take you out and he's going to get to know you. He's almost worried that he's going about this in the wrong order, because, ideally, he would have wanted to take you out before any kissing and sexual activities took place. Not because he's old fashioned or some kind of prude, but because he doesn't want you getting the wrong impression. He doesn't want you thinking he's only into you because of the sexual chemistry you share. Of course, he thinks physical intimacy is important, but he's always found that emotional intimacy beats all. And he wants to see if he can get to that level with you. He knows you're compatible sexually, he could tell last night you were on the same wavelength. There was no awkwardness, no uncertainty. 

He could tell you knew your body well, that you knew what you wanted and he liked that you weren't shy about it. And he'd be lying if he said that wasn't one of his favourite parts of the night; the moment you guided his hand where you wanted it. He found that so attractive that he actually thought about it when he got in his bed last night and finally managed to relieve the hardness in his boxers. He loved that you weren't shy about how much you wanted him to touch you. You were the perfect amount of vocal, and your body reacted to his words the way he hoped it would. So, yes, he is positive sexual chemistry isn’t something you two would struggle with, but he also doesn't want it to be the main thing that you connect on. He wants a lot more than that.   

Haechan is self-aware. He's a horny guy and he's not shy about it. He likes what he likes and there's not much he doesn't like when it comes to sex. He's very much open to exploring and what not, but he knows that he's always struggled connecting with people on an emotional level before. Especially people he's dated. He's had flings and he's had casual sexual partners. He's been in a couple of serious relationships, and he's been infatuated with his ex-girlfriends or ex flings, but he knows he’s never been in love with any of them. He remembers thinking he loved his first girlfriend, but he was only 16 back then and when he thinks back to that relationship, he barely sees it as a relationship. All they ever did was go on walks, watch movies, cuddle and make out. Eventually it just fizzled out. 

His second relationship was serious, but toxic. He remembers enjoying the push-and-pull situation initially but when it all became so unbearably exhausting, it put him off relationships for a long time. Now that he's had time to be alone and process his own feelings, he knows he's capable of commitment, but he wants it to be with the right person, and he wants it to be with someone who will accept him for who he is. Haechan knows that if he found the one now, he would commit. And he doesn't know if you're the one, but he wouldn't mind exploring if you would stick around for the long run.   

And so, later in the day, when he's lazily sprawled on the sofa, next to a hungover Jeno, who apparently saw you this morning and reassured him that you're definitely interested, Haechan decides to finally text you like he promised. When he opens your chat, he sees you've already texted yourself to save his number and added a little sunflower emoji next to your name and he smiles to himself. He wonders if you've added an emoji next to his name too and if so, which one?  

20:03 Hae☀️: hey pretty   

20:03 Hae☀️: have any free periods tomorrow?   

20:09 y/n🌻: hii :)  

20:09 y/n🌻: i do 

20:10 y/n🌻: I am free between 1pm-3pm   

20:11 Hae☀️: wanna grab a coffee with me? 

20:12 y/n🌻: i'd love to 

20:13 Hae☀️: woop! 

20:13 Hae☀️: where shall I meet you?  

20:18 y/n🌻: how about the café by the architecture building?  

20:21 Hae☀️: i know the one  

20:21 Hae☀️: i'll be there there at 1pm sharp  

20:22 Hae☀️: don't stand me up 👉🏻👈🏻  

20:24 y/n🌻: i would never 🥺  

20:25 Hae☀️: thought about you a lot today  

20:26 y/n🌻: really?  

20:26 y/n🌻: what did you think about?  

20:28 Hae☀️: yes really  

20:28 Hae☀️: just...things   

20:29 Hae☀️: can't say much more than that   

20:29 Hae☀️: did you not think about me? :( 

20:31 y/n🌻: nah   

20:31 y/n🌻: not really :(  

20:32 Hae☀️: 🙄  

20:32 Hae☀️: ur rude  

20:32 Hae☀️: and a liar    

20:34 y/n🌻: oops  

20:34 y/n🌻: why ask a question you already know the answer to?   

20:35 Hae☀️: smooth   

20:35 Hae☀️: i guess i needed some reassurance  

20:36 y/n🌻: Hae?  

20:36 Hae☀️: yea?  

20:37 y/n🌻: I thought about you  

20:37 y/n🌻: a lot   

20:37 y/n🌻: like and unhealthy amount  

20:38 Hae☀️: fuck   

20:38 Hae☀️: didn't think you'd actually say it  

20:40 y/n🌻: happy?  

20:40 y/n🌻: it appears I can't say no to you  

20:41 Hae☀️: very :)  

20:41 Hae☀️: it appears the feeling is mutual  

The rest of Haechan's evening consists of him pretending he's paying attention to the Netflix show Jeno picked out for them to watch after dinner, when the only thing he's actually interested in are the messages he's exchanging with you. You told him you're also chilling on your couch with Ningning, watching a crime documentary with a bowl of instant ramen.  

"Bruh, you're astronomically whipped." Jeno laughs to himself, the constant buzzing coming from  Haechan's phone making it obvious that he's been messaging you.   

"Yeah, so? Deal with it." Haechan doesn't even lift his head to look at Jeno, just keeps smiling distractedly at his screen.   

Jeno snorts. "At least you're not denying it." He turns his attention back to the show he's practically been watching on his own for the past hour. "I respect that."  

Haechan looks up at Jeno and shrugs. "I'm no fraud, Lee Jeno. You, of all people, should know that." And that earns him laugh with a nod of approval.   

“You asked her out yet?” The question casual. No teasing tone detected, just curiosity.   

"I'm seeing her tomorrow between classes." Haechan's attention back on your chat.   

“Like a coffee date?” Jeno asks cutely and Haechan just responds with a nod, his thumbs hovering over his keyboard as he looks up at Jeno, waiting for some sort of comment.  

“That's a good first date.” Jeno's words of approval offer Haechan a sense of relief he didn't know he needed. "Just good quality time, no pressure."  

“Yeah, that's what I was thinking.” Haechan's eyes are on the tv now, but he isn't really paying attention to the programme.  

Jeno sees right through him. "You nervous?"  

Haechan thinks about his response. Is he nervous? “More excited than nervous, I'd say.” Haechan looks up at him when he's met with silence. "What?" He asks confused when he notices his friend's amused expression.   

“Nothing, just trying to think when you turned into an absolute sap.” And he laughs loudly when Haechan hits him in the face with one of the cushions scattered on the sofa. “Relaaaaax you big baby, I'm just messing with you.” Jeno throws the cushion back at Haechan and he catches is with a grunt. “I actually think this is good. You haven't dated anyone half decent in a long time.”   

Haechan snorts, because Jeno's words hold nothing but the truth. “True.” He states with a purse of his lips.   

“If your first date is casual vibes, you should do something fancy for the second one.” Jeno says in a skeptical tone.  

“Since when are you a dating expert?”  

“Shut up, you've been dying to ask for advice and you know it.” He's right, but Haechan would never admit that. “It should also be on a Friday or Saturday so you don't have to worry about being hungover in class.” Jeno points a finger at Haechan. “Karaoke could be fun!”  

“Where are you taking Ningning?” Jeno's eyes widen at the question and Haechan chuckles triumphantly. "You ever gonna tell me about that or nah?"  

“Your new girlfriend can tell you all about it tomorrow.” Jeno crosses his arms over his chest after pulling the hood of his jumper over his head.   

“Yeah, we're gonna spend the entirety of our first date talking about your sexcapades.” Haechan responds sarcastically.   

“No sexcapades, she said she's not currently dating.” Jeno says quickly with a frown.   

“And that's a problem for you, because..?” Haechan gestures with his hand for Jeno to explain. “Is your ego hurt or something?”  

Jeno shrugs his shoulders like a toddler. “Just a bit disappointing, you know?”  

“Shit.” Haechan says with a tone of fascination. “So, you're into her then.”  

Jeno shrugs with a huff and Haechan almost feels bad.   

“Did you sleep with her or nah?”  

“Nah, just cuddled.” Jeno admits, voice laced with disappointment.   

“Jeno,” Haechan pinches the bridge of his nose to show exasperation. “You're an idiot.”  

“Wha- why?” Jeno's eyes widen at his friend's insult.   

“Are you being daft on purpose? She would've fucked you and chucked you out if she wasn't interested.” Haechan is putting the facts out on the table as if it's going to help Jeno realise what is happening, but to no avail. “She's clearly aware of your reputation.”   

Jeno perks up at that. "What about my reputation?" His eyebrows furrowing in annoyance.   

Haechan kisses his teeth. "You're a certified slut."  

“Yeah and? What am I meant to do?”  

“Well, if you want her, you're gonna have to work for it.” Haechan says like it's self-explanatory.  

"I don't chase." Jeno mumbles stubbornly.   

"No Ningning then." And Jeno scoffs at Haechan's patronising tone. "Sounds like you're in need of advice more than I am."  

_

You can't really wrap your head around the fact that you're currently walking to your favourite café in campus, only this time you're not meeting up with your two best friends, you’re meeting with Haechan instead. Fuck. You're meeting up with Haechan.  

You don't even know if you're supposed to call this a date. He said he wanted to hang out with you and that he can't wait to see you, but people say all sorts of things, and you don't want to get ahead of yourself. You wonder if he's nervous like you are, or if he sees this as a casual coffee break in between his routine. But then again, if it's just that, why ask you and not one of his friends? You told yourself this morning that you wouldn't overthink, but you're now realising that you're miserably failing. Ningning would not be proud.  

You check the time on your phone and that instant it buzzes in your hand. Your heart beats a little quicker.   

12:55 Hae☀️: what do you want?   

12:55 y/n🌻: in life or..?  

12:56 Hae☀️: lmao  

12:56 Hae☀️: to drink silly  

12:56 Hae☀️: we can talk about what you want in life when you get here  

12:57 y/n🌻: caramel iced latte pls and thank you :)  

12:57 y/n🌻: im 2 mins away btw  

12:57 Hae☀️: thought you didn't like sweet things   

12:58 Hae☀️: no rush, just ordering now  

12:58 y/n🌻: i like my coffee sweet  

12:58 y/n🌻: among other things  

12:59 Hae☀️: cheeky   

12:59 y/n🌻: im here   

13:00 y/n🌻: where you at?   

13:00 Hae☀️: you look cute   

13:00 Hae☀️: to your left   

And there he is, sitting at a table by the window, already looking at you, head tilted, eyes pretty, smile saccharine sweet. His phone is still in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen and you notice there's a new ring adorning the digit. His other hand raises and his fingers wiggle, playfully waving at you. You already feel flustered and you think that it should be illegal for a man to be this handsome.  

When you walk over, he stands up and casually lifts an arm for you to slot under. "Hey you." He says quietly and you smile. Your arms instinctively wrap around his middle, and your face buries in his shoulder, taking in his familiar scent. It immediately brings you comfort, your overthinking long forgotten. You feel his arms squeezing around your figure and he playfully rocks you from side to side. You giggle and pull back slightly to look at him.   

“Hey you.” You repeat his words back at him and his smile is nothing short of mesmerising. His lovely doe eyes hold warmth and tiny stars that you feel could burn you if you stare into them for too long, so you decide to look at the table instead. You spot your iced latte, placed opposite what you assume is an iced americano. “Thanks for getting my coffee, you didn't have to.”   

“I wanted to.” He states plainly and unwraps his arms from you, allowing you to sit down before taking his own seat opposite you. It almost feels strange sitting with him like this, seeing him in this light. Not in a lecture hall and not at a party surrounded by your friends. Just the two of you, on a Monday, sitting at your favourite café, in the middle of the day. It’s real. It’s mundane. “Are you hungry? We can get something to eat if you want.” He speaks so fast, one would think he’s trying to cover up nerves.   

You smile at his attentiveness and shake your head. “I’m good for now, thanks.”   

“Okay.” He doesn’t press and you can’t help but think he looks so boyfriend coded. His big forest green jumper makes him look extra cuddly and you want to bury your face in his neck again. “Heard you bumped into Jeno yesterday.” He says, filling the silence before taking a sip of his coffee.   

“Yeah, I interrupted his walk of shame.” You chuckle at the memory. “He looked quite embarrassed, bless him.” You twirl your straw, staring at the condensation dripping down your cup. “Didn’t realise he was that nosy though.” You say with a grin and your eyes move to look at Haechan who’s mirroring you.   

His lips curl into a smirk. “Why, did he ask about-” He pauses for a moment, trying to find the right words. “About Saturday night.” His eyebrow raises inquisitively.   

Your chin rests on your hand. “Mm-hm, apparently Jaemin messaged your group chat.”   

Haechan snorts and you assume he knows which message you’re referring to. “Yeah, if you found Jeno nosy, good luck tolerating Jaemin.”   

“I’m just hoping we didn’t scar him for life.”   

“I mean,” he shrugs, gently tapping his fingers on the table surface. “He didn’t actually see anything.” His tone suggestive, eyes watching you, trying to gauge a reaction. “Had he walked out a few minutes earlier-”   

“Shut up.” You warn and cover your eyes with both hands in embarrassment, smiling against your palms at the sound of his pretty laugh.  

“C’monnnn,” he reaches across the table and takes hold of your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face so he’s able to look at you properly, while holding your hands in his, in the most delicate way. You stubbornly look away, trying to hide the blush that has taken over your face. “Aww don't be embarrassed.” He coos and squeezes your wrists in his hands, his thumbs sneaking under your sweater paws, rubbing gently against your pulse points, causing goosebumps to raise on your arms. “Okay, I’m sorry, I won’t tease anymore today, I promise.” He says in a playful tone but you still don’t look at him and maintain the pout on your face. A quick kiss on the inside of your wrist earns him your attention and then another on the opposite one makes you break your resolve completely, your eyes now on his. “Yay, there she is.”   

“You’re annoying.” You huff and he chuckles again.   

“And you’re still blushing.”   

You retract your hand from his hold and attempt to flick at his forehead, but he grasps it again before you’re able to. He interlocks his fingers with yours and gives you a toothy grin. His perfect teeth showing and his eyes wrinkling at the corners. “How do you expect me to not feel embarrassed when you act like-” You stop yourself from saying what's on your mind and he perks up at your hesitation, eyebrows raised.   

“Like what?” He asks, his voice laced with intrigue.  

“The way you do.” Your gaze moves to your connected hands, taking in the way his fingers look slotted between yours. Perfect. Like they belong there.   

“You don’t like the way I act?” His bottom lip jutting out in a fake pout, gently stroking the back of your thumb with his own.   

“No, I do but-” You observe how his palm opens against your own, fingers extending and yours instinctively mirror the action, elbows pressed on the table and your heart flutters at how big his hand looks compared to yours.   

“But?” He’s also looking at your hands now and slots his fingers between yours again, his grip tight, his palm warm and you worry he can feel how clammy yours is.   

“You’re just too forward.”   

“Is that a bad thing?” His tone more serious now, his eyes observing you. “I told you; I never intended to be subtle with you.” His hold on your hand loosening. “But I can stop if you’re uncomfortable.”  

“No.” Your hand tightening its hold, quietly indicating you don’t want him to let go and he sports a cheeky smile, like he expected you to react that way. “I’m just not used to this.”   

His eyes are curious now. “Used to people being forward?” You nod at his question. He thinks about it for a moment. “You were pretty forward yourself the other night.” 

“That’s different.” You say calmly.   

“How come?”   

“Nights like that don’t happen all the time.” You explain with a shrug, without giving away too much. 

His expression softens, and his nods in understanding. “So, you knew you wanted me before the party then.” He says it like a statement but you know he’s asking as he watches you with expectant eyes. His hand leaves yours momentarily, dropping on the table, palm facing up, waiting for your own hand to drop back into his. And it does. You trace your fingertips from his wrist to the middle of his palm, drawing along the lines there. His own fingers raising slightly to tickle against your palm, tracing patterns and you feel giddy. He’s emitting this softness you’ve never encountered in a romantic partner before and you’re not sure if you can handle it. But you want to be able to.  

“I did, yeah.” You admit with a smile, eyes finding his wide ones. “Why are you so surprised?”   

“I just- I did too.” He bites the inside of his bottom lip in thought. “Just wasn’t sure how to approach you before.” Your own surprise evident. “Why are you so surprised?” He mimics your question with a playful tone.  

“Since when?” You ask, wanting to know more.  

He hums skeptically, and you feel his knee bumping into yours under the small table, “I mean, I’ve always been intrigued.” He moves again and you feel both his knees rubbing against yours now. “But I knew I was into you after we spoke at that party in June.” Both your knees are trapped between his now and you can’t help but feel flustered, your fingers limp in his palm while his index is still tracing the inside of your wrist. It slightly tickles but it’s welcome. “You?”   

You could lie and say it was the same for you. That you realised you were interested when you finally spoke for the first time. But you don’t really want to, and you don’t see the point. “I think- I can’t really place it, but I was definitely interested before June.” You expect him to tease, but he just nods in understanding, gesturing you to continue. “And I could tell you were kind of flirting, when we briefly spoke last week, so, I thought Chenle's party was the perfect time to act on it.”   

“So, you’ve had a crush on me?” He smirks and his knees squeeze yours between them, finally teasing you. "Cute.” He says under his breath, eyes move to your lips for a second and then up to your eyes again. “You should’ve said something sooner.” He raises his drink and his lips wrap around the straw and you can’t help but look, remembering what they felt like on yours, on your skin, what they looked like wrapped around his fingers when he wanted a taste of you.   

“I didn’t think you would’ve reciprocated.” You say bashfully and he looks at you, like he finds your words absurd.  

He puts his drink down again. “I'd be clinically insane.”   

His words emit a small laugh from you. "Well, I'm glad you're somewhat sane."  

"Do you wanna go for a walk?" The question unexpected and your eyebrows raise in surprise. "Sun's out again." He points his chin towards the window and you turn your head to look outside. The autumn leaves are still falling but he's right. The sun is out for the first time in a few days. "Promise I'll have you back by three." He says in a playful tone and you look back at him, pretending to consider his suggestion, even though, you know you won’t decline.

_ 

Haechan isn't really a big fan of autumn. He doesn't hate it, but he certainly likes summertime the most. He likes being able to walk down the beach with no layers on and no worry that it'll get cold late at night. He likes the way the sun feels on his skin and he definitely prefers the way he looks when he's sun kissed. He finds that everyone looks good in the sun.  

He's always associated the idea of falling in love with a nice refreshing summer breeze; not necessary, because he's content in the heat, but definitely not unwanted.   

The thought of summer always makes him miss home and look forward to the next time he's able to visit. If he's completely honest, Haechan always misses home a little bit, it's always occupying the back of his mind. The city; as fun as it is living here, has always felt too different. Too chaotic. Now that you're walking next to him though, he's not missing anything and he thinks it's the first time since he moved here, that he feels absolutely and utterly content. At peace even. Even in the chilly autumn air as you two walk through the park near your campus, surrounded by brown leaf covered trees.   

"What's your favourite time of the year?" He can't help but ask the question when it pops into his head.   

"Hmm I think this one." You lift a finger, gesturing to your surroundings and you pause for a moment skeptically. "I think it’s mostly because I prefer autumn fashion." He chuckles at your reasoning. "Hey, don't laugh," You protest. "I'd like summer more if I could lounge by a pool in a bikini whenever I wanted." You inhale deeply, your eyes briefly closing and he can tell you're enjoying the autumn air. "Autumn is just easier, plus, I love the smell of rain." You turn to look at him before looking ahead of you again. "What's yours? You give off major summer vibes."  

He exhales a laugh through his nose. "Really? What gave it away?" He looks at your side profile as he waits for a response. He thinks you look so pretty in this gloomy setting and wonders if you’d look even prettier during his favourite season.   

"Dunno." You seem to be in deep thought, your lips pursing and your eyes narrowing as you inspect his face carefully. "Maybe your tan?" And he mimics your expression, scrunching his nose too and you gently elbow him. "Did I get it right?" You ask hopefully.  

"You sure did." He confirms, nodding proudly and a cheeky smile makes its way to your lips.   

"Why summer then?" You ask with a curious lilt in your tone.   

"I guess I associate summer with my childhood." He explains with a fond smile. "It reminds me of being-"  

"Carefree?" You finish his sentence and he smiles, nodding slowly in agreement. "That makes sense." You validate his thought process in the sweetest voice and he can't help but feel a certain way that leads him to slip his hand into yours. He senses your hesitation and worries he's overstepped a boundary but instantly relaxes when he feels your fingers take their place between his. You're not looking at him, but he can sense you trying to conceal your flustered state by nonchalantly keeping your eyes on the pavement.

He suddenly remembers you've got a class to attend at 3pm and slips his phone out of his back pocket to check the time. "It's half two, we should probably start heading back." He reminds you, not wanting to be the reason you mess up your schedule for the day.   

"Oh shit." Your eyes slightly widen at the realisation. "That was quick." You admit absentmindedly and he laughs softly.   

"Hmmmm what can I say, time flies when you're with me." He says with a suggestive pointed grin.   

"Didn't realise you were this deluded." You scoff, eyes rolling playfully. 

"Hey now." He warns with a nudge against your shoulder and can't hide the amused grin on his face when you giggle. "You had fun, admit it."  

"Mmmmaybe." You say with a cheeky smile, and he feels his pulse increasing. His chest constricts inevitably at how cute and soft you look. Your chin brushing your shoulder as you turn your head to look at him, batting your lashes seductively. He wonders if you know the effect you have on him.   

“You act all brave now, but -” He stops walking, making you halt, and you turn to look at him. “I bet I could easily make you skip class, if I really wanted to.” He says suggestively, a cocky eyebrow raising when he takes in your surprised expression. He pulls you closer, pulling lightly at your hand that's still in his and you stumble, putting a hand on his chest to regain your balance. You look up at him, and he thinks 'there it is', there's that not-so-innocent look from Saturday night. You don't shy away or get flustered this time, you stand your ground, and he suddenly wants to ruin you. But he knows this is not the time and place and he curses internally for choosing to go on a stupid coffee date. He's definitely taking you out somewhere more intimate and romantic next time, like Jeno suggested.   

"And how exactly would you do that?" You ask, testing his resolve, which, apparently, runs very thin when it comes to you.   

He leans down so his lips are by your ear, the hand that's not holding yours, taking purchase on your waist. "I'd show you but you'd probably get all shy on me." He murmurs and relishes in the way your hand tightens its hold on the fabric of his jumper. He feels your breathing quicken and can't help but laugh at your reaction.   

He moves to pull away and the second his eyes land on yours, your hand grabs the back of his neck and your lips crash on his. His breath hitches and his eyes widen at the impact, before he relaxes against you and kisses you back. He relishes in the feel of your soft lips sliding against his, and the warmth your body radiates when he pulls you closer with his arm around your waist and when he feels you sigh, body pliantly slotting into his, he wonders if someone if playing a prank on him, because there’s no way you’re this perfect for him. You wrap both your arms around his neck securely and he moves a hand to your hip, gently squeezing, his fingers dangerously close to your ass. You whimper when his tongue makes contact with your bottom lip and he feels you tilt your head to the side silently asking him to deepen the kiss, but he decides that the next time he has a full on make out session with you is going to be somewhere private. He bites your bottom lip lightly and gives you a quick peck before breaking the kiss completely and you whine at the sudden loss of contact, making him laugh. The hand on your hip sneakily slides itself into your back pocket, giving your bum a playful squeeze, before letting it rest there lazily, simply because he can't help himself. "You're trouble, Y/N." He mumbles against your lips.  

Your eyes open at that, finding his and your hand caresses the back of his neck while you suck your bottom lip into your mouth and his jeans start to feel constricting at the thought of you doing that so you can taste him again, now that he's no longer kissing you. "I'm trouble?" You ask in disbelief.

"You kissed me." He states in an accusatory tone as if he wouldn't have done it himself anyway.  

"I know." You whisper, your eyes dropping to his lips again. "I wanted to." You mumble and your tone makes his brain overflow with thoughts that revolve around you and his bed, because it doesn't matter that it's Monday afternoon and you're walking around the park. In Haechan’s head, nothing matters in this moment other than the fact that he desperately wants you in ways he hasn’t wanted anyone before and that scares him. Not because he doesn’t want to. But simply because he does. Haechan wants to want you.

_ 

"And with five minutes to spare." Haechan says with a proud smile when you reach the entrance of the building your class is in, still hand in hand and you can't help but smile back.   

“You know you're definitely gonna be late, right?” You say in a scolding tone and he scoffs rolling his eyes.  

“And whose fault is that?” He says playfully, pulling you closer.   

“You should've said you were meeting Jaemin at three, how am I supposed to- mmmf.” He interrupts you with a kiss against your lips, cupping your face in his hands. He pulls away quicker than you'd prefer but you still can't help the surprised laugh that escapes you.   

"I know I’ll see you on Thursday, but can I take you out Friday night?" He asks, eyes wide and hopeful and you smile.   

"You can." You say with a dreamy tone, taking in his pretty brown eyes and the way his smile widens when you accept to go on a second date with him.   

"Good." He kisses you chastely again and rubs his nose against yours before dropping a wet smooch on your cheek, laughing at your reaction.  

"Yah!" You complain cringing at the wet sensation against your skin. "Ewww, you slobbered on meeee." You whine, wiping the wetness off your face with the back of your hand, your nose scrunching in fake disgust but your heart flutters at the sound of his laugh. "Fucking weirdo." You huff, torn between laughter and exasperation.  

"Be a good girl and get to class." He turns you around, putting his hands on your shoulders and guiding you towards the entrance of the building, arms hugging you from behind and the butterflies in your stomach go ballistic. "Also, sit with me on Thursday." He whispers in your ear and you shiver at the feeling of his warm breath on your neck. You turn your head sideways to look at his face and you can't stop your lips from curling into a grin.   

"Be a good boy and don't tell me what to do." You whisper against his jaw, where you press a quick kiss that surprises him, his arms loosening around your shoulders in shock and you take the opportunity to turn around and loosely wrap your arms around his waist. You raise on your tippy toes so you can bring your lips to his ear. “I’ll see you soon, Lee Haechan.” You say with a low tone and to anyone else it might seem like you're just hugging, but you can feel his chest moving shallowly against your own when you give him another gentle kiss, on the cheek this time.  

"What the f-" You walk away with a sweet smile, before he can react or finish his sentence and you couldn't be more satisfied with yourself. You know he's still standing there, looking at you while you walk away from him and you smile to yourself.   

When you take your usual seat next to Chenle, in the back of the big lecture hall, he looks at you with a smirk, arms crossed over his chest. "So? How was it?" He asks and a giggle escapes him when you sigh with a dreamy smile on your face. "That good?"   

“You have no idea.” You feel you phone buzz in your pocket and you already have an idea what to expect.   

15:01 Hae☀️: that was fucked up...  

15:01 Hae☀️️: you're in for a treat next time i see you

_

Thursday rolls around slower than normal this week and you know why it feels that way. You can’t wait to see him.   

It’s the first time you’re running late to class though, and you’re cursing yourself for deciding to take a nap earlier. The bus that would have gotten you there on time is long gone, so your only option was to walk and be ten minutes late. You know it’s not the end of the world, students run late all the time, and it’s not like you’re anal about punctuality. It’s just that you hate being the centre of attention.   

And when you walk in the lecture hall, everything pans out exactly how you had predicted; some people turn their heads to look when you enter the hall as quietly as possible and some couldn’t care less. When you skip past your usual row of seats though, taking a seat two rows ahead instead, next to the handsome boy who’s been lately occupying your thoughts nonstop, more people’s eyes drift to your direction and you’re thankful to your professor, who continues speaking, without batting an eyelid at your tardiness.   

“You okay? I texted you.” Haechan leans into whisper in your ear, voice as quiet as possible. An arm extends behind you, resting on the back of your seat casually and you feel the warmth radiating on your shoulder blades, through the material of your top.   

You look at him for a moment before starting to take out your notes and iPad. “I know, I took a nap and overslept.” You whisper back maintaining the decibels of your voice as low as possible and you can tell he’s holding back a laugh.   

You look past him and you see Jaemin and Jeno both looking at you and waving. You mouth ‘hi’ to both of them offering a smile and your eyes land on Haechan again who’s smiling at you like he’s up to something. He relaxes in his seat, comfortably sinking into it while spreading his legs, his knee now touching yours and you know what he’s trying to do.  

You also lean back and relax in your seat, pretending to finally pay attention to whatever example is being demonstrated on the board. Your knee playfully nudges his.

“Stop manspreading.” Your eyes still on the board but your attention on him.   

“I’d say sorry, but it was intentional.” He states and you hold in your exasperation as well as your laugh. Your amused expression falters when he reaches to take your hand in his and rests them on his thigh. He’s too casual for your liking and too soft for your poor heart.   

When he said that you’re in for a treat he really did mean it.  

He walks you home that day.   

-

“What the actual fuck?” Your voice is high-pitched; eyes so wide, they resemble a cartoon’s.   

“What?” He laughs at your comical expression and places the mic down on the table in the centre of the noraebang room.  

“You made me go first so you could embarrass me!” You loudly accuse with your finger pointing at him.   

“You weren’t bad!” He can’t help the laughter that won’t stop. You’re frowning still and you look so adorable and believably annoyed. He knows it’s all pretend though.   

“You were so good though.” Your frown slowly turns into a pout. “And it was all in Japanese.” Your wide eyes looking up at him from when you’re still sat cross legged on the leather sofa seat. He feels weak. You make him feel weak.   

“I took singing lessons when I was younger.” He explains with a smile. “And that’s my favourite song so I’ve had practice.” He approaches slowly and takes a seat next to you, huffing and spreading his legs slightly to get comfortable while his head rests on the back of the sofa. He’s the one looking up at you now. You look so pretty in the purple and blue hues that light up the room. He definitely made the right choice bringing you here after dinner. He wanted to keep your second date PG but the way you’re looking at him right now makes him contemplate.   

“Ah right. He’s an artist.” A teasing smile takes over your face as you hold his gaze. He groans and you giggle when his hands come up to cover his face in embarrassment. He feels you shift next to him and when he looks at you through the gaps of his fingers you’ve turned your body towards him, still crossing your legs. “You have a pretty voice, Lee Haechan.”   

He knows he’s blushing, but he snorts, trying to feign nonchalance. “Thanks.” his hands drop and rest on his thighs.   

“Did you bring me here to show off then?” Your tone still ever so teasing.  

“No, but I was hoping to impress you maybe.” He admits without realising. Your effect on him frustrates him.   

“By serenading me in a language I can’t understand?” Your smile is so sweet, tooth ache inducing. So sweet it’s contagious. You move a little closer and he can smell your sweet perfume. His eyes drop to your exposed neck and then to the collarbones he’s dying to press soft kisses on. “Consider me impressed.” You say and his eyes come back up to your face. You seem to be fighting your smile now and he’s obsessed with the fact that you don’t want to give away how affected you also are by him.   

“What’s your favourite song?” He asks in a low voice, sitting up a bit and extending an arm along the back of the sofa. Your eyes instantly drop there, and your hand comes up to trace a vein absentmindedly. He manages to contain the shiver that creeps up on him, but he can’t control the goosebumps raising on his skin.   

“Japanese Denim by Daniel Caesar.” You respond, copying his low tone. Your eyes not leaving your fingers gingerly trailing up and down his skin. “You know it?” you look at him in question.   

Haechan is thankful he does. “Myyy blueee jeaaansss.” He sings the start of the chorus playfully and you giggle, pushing his shoulder lightly.   

“Okay r&b king.” You joke with a laugh. He pokes your side and you flinch with a half whine half giggle. He can’t help but smile at the sound.   

“I just think his lyrics are like poetry, you know?” You shrug, explaining why you see the appeal. Your hand is now resting in his arm, no longer tracing and he enjoys the weight of it. The warmth. He wants to reach out and touch you too, but he doesn’t move. The moment feels too precious to ruin.   

“They really are.” He agrees with a small nod. He likes to think that maybe he’ll be able to write lyrics like those one day, but he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t want to talk about himself now. He’s too busy admiring you. “You’re so pretty.” He says softly and he doesn’t even register the words leaving his mouth until he gets the cutest reaction from you. You look away, smiling big and your hands come up to press against your cheeks, attempting to cover what he assumes is a blush. A soft chuckle escapes him and he reaches up with both hands to remove yours from your face. “Blush away, no need to hide.” He teases you. He finds that he’s good at it. He wonders if it’s because you generally get flustered so easily or if it’s just the effect he has on you. He hopes it’s the latter.   

When your hands aren’t in the way, he taps a finger under your chin gently encouraging you to turn your head so he can look at you again. He then instinctively moves closer, craving to feel your warmth better and when your eyes find his again, his chest constricts. He sometimes doesn’t understand how it’s possible that he’s come to feel so attached to you in such a short amount of time, how he so easily gravitates towards you. But then you look at him and he understands. You speak and he understands. You laugh and he understands. You touch him and he understands. It almost feels foreign but never unwelcome. Never forced. And that scares him.   

Haechan trails his fingers from your chin down to your collarbone, tracing softly and he slowly moves the fallen strands of hair behind your shoulder. He feels your gasp when he leans forward to leave a kiss on the curve of it. Then a little lower. And a little lower until his nose nuzzles against the dip of your collarbone. Another kiss. And another. This time his tongue makes contact first, tasting the skin, before his lips pucker on the sensitive surface again. Your breathing has turned shallow and he smiles at the sight of your chest moving up and down. Your fingers thread into his hair, slightly pulling and he sighs against your wet skin. You catch him off guard when your other hand pushes him by the shoulder and he’s about to apologise for crossing a line but then you quickly straddle him and his mind goes blank. This is definitely not PG.   

“Someone could see us, you know.” You whisper against his lips and he almost moans. The hand in his hair pulls again and his head drops against the back of the seat pliantly, eyes closing at the feeling of your lips on his jawline. You scatter small kisses until you reach his ear and lightly bite on his lobe, his breathing quickens and the moan he’s been holding in eventually escapes at your next words. “Bet that turns you on though.” His hands instantly come up to hold onto something, anything. One grabs onto your waist, the other lands on your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt. “Talk to me.” You whisper sweetly in his ear before starting to trail kisses down the column of neck. The further down you travel, the wetter they get and he feels himself getting hard, his hips slightly raising to get some friction, but you don’t budge. “Behave.” You laugh against his neck in a hot puff of air and his voice comes out in a soft whine.   

“Baby,” he breathes out weakly and you coo softly against his neck while gingerly sucking on the delicate flesh. He feels you place a hand on his chest, above where his heart is beating uncontrollably and he knows you can feel it too, your thumb stroking soothingly to comfort him. “Wanna kiss you.” He pleads pathetically and he feels like he might come in his pants when you suddenly grind your hips down. His breath catches in his throat and he trails a hand up your back, between your shoulder blades, to wrap around the base of your neck, pressing you down as he thrusts up into you. He smiles stupidly when you bring up your face, unburying from his neck, to look at him with wide eyes. He thinks you might scold him but instead you just wrap a hand around his neck, pressing your fingers against his pulse points in a possessive manner and he groans. His eyes shut at the dizzying sensation and when he feels your lips press on his, he relishes. His head tilts automatically to deepen the kiss and he sighs into your mouth when your tongue finds its way in. It’s intoxicating and he swears he feels high. Your hand around his neck definitely playing a part but it’s mostly your taste and the way you kiss him exactly how he likes to be kissed. Wet and filthy but still slow, sucking on his tongue to tease him. He feels his heartbeat going wild without permission when you grind down again, just the right way, the perfect amount of pressure to drive him insane.  

His hands trail down to messily bunch up the fabric of your corduroy skirt so he can squeeze the flesh of your ass in his palms, fingers digging into the skin. He’s not gentle with you this time but your moans against his lips encourage him not to hold back.

You’re now grinding down with determined force and he moans into your mouth when his fully hard dick slots between your pussy lips, the only thing separating you, his layers and your underwear. He matches your pace, hips coming up when yours drop down and he realises that you’re no longer teasing him. “Think you can cum like this?” You ask against his lips, the scratch in your voice driving him insane, breathing ragged, hips quickening their eager ministrations. He nods, staring into your eyes. “You want to?” You ask again, keeping your eyes on his as your arms wrap around his shoulders to gain more support and he responds with another nod and a shaky breath. His head dips forward, eyes dropping down to where you’re connected and his hand pushes your skirt up even further, to get a better look. He groans at the sight. Your panties almost trapped between your folds, your pussy leaving a trail of wetness on the front of his jeans whenever you drag your body back and he feels himself twitch in his pants. It’s sinful. It’s perfect. You're perfect.  

“Fuck, hang on.” He whispers suddenly, arm wrapping around your middle to halt your movements and he quickly unbuttons his jeans with one hand. His hips raise a little bit as he clumsily pushes the fabric down, leaving his boxers still on. “Okay.” He exhales and his hands find your hips again, guiding you to resume your work. The friction so much better now that he can properly feel your wetness seeping through the cotton and he loves that he can see the way his fat cock drags between your lace clad pussy lips.

Your whining doesn’t go unnoticed, and he looks up at your face only to find you also looking down dazedly. He relishes in the idea that you can get as dirty as he can and he takes in the sight of you now; lips parted, gasping audibly, your nipples hard and visible through your thin blouse and he’s suspecting that you’ve foregone wearing a bra. 

His hands drag upwards, leaving your hips, trusting you to keep grinding down with no guidance and when he squeezes the flesh of your breasts through the fabric, his suspicions are confirmed. You moan when his thumbs rub on your already sensitive nipples, leaning into his touch and he repeats the action, enjoying the desperate little sounds you let out.

“I’m close.” He announces in a gasp, his balls feel heavy and he knows he’s leaking precum, adding to the wet patch you’ve created on the front of his boxers.   

“Yeah?” Your eyes search his, hands cupping his face and kissing him again, soft this time. “You gonna cum for me, pretty boy?” He feels his eyes roll back at your words and all he can do is nod again. He anchors himself by squeezing your ass in his hands again and he loves the whimpers you let out when his hands get a little rougher, making the flesh ripple. He decides to take matters into his own hands when he feels your thighs shaking around his hips, suspecting the soreness in your muscles and his hold on you gives you no option but to quicken the pace

“Fuck, you feel so fuckin good, baby, please don’t stop.” He exasperatedly begs, his breath shaky and he feels like he’s losing it. Pathetic.   

“Yes, god, m’cumming.” His voice comes out ruined, words muffled against your lips, vision blurring and his jaw drops when he reaches his peak, soaking his boxers like a teenage boy. Your hands slide into his hair when he starts shaking and he basks in the comforting touch. His head drops back on the seat again and he feels dizzy, your hips are still moving, dragging out his high and when it gets too much, he gently taps his fingers on your ass cheek, smiling dumbly. “Mmh, just give me a second.” He sighs as you take a seat, directly on his cock, softly cooing at him and kissing his cheek as you push his fringe back, revealing his damp forehead and he purrs at the gentleness.

“Good?” You ask sweetly and he almost scoffs, because there’s no way you don’t know you’ve just ruined him when he’s pathetically drenched his underwear like a horny teenage boy.

“Intense.” He hums and he feels himself shiver when you let out a breathy laugh against his skin, nuzzling into his temple. He slowly turns his head and catches your lips in a slow kiss. “Wanna make you feel good too.” He murmurs against in the kiss and when he notices the conflicted expression on your face, he doubles down. “I’ll be quick.”

“Confident?” You tease with a smile that he can’t help but return. Your teeth sink on your bottom lip when he cups your pussy and he moans at the feeling of soaked lace.   

“Not like I haven’t done it before.” He teases back and he laughs when you swat at his chest. “Please?” He tries again, tone needy this time and he uses his puppy eyes, smiling when he breaks through your resolve. The second you nod, he wraps an arm around you securely and his other hand grabs at the fleshy bit where your ass meets your thigh. “Lie down for me.” He whispers and helps maneuver you onto your back swiftly.

He can’t help but smirk when your legs instinctively part for him to slot in between, and he does exactly that, coming to position himself above you, supporting his weight on one arm by the side of your head. His lips find yours again, in a hungry kiss and this time it’s his tongue that dominates yours, sliding into your mouth, tasting you just like you did to him earlier. He loves the sigh you let out through your nose when his hand slips into your underwear slowly, sliding his middle finger between your folds but what he loves the most is how wet you are.   

“Can I use my mouth?” He questions mid kiss and you must like the sound of that, because he feels you grind against his palm.   

“You can do anything you want, just no sex.” You say shyly. “Not here.”

“Told you, baby,” He gives your lips another peck before kissing down your neck, giving your tit a tentative squeeze as he moves downwards. “Wanna do that in my bed first.” Your moan at the promise brings a smile to his face as his hands slip into the top of your panties and drag them down your legs hastily, feeling the goosebumps on your skin. He stuffs the flimsy material into his back pocket, earning a questioning look from you and he grins. “Don’t worry, you’ll get them back.” He starts kissing from the inside of your knee to your inner thigh, wet and full of tongue.   

“Stop teasing.” You whine, raising your hips impatiently when he reaches closer to where you want him. And he chuckles against your folds, watching as your legs spread even more for him.   

His head rests on your inner thigh, comfortably and he looks up at your face, gauging your reaction. “What do you say?”   

“Please.” You whisper and he feels his dick harden again at your submissive tone.   

“Good girl.” He mutters and his hands slide up your inner thighs, thumbs pulling your pussy lips apart, revealing your cute swollen nub, all pretty and pink and he can see you’re clenching around nothing. Clear pearls of slick drip from the tiny hole that he can’t wait to lap up. 

You’re more than wet enough but Haechan doesn’t think twice before letting a fat glob of spit slowly drip from his mouth and he feels his dick twitch at the sight. You moan when you feel the extra wetness land on your cunt and he does it again, watching his spit drip down to your asshole, making a mess of you. Nothing but sensual. “Yeah? You like it messy?” He breathes out in admiration and he doesn’t even need an answer, he knows you do.

His hand comes up again, fingers spreading the mixed wetness through your folds. His middle and ring fingers create a v shape around your clit, isolating the nub between them and the tip of his tongue comes out to make contact, flicking gently up and down. You both moan in unison, your hands burying in his hair to keep him where you need him and he loves how ruined you already sound, how your legs part completely, how addictive you taste on his tongue. And he loves that he can’t get enough of you.

“Mmh, fuck.” You moan when his arm wraps around your thigh, bringing his hand to separate your folds from the top, palm pressing against your pubic bone, fingers delicately pulling the hood of your clit up, revealing more of the little nub. His flat tongue licks from your hole to your clit and he repeats the action when he feels your fingers pull at his hair harder. The pink muscle then settles back to delivering quick flicks on your nub, the direct contact making you squeal and he smiles at the adorable sound. “Yes, like that.” You encourage him, the praise making his chest swell with pride. His other hand joins and his middle finger teases your leaking entrance, circling before slowly sliding in until it’s fully buried inside, your soaked walls making the glide so easy, that he’s certain one digit won’t be enough.

When his jaw gets tired, he switches to sucking harshly on your clit, making you groan and he slowly starts to move his finger in and out, curling up slightly, following the curve of your pussy. He knows you want more, your hole dripping even more slick around his finger, so he slows down as he adds a second one. You sigh when you feel the extra stretch and he knows he’s got you where he wants you when you start clenching.   

“Fuck, baby, you’re creaming.” He points out in disbelief when he sees the white substance coating his digits every time they pull out of you and you whine in embarrassment. “I swear to god, I’m gonna fuck you stupid one day.” He promises against your cunt and goes back to sucking, more determined this time. His fingers start pumping quicker into you, the squelching sounds nothing but melodic in his ears and your tight walls nothing but heaven around his fingers. Your whines get louder when his speed increases and he knows he’s hitting your sweet spot every time he thrusts in, the pads of his fingers dragging against your walls. “Right there, hm?” His pace quickens even more and he looks up when he feels your eyes on him. You’re on your elbows now, jaw agape, eyes on his lips, watching him ruin you and his tongue comes out to flick quickly from side to side, his head moving with it, making a spectacle without breaking eye contact.   

“I’m gonna cum.” You warn in a whisper, burying a hand in his hair again and your elbows give out, allowing your body to drop back down. He hums against your cunt, letting you know he’s got you and he feels your legs trembling around his head. “Fuck, yes yes yes.” Your voice sounds broken, your walls are kneading his fingers and he has to put extra effort into sliding in and out due to the restricting tightness.

He doesn’t stop though, even when he knows you’re coming down from your high, he keeps pushing your boundaries. He wants more. “Haechan!” You squeal when he suckles on your clit again and he laughs darkly at the cute sound. Your hand tries to push him away, legs attempting to close around his head but he’s not quite done yet, his hold around your thigh tight enough to keep you open for him.   

He pulls his fingers out slowly and you whine. “Sorry, pretty.” He whispers mockingly against your clit before dipping down to lick at your pulsing entrance, smiling at the mewl you let out. He licks from bottom to top again, gently flicking at your clit when he comes up and he knows it’s too much when your body convulses and you sound like you’re crying. You’re not pushing him away though, which gives him hope. He opts to circling instead of flicking, tongue relaxed now; languid and he feels your legs spread again. “Yeah? Want more gentle?” He coos as his eyes look up and he can see your perky tits moving up and down with your breathing. He trails a hand up your body, squeezing greedily around the flesh and he moans at the feeling of your stiff nipple against his palm.   

“I’m too sensitive.” You sigh and bring a hand above his, squeezing around your own tit with him as you raise on your elbows again. 

“You can give me one more, though, right?” His eyes staring into yours, hopeful.   

“I think so.” You nod tiredly, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the overstimulation, breathing coming out harsh. “I’m still turned on.” You admit shyly, biting down on your bottom lip as you push his fringe away from his damp forehead.   

“Such a good girl.” He says dreamily and his tongue gently circles your clit again, wet hand pressing against the back of your thigh to keep you spread out for him.   

Only after you come again on his tongue, does he stop, moving to kiss on your inner thigh, sucking on the supple skin there, leaving a wet patch behind along with a subtle mark. He leans over you again, taking in the sight under him. Your breathing slowing down as you look up at him, your hair fanned around you and your eyes blinking slowly. You look beautifully and utterly fucked out and so angelic. His heart swells when you reach up, pulling him close to you and he gives in right away, dropping down, resting his weight on you carefully. He kisses you slowly, pushing his tongue past your parted lips, moaning with you, knowing you can taste yourself.   

“You’re hard again.” You whisper against his lips and he laughs, because of course he is.   

“You are not making me cum in my pants again.” He scolds and kisses softly on your cheek as you snort a laugh, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, holding him close.   

“Okay, I won’t.” You say with a smile, leaning in to kiss him again. He lets you.   

—

“Do you guys have any, like, weird fetishes?” Jaemin asks randomly, interrupting your conversation with Ningning and almost causing you to choke on a fry.   

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Haechan pipes up next to you, genuine concern laced in his tone, his hand stroking your back whilst you cough.   

“Yeah, changing the subject from ‘I’m broke’, to that, is slightly worrying to say the least.” Ningning agrees but that doesn’t stop her from laughing. “Look, even Jeno is speechless.” She points at Jeno’s shocked expression and he snaps out of it, taking a sip from his coffee.   

“I was just curious.” Jaemin shrugs as he explains. “I’ve been texting this girl and the other night it turned into sexting and she asked me if I’d be down to piss on her?”   

“Oh wow,” Ningning is suddenly interested. “What did you say?” She asks and he eyes widen as she awaits his response. All eyes around the table are on Jaemin now and he’s clearly thrown off, struggling to find the right words.   

“Wellllll-“   

“Oh my god!” Renjun exclaims and covers his mouth with both hands. “Please tell me you didn’t actually do it.”  

“No, of course not.” Jaemin defends himself quickly. “I haven’t even slept with her.” He steals a fry from your plate. “Yet.” He concludes with a smug smile.   

“Okay, but, let’s say you do sleep with her and she asks you to piss on her.” Haechan interferes. “Would you?” He asks with an amused expression and Jaemin seems to be in deep thought.   

“I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to it but I’m pretty sure I’d get stage fright.” Says casually and stuffs a few more fries in his mouth. “Also, I don’t think I can pee when I’m hard.”   

”Yeah, I was thinking that.” Jeno says with narrowed eyes. “It’s also a bit weird if you don’t know them that well or if it’s just a one-time thing, no?” He looks around, asking everyone.  

“Yeah, true.” Renjun agrees. “Not that I’ve done it before, but, surely you do those kinds of things with someone you’re in a relationship with or at least someone you’ve been seeing and agreed to experiment with.” He looks at Jaemin. “But then again, you’re a different kind of breed.” Everyone laughs at that.   

“That I am my friend.” Jaemin laughs darkly and leans over to kiss Renjun on the cheek. The latter pushes him away by shoving a hand against his face with a disgusted expression and you snort at the scene.   

“The question is, where did you even meet this girl?” You ask with a wiggle of your eyebrows, not because you care, but because you find it amusing when Jaemin gets flustered.   

His eyes meet yours now and he seems taken aback before he puts on his cheeky grin again. “Oh, I have a better question, miss thing.” His voice laced with nothing but mischief and you’re now scared. “Would you let Haechan piss on you if he asked?” There it is.   

“And I ask again.” Haechan saves you momentarily. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice is calm but there’s definitely an edge to it, a warning even. He doesn’t move from his position next to you. An arm lazily resting on the back of your chair, the warmth certainly comforting on your shoulders. You instinctively lean into him, resting a hand on his thigh and his knuckles rub against your arm soothingly. Your eyes meet Ningning’s who’s watching the whole interaction smiling and you try to contain your own smile.   

“What? It’s a good question, no?” Jaemin says with a shrug and you roll your eyes.   

“Jaemin, I don’t know about you, but I don’t really talk about golden showers at least until after the fifth date.” You say sarcastically and Jeno snorts trying to hold in a laugh. “And that’s besides the point. You asked if we have any fetishes so I think we should all share one.”   

Jaemin smirks and points a finger at you playfully. “I knew you could match my freak.” He says, giggling like a schoolgirl and Haechan’s arm around your shoulders tightens, the act unnoticeable to everyone else but not to you. Your fingers resting on his thigh, tense slightly trying to get his attention as you turn to look at his face and you can’t help but notice the frown on his face while he’s looking at Jaemin. He’s jealous and it’s obvious and you can’t help the warm fuzzy feeling spreading in your belly. When he looks down at you, his expression softens and you feel his arm relax around you. You give him a smile, which he instantly returns. You’re definitely bringing this up later.

“Take your freak elsewhere please.” Renjun says with sass, earning a few laughs around the table.   

“Ugh fine, I’ll start.” Ningning says and all eyes snap towards her. “I’m not opposed to some toe sucking. There you go. Thank you. Let’s move on.” Your laugh is loud and you wish Chenle didn’t have basketball training so he could witness this shit show.   

”Alright, I like sucking on toes.” Jeno confesses and you bury your face in your hand leaning into Haechan’s shoulder to conceal your laugh. You feel him chuckle in your hair as he wraps his arm around you properly and you love the heat radiating off him so much that you wish you could stay there for the rest of the day.   

“Next!” Ningning says exasperatedly, sending Jeno daggers across the table. It wasn’t even his turn but you respect his efforts. Not a lot of men have managed to get Ningning this flustered before and it actually makes you wonder if any toe sucking took place that night they supposedly only cuddled. You make a mental note that this might also be worth bringing up earlier.  

It’s Renjun’s turn and he seems to be in deep thought. “I honestly can’t think of anything, I think I’m pretty vanilla.”   

“Surely there’s something, it doesn’t have to be hardcore.” Haechan butts in. 

“I guess choking?” Renjun’s ears have turned red now and you almost feel bad, because out of everyone around this table, he’s the one that deserves to be embarrassed the least.   

“Ooooh erotic asphyxiation!” Jaemin says feigning a seductive tone. “Okay, so, I may or may not like butt stuff.”   

Everyone’s eyes widen at the confession.   

“As in your butt or the other person’s?” Jeno asks curiously. Jaemin only responds by wiggling his eyebrows and Jeno gasps dramatically. 

“As in you’ve had a finger up y-“   

“Moving on!” Jaemin exclaims loudly, interruptinh Ningning. "Your turn, lover boy." He gestures at Haechan to continue as Jeno’s mouth is still open in shock.   

“Hmm.’ Haechan ponders, his fingers tapping on your shoulder absentmindedly as he thinks. For some reason, even though it’s not your turn to answer, you feel exposed, as though all your friends are watching you both, trying to gauge your reaction at his response. You try to maintain as neutral an expression as possible and you hope he says something you might have already guessed by the times you’ve been intimidate with him. “Maybe the risk of getting caught.” He finally admits and you’re definitely not shocked.   

“That’s boring, everyone likes that.” Jaemin complains.  

“Speak for yourself, sicko.” Renjun defends. “Some of us like total privacy.”   

“Aww you really are vanilla.” Ningning pouts cutely and Renjun scoffs.    

“Y/N?” Renjun says to divert the attention from him and you fear your ears might be as red as his now. Everyone is watching you, including Haechan and you’re starting to regret suggesting this in the first place.   

“Just say it, no one is going to judge.” Jeno encourages and you want to bury your face in Haechan’s shoulder again.   

“Maybe Haechan should try and guess.” Renjun suggests and now you feel like you've underestimated him.  

“Oh yes!” Jaemin quickly agrees excitedly, clapping his hands. “Okay, how about he whispers it to you and if he gets it right, he then has to say it out loud.”   

“What if he gets it wrong?” You ask and Haechan scoffs next to you.   

“He seems pretty confident.” Ningning says, pointing at Haechan’s face and when you look up at him, he’s got a cocky smile plastered on his stupidly pretty face.   

“Alright, Haechanie, make us proud.” Jaemin says while holding a hand to his chest and Haechan rolls his eyes at his friend.   

“Okay,” He leans closer, cupping his hand around your ear to conceal his mouth from the group. “Spitting.” He whispers so that only you can hear and you feel lightheaded for a moment. When he retracts, he gently moves your hair behind your ear and when your eyes find his, he smirks. He’s got you all figured out and he knows it. Bastard. “So?” He asks patiently.   

“Correct.” You say in defeat and everyone cheers a little too loudly around the table.

“So, what is it?” Jaemin asks excitedly.

“Can I?” Haechan asks, eyes still on you, ignoring his friend and you appreciate that he prioritises your comfort. You nod with a smile, giving him permission to say it out loud.

“Spitting.” He says again, out loud this time for all your friends to hear.   

“That’s quite vague, no?” Jeno says. “Who’s spitting and where?”   

You turn in his direction, throwing daggers at him, because there’s no way he’s trying to be a brat. “Oh, would you perhaps like a demonstration? I’ll happily spit in your cute little boba tea right now.” Your sweet tone, insincere and Haechan bursts out laughing, head thrown back, pretty neck on display but you push that thought to the back of your mind.

“Relax woman!” Jeno says with his hands raised in surrender. “No saliva in my drink please.” He takes his drink from the table and covers the top with a hand protectively.   

“You can spit in mine.” Jaemin offers with hopeful eyes, holding up his drink in your direction and you groan at his crassness.   

“Dude, you’re sick.” Renjun says with a shake of his head, judging his friend.   

“No, I’m just versatile.” Jaemin defends with a pout. “No one’s spat in my drink before.”   

“That you know of.” Haechan says with a feigned smile, voice laced with mild irritation.

“Right, well, I hate to ruin the fun, but I have class in fifteen minutes.” Ningning gets up, grabbing her bag and drink. “Bye losers.” She says with a sweet smile and starts walking towards the exit of the cafeteria.   

“Wait!” Jeno’s voice is loud. “I’ll walk with you.” He gets up quickly, clumsily gathering his stuff before following after her like a puppy following his owner, without even looking back at the rest of you. You look at them walk away, already discussing something. You think they look cute together and you wonder what you and Haechan look like to other people.   

“Someone’s toes are definitely getting sucked later.” Jaemin says and you can’t help but laugh at his silly joke.   

Haechan turns to you with a sweet smile. “Are you done with classes for the day?” He asks quietly, leaning his body closer to you and you smile at how comfortable he already acts around you, not caring that his friends are still there.   

“Mm-hmm.” You confirm with a nod, sitting up to stretch your limbs and once the stiffness is somewhat relieved, you sink back into your chair, leaning into his warmth as he wraps his arm around your shoulders again, like it belongs there. “You working this evening?”   

“Nah, I only need to go in on Sunday this weekend.” He says happily as his other hand takes hold of yours, resting limply on his lap. “Wanna come over for dinner?” He asks carefully and your eyes fall on Jaemin and Renjun who are deep in conversation about what jobs Jaemin could look for to earn some extra cash. They’re paying no attention to you and Haechan.   

“Dinner?” You ask with a hopeful smile and turn your head to look up at him, his pretty boba eyes already on you and he nods.   

“Yeah, I could make us something, or we could get takeout.” His cheeks are now pink and you feel giddy at his flustered look. He looks so unbelievably cute and you get the urge to give him kiss, but you don’t. Not here.   

“Sure, I’d like that, but-” Then you look at the two boys sat across the table again, posing a silent question.   

“They’re all out tonight, don’t worry.” He reassures you quietly, reading your mind.   

It’s not that you don’t like being around Haechan’s friends, they’re all lovely and have been nothing but nice to you, but you would appreciate some one-on-one time with him. It’s been exactly a week since your second date and even though you’ve seen him around campus since then, it’s always been with his or your friends around. On the other hand, you’re now realising that neither of you have been over at each other’s places and you feel the nerves as well as the excitement brewing in your stomach.   

You’re aware that both you and Haechan are still navigating the nature of your relationship and even though you know that it’s too soon to tell where it’s going, you’re more than happy to see it through with him. 

You’re also aware that so far, you’ve both made very clear that when you’re left alone, it’s almost impossible to keep your hands off each other. And although, the last thing you want is to keep things between you at a superficial level, you can’t help but wonder what sex with him would feel like. And although, you want things to progress naturally, you have a feeling that if you go over for dinner, you might find out.  

“You sure you don’t wanna go out with them?” You ask, checking that he’s not cancelling any important plans for you.   

“I can’t think of anything worse than going to a frat house filled with a bunch of people I barely know, trust me.” He says with a laugh, his thumb stroking the back of your hand gently. “Plus, I feel like I haven’t properly seen you this week.”   

“Missed me?” You tease him, laughing at his reaction. His eyes roll and he tongues his cheek, trying to conceal his smile.   

“Yeah, and what if I did?” He challenges, his eyes widening, his lips forming a cute pout.   

“If you did,” You trail, leaning closer as you lower your voice, squeezing his hand in yours. “Then that’s great. Because the feeling might be mutual.” You reach up with your free hand to pinch one round cheek and before he has time to react, you lean in, dropping a quick kiss on the other one. “I’d love to come over.” You say with a smile and poke the tiny dimple that’s appeared where you’ve just kissed him.   

“Oh great, so you guys are fucking on our couch.” Jaemin ruins yet another moment and Haechan closes his eyes trying to compose himself. A thought pops into your head and you’re already internally laughing at your own joke.   

”Now, why would we do that, when your bed is available tonight?” You say with a toothy grin and you’re sure Renjun’s loud laugh makes some heads turn, Haechan mimics his reaction, head thrown, hands clapping. “Do not test me Na Jaemin, I will break you.” You point a finger at him with a serious look.   

“You two make a great match, it’s actually scary.” He says in what could be described as amazement or fear, gesturing between you and Haechan.  

_

You wake up confused, looking around and seeing you’re not in the familiar space of your apartment and when you inhale deeply you realise you’re safe. Haechan’s familiar scent helps you relax again and when you move to stretch your legs, you feel a comforting weight on your back, stroking slowly. You nuzzle your face into Haechan’s neck, humming in delight as he pulls the fluffy blanket, which you assume he threw over your figures whilst you were asleep, up to your chin.

“Hey, pretty.” He whispers in your ear, not wanting to startle you, his hand now in your hair, gently scratching your scalp and you purr in delight. “We fell asleep.” His tone still low, voice a little groggy, laced with sleep still.   

”Mmm, what time is it?” You mumble sleepily in his neck and he shuffles around, careful not to move you from where you’re lying comfortably on him, grabbing his phone from the coffee table near the couch you’re both currently cocooned in. Your blink your eyes slowly, thankful that the only thing producing light in the living room area, is the tv screen. Shin-chan still playing on the screen from earlier but the volume is lowered. You assume you must’ve fallen asleep mid cuddling, after dinner. You remember telling him about this crime documentary you watched with Ningning a few nights ago and how you couldn’t sleep after. You also remember him saying that you should’ve called him so he could take your mind off it, and you remember wondering if he really meant that or if he was just being nice.   

“It’s almost nine.” He says quietly after unlocking his phone. “We slept for like two hours.” He yawns cutely while checking any missed notifications and you can see from the corner of your eye, he quickly replies to a message from Jeno. “Seems like Jen convinced Ningning to come out.” He announces with a snort and your ears perk at that, your head slightly raising to look at him in question and he shows you the selfie he’s received from a visibly drunk Jeno, who’s got an arm wrapped around your friend’s shoulders, who’s sticking her tongue out, also visibly drunk.   

“Fuck's sake.” Your head drops on his shoulder again, groaning. “She’s gonna be hungover tomorrow.” You whine and Haechan lets out a laugh, holding you tightly against him, his arm wrapping around your middle. Your hand rests on his chest and you close your eyes, allowing the cosiness to engulf you.  

“It’s fine, I’m sure he’ll look after her.” He places his phone back on the coffee table and wraps his other arm around you, squeezing you like a teddy bear, with a sigh. “Bet my left nut, he’s staying at yours again tonight.” He jokes and you snort at his choice of words.   

“Why the left one specifically?”   

“I’m right-handed so I thought I’d keep the right one.”   

“I’m sure you’ll get to keep both anyway; he’s definitely going home with her.” You agree with his point and tap your hand lightly on his chest, while resting your chin on it to look up at his pretty face. His eyes are closed now and he looks so relaxed, you can’t help but wonder if he’s enjoying the cuddling session as much as you are, but you also don’t want to assume he wants you to stay over. “I can go home, if you wanna go to bed. It’s getting late.”   

His eyes open the moment he seems to have registered your words and he looks down at you. “Or you could stay?” He suggests with hopeful eyes, gauging your reaction. “I have a spare toothbrush, and you can wear something of mine.” He can definitely tell you’re contemplating. “No pressure of course, I get if you wanna be in your own bed.” His fingers comb through your hair soothingly and you close your eyes momentarily.  

"Hmm." You ponder with a smile, letting your hand trail up his chest, fingers absentmindedly stroking along his jaw, feeling the scratch of the light stubble adorning his chin and he tilts his head, leaning into the touch. “I'm sure I won't miss my bed that much.”  

_

After you’ve both brushed your teeth and he’s given you a comfortable big t-shirt of his to change into, you’re ready for bed and when you walk into his room, he’s already turned the main light off and left the bedside lamp on.

He’s lying comfortably under the white covers, back against the headboard while he’s lazily scrolling through his phone. You feel giddy at how soft and warm he looks. Just like a teddy bear you wouldn’t be able to sleep without.

You place your clothes on his desk chair and walk over to the side he’s not occupying, noticing your own phone is placed on the bedside table next to him, plugged in and screen down. You smile at the thoughtful gesture and slowly lift the duvet to get under, instinctively shuffling closer to his side of the bed when he stretches his arm out for you and you place your head on his chest, resembling the position you were in earlier on the couch. His bedsheets are cold and you tangle a leg with his, wiggling your toes against his skin to warm them up, making him flinch and you giggle quietly. “Sorry.”   

He places his phone down, next to yours and moves to get comfortable against the pillows while holding onto your shoulders, bringing you down with him. He maneuvers you so you’re both on your sides facing each other and his arm is still slotted under you, between your head and your shoulder, while yours lazily drapes over his waist. He cups your jaw, gently rubbing his thumb against your skin and when he kisses your forehead gingerly, your eyes close momentarily while your arm tightens around his middle, pulling yourself closer so your chest is touching his. It feels domestic and so comfortable, like you’ve shared a bed with him a million times before.

“You comfy?” He whispers and you nod, the tip of your nose rubbing against his in the process. You see the corners of his lips lifting into a smile that probably mirrors yours. “Are you sleepy?” He murmurs against your lips and you smirk, knowing he’s testing the waters now. His fingers are in your hair and his thigh is resting between your legs, so close to your aching centre that you’re worried he can feel you throbbing through your underwear.   

“Not really.” You breathe against his lips, your hand on his back slipping under the hem of his t-shirt and you feel him shiver when you trail your fingers up, your nails lightly scratching, feeling the goosebumps on his warm skin. “You?” Your breath hitches when his thumb traces your bottom lip, dragging it down and your eyes travel to his heart shaped lips. You instantly wish they were on yours, but you want to let him go at his own pace.   

“What do you think?” He asks rhetorically and you breathe out a laugh, biting down on your bottom lip when his thumb moves to stroke the apple of your cheek.   

“I think,” you pause, lightly dragging your nails down his back, earning a whimper from him. “I’m not really thinking actually.” You confess as your hand travels to his front, fiddling with the strings of his shorts, your fingers catching the elastic band of his shorts and letting it snap against his lower abdomen, earning a gasp from him, which hits your eager lips.   

“Dumb already?” He attempts to tease and the smile dies on his lips, jaw dropping when your hand dips into his slacks and past his underwear, to wrap firmly around him. His eyes close when your thumb rubs under the head and you relish in the fact that he’s almost fully hard. He feels velvet smooth against your palm, thick enough to make you think it will probably sting when he enters you for the first time, slightly curved upwards, length perfect for hitting that sweet spot in your walls. You feel yourself getting wet at the thought and your breathing stutters when his thigh makes contact with your pussy, your hips instantly pushing forward, chasing the stimulating feeling. “Mm fu-“   

His lips are finally on yours, interrupting you and you moan against his mouth in relief, kissing him back like you were made for it. You can’t help but think of that night in the noraebang room; how these very lips completely and utterly ruined you for anyone else. How they devoured you like no one else has before and probably like no one ever will.   

Without breaking the kiss, you push him gently and he rolls onto his back dragging you with him so you can straddle him. He buries his fingers into your hair, deepening the kiss, his tongue gliding against yours and you moan at the taste of him; toothpaste and something uniquely him. Your hands take hold of his, dragging them down your figure and you stop to rest them on your ass, smiling in the kiss when he instantly kneads and pulls at the plush skin. You allow him to lick into your mouth one more time, before breaking the kiss to sit up and take in his dazed expression. Eyes hooded, lips wet and swollen and so irresistible, you feel helpless. Before he can complain, you drop your hands to the hem of the shirt that he let you borrow and slowly start dragging it up your skin, until it’s off you and on the floor.   

“Fuck.” He exhales heavily, the second your tits are free and his hand comes up caressing from your hip up to your ribs until he reaches the underside of your boob and he gently cups, feeling the weight of it in his hand. “You’re fucking unreal.” He whispers and licks his lips before sitting up and wrapping his other arm securely around your waist.

His forehead rests against your chest for a moment, inhaling deeply, almost as if he needs a minute to compose himself while still squeezing your boob in his hand and you let him, threading your fingers through his hair to offer some comfort. His warm breath caresses your nipple and your shiver, the skin around the nub pebbling against his palm. You whine at the sensitivity, pulling at his hair to guide him closer to where you want him.

He gets the message and he kisses across your sternum, his tongue coming out to make contact with your skin before it circles around your areola slowly, teasing you. The pads of his fingers digging into the skin of your boob, squeezing as he sucks the nipple into his mouth and he moans when you whine. He starts flicking his tongue, driving you close to insanity and the wetness in your underwear feels almost unbearable now, but you have other priorities.   

“Hae?” You call out into his hair as he’s still sucking and licking and he hums, indicating that he’s listening, as he scatters more kisses across your chest, moving to wrap his lips around your other nipple. “I wanna suck you off.” You say quickly, before allowing the shyness to infiltrate your brain and he instantly releases the nub, with a wet pop, so he can look up at your face with wide eyes. His mouth is ajar and his lips swollen and wet with his spit. He looks fucked out like this, hair messy and you love it, because you’re the sole reason. You cup his face and he absentmindedly squeezes both your tits in his hands, pushing them together, his eyes not leaving yours.   

“Yeah, baby?” He leans up and kisses you softly. “Wanna make me feel good?” He mumbles seductively against your mouth, and you don’t even think before quickly nodding.   

“Mm please.” You say in a whiny voice, playing along with him, as you pull at the fabric of his top and his hands move to pull at the collar, swiftly removing it. Your hands drag down his naked chest, pushing him to lie against the headboard, continuing their journey down his body, until they reach his shorts. You don’t waste any time, pulling his boxers along with them and he spreads his legs when he’s completely naked, for you to kneel in between them. His hand wraps around his hard cock, resting on his tummy and he whimpers at the needed friction while his eyes are on yours.   

“Tongue out, keep your eyes on me.” He says softly and you clench around nothing, your panties a mess by now, you have to refrain from cringing at the feeling. You instantly obey, leaning closer and sticking your tongue out, millimetres away from where he wants it. He gently taps the head against the centre of your awaiting wet muscle and you moan, fighting to keep your eyes on his, the act feeling intensely intimate. “Suck, baby.” He says, his voice still gentle but more authoritative than before. You wrap your lips around the head and suck softly, tasting his precum and you can’t help but let your eyes close at the taste and weight of him in your mouth. You pull back slightly, swirling your tongue around him and flicking at the underside, causing him to grunt. “Fuck, pretty girl, you’re so good to me, aren’t you.” He says, with a shaky voice in his state of vulnerability, and you moan at the praise as you slap his hand away, replacing it with your own, wrapping your smaller fingers around his thick length and he lets you. You start to move your hand up and down, pumping him at a quick pace while sucking around the tip again, tongue dipping gently in his slit and when his hips buck up, wanting you to take him deeper, you place a hand on his hip as a warning and he grunts. "Fuck baby, please."   

You gather a good amount of saliva in your mouth and when you look up to make sure he's watching you, you let it drip down slowly, watching as it coats his cock and travels down to his balls. You smile when his eyes roll back and you lick from base to top teasingly, surprising him when you take him as deep as you can, with your hand wrapped tightly around the base.

You moan when he reaches the back of your throat, swallowing around him with purpose and you pull back up when you start to gag. Your hand follows your mouth as you slowly start to move your head up and down, trying to give him as much pleasure as you can and you know you're doing a good job when his hands curl in your hair, gathering the strands into a messy ponytail and his moans turn into whines. This time, when his hips start moving, you allow him to fuck up into you, having gotten used to the feeling of him in your throat.

You slacken your jaw, moving your hand from the base to his thigh, and he moans louder when you allow him to go deeper than before. You feel your eyes water and you know you're slobbering around him, making a complete mess as saliva drips from the corners of your mouth, gathering at the base of his cock and balls. Your hand comes up to cup them, rolling gently and he abruptly pulls your mouth off him with a loud groan.

You look at the thick string of spit mixed with precum that’s connecting your lips to his tip, as you gasp for air and then your teary eyes travel up to meet his wild ones. He looks conflicted and his grip on your hair feels tight. "What's wrong?" You ask, your voice comes out hoarse and you feel like coughing to clear your throat, but you just swallow carefully.  

He manages to laugh breathlessly at your confused expression, his breathing shallow and his lips bright pink from all the biting. "I was about to cum." He explains and grabs you by the arms to pull you up.   

"Ain't that the point?" You say as you straddle him again and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, some of the drool smearing on your chin and you internally cringe at the wetness, but his eyes on your mouth tell you he thinks otherwise.   

"Not if you want me to fuck you, no." Your heart jumps at his words and the look on your face must betray you, because he’s smirking. "Unless you don't." He teases, caressing your thighs as you place both hands on his naked chest, your pinky rubbing against his nipple and you giggle when he shudders.   

"No, I do." You confess as you lean down to kiss him but he quickly sits up, meeting you halfway as he wraps his arms around you, maneuvering you onto your back swiftly and you feel yourself bounce on the mattress when he plops you down. He kneels between your legs and without warning, he starts pulling your panties off you. You eagerly raise your hips to help him, bringing your bent legs together, so the fabric doesn't stretch.   

Once the lace is somewhere on the floor, you see his lips curling into a smile as he bites on the bottom one when you mindlessly spread your legs for him again, inviting him to settle between them. He moves closer, dragging his knees on the mattress as his hands take purchase on your hips.   

"Scoot up a bit for me?" He asks sweetly and he helps you move up the bed, so your head rests comfortably on the fluffy pillows, and you feel the butterflies in your stomach causing havoc with no permission, your heart thudding like crazy as your eyes find his and fuck holding back now. You just want him to ruin you.   

You pull at his silver chain, your other hand grabbing the back of his neck and he grunts the second your lips crash, all tongue and teeth with no coordination. You tilt your head to the side to get better access and the wet sound of kissing fills the room. Your clit is throbbing and you desperately need him to do something. Anything. "Please, I'm so wet." You whine against his lips and he moans at your neediness, grinding into your centre. His cock sliding between your folds, the head bumping into your neglected clit and your hips raise searching for more friction.

He leans back on his heels and hunches over you, one hand splayed on your tummy, the other wrapping around his dick as he taps the head against your clit and your legs spread completely, giving him full access as you squeeze around your own tits, needing to hold onto something. Your eyes roll back when he starts firmly rubbing the swollen nub, flicking from side to side and you feel like you're  about to combust, your back arching off the bed as you moan loudly.   

You open your eyes the second the friction comes to a halt, and the complaint dies in your mouth when you're met with the sinful sight of him coating two of his fingers in spit before they disappear between your legs and into your needy hole. "Shit, baby." He says in awe when they easily slide into you and your jaw drops at the fullness, your eyes threatening to shut from the pleasure, but you refuse to stop looking at him. His arm muscles are flexing when he starts fucking you open, instantly finding that sensitive spot that drives you insane, his other hand still, possessively pressing down on your lower abdomen to hold you in place, his hair matted on his damp forehead, his eyes focused on your dripping centre, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in concentration. He looks so hot, you could come just from looking at him and when his thumb comes into the equation, rubbing merciless circles around your clit, you feel yourself getting tighter.   

“You gonna cum?” He asks in a whisper, his eyes meeting yours momentarily and you nod quickly, eyebrows creasing at the intense pressure in your belly.   

"Uh-huh, don’t stop." You respond in a high pitched plea and his pace quickens, creating the filthiest squelching noises around his hand and your eyes close, half in ecstasy half in embarrassment. "Oh my god." Your fingers knead your tits harder when you're on the edge and a moan from him is what topples you over. "Fuck, I'm cumming." Your pussy feels like it's on fire as your walls spasm, your clit throbs like it's about to fall off and your legs can't stop shaking. His fingers are pistoning into you so hard and fast, that it feels like it slightly hurts but it feels so good at the same time. Too good. You sense that you're on the verge of peeing and your voice comes out in a broken squeal. "Shit, ah, stop stop stop!" Your hand grabs his wrist in a desperate state and he looks up at your face with widened eyes, like he's come out of a trance. He stops his ministrations but keeps his fingers buried inside you.   

"Fuck, baby, I'm sorry." The hand on your stomach, moving to your ribs, caressing gently. "Did I hurt you? You- shit, I thought you were gonna squirt for a second so I kept going, I'm really sorry." His pupils are shaking as he explains quickly, taking in your sweaty, disheveled form and you feel so exposed that you make grabby hands at him, wanting him close. He instantly moves, supporting his weight on one arm, careful not to crash you and you sigh when you feel his chest flush against yours, warm and damp.   

"It didn't hurt." You assure him, cupping his cheeks in your hands and he closes his eyes, sighing in relief. "I just felt like I was gonna pee." You confess bashfully and he chuckles, burying his face in your neck, inhaling deeply as you run your fingers through his hair. "I've never squirted before, so I freaked out a bit." You explain quietly. "Plus, I don't wanna ruin your bed sheets before we even get to the sex part."   

He snorts and raises his head to look at you again. "Pretty sure they're already ruined." He says giving you a kiss on the cheek and you move to playfully push him off you, but a gasp escapes you when you feel his fingers slightly move, reminding you they're still buried inside your sensitive walls. "Unclench a little, you're squeezing." He whispers and when he kisses you, you slowly relax your walls around his digits, allowing him to carefully pull out and you whine at the loss, making him smile in the kiss. His hand cups your sensitive core, making you mewl at the comforting warmth. "You sure you still wanna keep going? We don't have to if you're feeling sore."  

"I'm fine." You wrap your legs around his waist, holding him close. “Want you.” You whisper, hands sliding up his chest, coming up to bury in his hair again, as you bring his lips down to yours, urging him to kiss you stupid. And he does. 

It’s slow, steady, passionate and you feel like mush in his arms, numb to the core, your lips moving in sync with his, taking what he’s giving you. You inhale and exhale heavily through your nose, refusing to break the kiss and you moan when he obscenely shoves his tongue into your mouth, licking messily and the conversation from earlier enters your mind suddenly. “Mm- I want mmf-” He interrupts you with another messy kiss before pulling away, allowing you to speak.  

“You want what?” He asks quietly, lips still grazing yours as he catches his breath. Your eyes are on his glistening mouth, and he must sense your hesitation, because he presses again, hand caressing up and down your thigh in encouragement. “Tell me, baby, I’ll give you anything you want.”   

“Remember what we talked about earlier?” You try, too embarrassed to actually say the words.  

“Earlier?” His eyebrows furrow in thought, not catching on straight away.  

“At the café.” You whisper, your eyes drop to his mouth again, slightly hinting and when they find his again, you know he’s caught on.   

“You- fuck.” He falters when your hips raise, the tip of his cock catching at your entrance momentarily before sliding between your folds. “You want me to spit in your mouth?” He asks carefully, after having somewhat collected himself, both arms coming up, trapping your head between them as he rests his weight on them. You nod, holding eye contact, hands traveling down his abdomen, fingers tracing his sides before trailing up his spine, bracing once having reached his shoulders, palms resting on the blades. “You fucking minx.” His hand cups your chin, fingers lightly squishing your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker as he leans in to press a chaste kiss on them. 

His index taps against your cheek gently, as his hold on your face loosens. “Open up.” He instructs, his voice low, eyes darkening and you feel your cunt fluttering around nothing. “Tongue out.” His fingers lightly shake your face from side to side possessively and your brain stops functioning, tongue sticking out as if on demand and you whine when you watch him gather saliva in his mouth, cheeks hollowing a little, before slowly letting it dribble down your awaiting muscle. Your eyes rolls back when you feel it and your fingernails instinctively dig into his shoulders. “Swallow.” He instructs again, and you obey with a desperate moan, revelling in his dominant demeanour. His hand wraps around your throat, feeling the movement and he kisses you again, grunting against your lips, as you struggle to keep up with him, mouth widening to take his tongue in and you feel the wetness smearing on your chin messily.   

You realise no one has ever kissed you like Haechan, and you wonder if he’s always kissing his sexual partners like this. Has anyone else experienced this level of intimacy with him before? You instantly feel the jealousy brewing at the thought of someone receiving this kind of affection; this kind of pleasure from him and you surprise yourself, never having felt this possessive over someone before. Something switches in you.

“Fuck me.” You breathlessly mumble, not recognising your own voice and he moans in your mouth as your hand reaches down, wrapping around his cock, smearing the shiny drops of precum adorning his tip. His hips thrust forward into your touch and you pump him steadily a couple more times, offering some sort of relief.   

He pulls away slightly, to look at you. “Let me grab a condom.” He says quickly before grabbing your ankles, unwrapping them from his waist.   

“Right, yes.” You nod dumbly, feeling a little silly for having lost all sensibility because of him.   

You watch him as he reaches blindly in the bedside table drawer; his eyebrows furrowing in concentration and his face lights up the second he finds one. You watch him as he sits back on his heels, ripping the foil with his teeth. You watch him as he rolls the latex carefully onto his hard cock, teeth sinking in his bottom lip as he pumps himself a few times, ensuring the condom is on properly, chest moving as he breathes heavily. You watch him as he moves closer, coating two fingers in saliva, before bringing them down to your slit again, rubbing up and down slowly before dipping them in and quickly pumping into you to prep you, even if you really don’t need it. You let him though, because you want to keep watching him for a little longer. 

He looks ethereal, skin glistening in a sheen layer of sweat, his shoulders wide, his chest and arm muscles lean, bicep flexing subtly as he expertly slides his fingers in and out, scissoring them to stretch you for him. He looks like the epitome of sex and you can’t even bring yourself to moan as his palm rubs against your sensitive clit, your jaw dropping with a quiet, trembling breath when he starts jabbing at your already abused g-spot and your hands release the sheets in favour of holding your legs open, when they threaten to close.

“Think I’m gonna cum again.” You mumble in awe, eyes staying on him still.   

“You think?” He asks, voice laced with sarcasm, pace quickening, urging you to unravel around his fingers for the second time tonight. “Go on, baby.” His free hand, presses against the back of your thigh, pushing your leg close to your chest, testing your flexibility and the second his eyes meet yours, you cum. Hard. “Yeah, good girl.” He praises softly and you let out a whine, allowing your eyes to finally shut, not being able to handle his intense stare, your back arching as your fingers dig into the backs of your thighs, legs uncontrollably shaking, walls clenching repeatedly around his hand, clit pulsing against the heel of his palm as he helps you ride out your orgasm.   

He starts kissing up your trembling body, lips wet, tongue lapping up your sweaty skin and he doesn’t even give you the chance to catch your breath when he harshly sucks your nipple in his warm mouth as his fingers leave your heat to wrap around his hard cock, rubbing the head up and down your soaked cunt. Your hands come up to grab onto his hair, as you attempt to anchor yourself and you can’t help but moan loudly when he pushes in. And even though it’s only the tip, it’s enough to drive you close to insanity.   

“Fuck!” You exclaim, forcing his head up so you can kiss him as he slowly bottoms out, distracting yourself from the stinging sensation.   

You both moan when his pelvis meets yours, his pubic bone flush against your hypersensitive clit as he gives you a second to adjust. He slowly pulls out to the tip and thrusts back in, maintaining a slow, careful pace to make sure you’re feeling comfortable.

“Relax for me.” He exhales a shaky laugh against your lips and you squeeze even harder to tease him. “Fuck! Baby, what the f- don’t.” He warns with a grunt as he wraps an authoritative hand around your neck and draws his hips back a little, before slamming in with force, not a second later. 

The loud noise that escapes your throat resembles a scream and your eyes roll back when he starts fucking into you hard and fast, wet slapping sounds echoing and you don’t even feel embarrassed at hearing how wet you are, the intense pleasure taking over your senses, completely clouding any coherent thought.

“Not so bratty now, are we?” He grunts against your jaw as the hand around your neck tightens slightly, causing your ears to start ringing and your eyes to water. He releases you just when you start feeling dizzy, allowing you to catch your breath. He lets out a dark laugh at your loud gasps and buries his hand in your hair instead, pulling at the roots, so your head lolls back on the pillows, giving him access to your neck. 

“So fucking wet, fffuck, so good.” He slurs between sloppy kisses against your sensitive skin as his hips slow down, fucking you nice and deep at a lazy pace, torturing you. “You take me so well, baby.” His crude words causing you to clench around him as his tongue laps from the base of your neck, up to your ear, flicking the lobe playfully.

“Look.” He whispers, moist breath tickling your ear as the hand fisting you hair, forces your head forward and off the pillow, making you look down between your bodies and you obediently open you eyes. You take in the unholy visual of his cock slowly dragging out to the tip, coated in your shiny slick essence, a white ring forming at the base and your eyes threaten to roll back when he so easily slides back in, at the same torturous pace. “See how perfect you are?”

Your nails drag down his back, leaving scratch marks behind and he hums against your neck when they dig into the flesh of his ass. “Faster, please.” You breathe out and he loosens his hold, allowing your head to tip back down, his eyes finding yours as he maintains the slow pace. 

"You sure, baby?" His tone mocking as he sits back up on his knees, looking down at your messy cunt practically sucking him back in every time he slowly pulls out. You reel at the sight of his feral expression, his eyes unfocused as they trail up and down your naked body, like he can’t decide what to focus on. You feel exposed to the core but your arousal wins and you moan loudly, back arching when his thumb slowly circles around your clit twice, stimulating the stiff nub. 

"Hae, please." You're on the verge of tears and he must like the sound of your begging, because he doesn’t hesitate this time.

He leans down again, bringing his lips to yours, thrusts increasing in pace and force significantly but never losing preciseness, giving you exactly what you want. “Yeah, you want it hard? Fuckin take it.” He grunts, kisses turning sloppy, all tongue and teeth and you can’t stop moaning, mouth hanging open against his as he relentlessly slams his hips against yours.

“Yes, oh my god.” You exhale against his mouth, as he changes the angle slightly and starts fucking directly into your g-spot, barely pulling out before thrusting back in, his balls slapping against your ass and you’re pretty sure you’ve never been fucked this good before. “Fuck, Haechan, baby, please please please, don’t stop.” You blabber, completely lost in mind-numbing bliss, your legs spreading as far as they can go, allowing him to thrust as deep as he pleases. 

“Fuck, Y/N, I need you to cum.” He whispers, tone laced with urgency, almost sounding like he’s in pain and he wastes no time; a hand slotting between your bodies, resuming the stimulation on your clit, as he supports his weight on one arm, thrusts unfaltering, unforgiving and just perfect. His fingers start rubbing rough, tight circles around the nub and your toes curl against his sides, arms securely wrapping around his shoulders, as your walls squeeze around him, indicating another orgasm approaching, and when his fingers along with the head of his cock rub against the right spot, you’re gone.

Your moan comes out broken, walls clamping down on him, legs pathetically attempting to close around him but failing as your thighs shake violently and you feel dizzy, a tear rolling down your temple from the intensity of your high.   

He keeps fucking you into the mattress, thrusts turning a little sloppy now that you're squeezing around him, hips losing their steady rhythm and when the pleasure borders overstimulation, causing you to mewl, he abruptly pulls out, kneeling between your legs and over your spent body. He pulls the condom off quickly with trembling fingers and he moans as he starts jerking himself off, aiming for your abdomen as his free hand curls around your ribs, holding you exactly where he wants you.  

“You look so good.” You exhale in awe as you observe him in the midst of his pleasure, his eyes shut, head thrown back, his pretty neck on display as he moans loudly and his hooded eyes find yours again for a second before they roll back into his head. 

“Shit, gonna cum.” He shakily announces, your praise seeming to have worked wonders, as you feel the first spurts of hot liquid landing on your skin. You take in the beautiful sight of his shaking form, chest and neck flushed, drenched in sweat, eyebrows creasing in between, eyes still shut, jaw slack as he releases short breaths.

He’s milking himself when you look down and you can’t help but ogle at the sight of your skin covered in the sticky white mess he’s created, illuminated by the bedside lamp. You notice some of it has landed on your tits, some on your tummy and you’re pretty sure some of it is pooling in the dip of your belly button, causing you to bite back a smile. 

“Fuck.” He breathes in relief as his eyes slowly open to look at you and he looks dazed, fucked out. His tan skin flushed, making him look delicious. Sweat drips down his temple, hands shaking as they rest on your thighs limply. “I think I blacked out for a second there.” He mutters in awe and you giggle at his crazy eyes, while he tries to regulate his breathing.

His cheeky smile has returned, and he leans in, taking a closer look at his work. “Damn, I did a number on you.” He teases, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sinful sight. “Pretty.” He whispers and takes your limp hand in his, lips kissing gently on the back of it, eyes looking up at you innocently, like he didn’t just fuck you stupid.   

When he drops your hand, he leans down with no warning and you panic at his mischievous expression, as his head disappears between your legs.

“What are you doing?” You ask in confusion and he chuckles softly.   

“Shhh.” He breathes against your folds as his hands hold your legs open and the second his tongue swipes against your heat, you squirm, trying to move further up the bed, but he tightens his arms around your thighs, holding you still. “Relax, just take it.” He whispers calmly before gently sucking on your clit. His tongue slides down to lap at your entrance, slightly dipping in, tasting you directly, before flattening and licking up to the bundle of nerves, making you mewl when he swirls around it languidly. He keeps going, alternating between sucking, licking and gently circling until your legs are shaking again. Your hands release the sheets, moving to desperately hold onto his hair, fingers pulling, not knowing whether to push him away or pull him closer and his moan vibrates against your clit, pushing you over the edge once more. You cry out pathetically, not able to form any words, cumming uncontrollably on his tongue as he refuses to let up until your whole body shakes from overstimulation.  

“Please, I- I can’t- can't cum again.” You stumble over your words, as he licks against your entrance, slurping up your juices, the sounds incriminating and you don’t even have the energy to push him away anymore. You just accept that if he tries to make you come again, you’ll probably pass out. To your relief, he thankfully stops once he’s cleaned you up with his tongue.

You blink up at him when you feel his weight on you, his skin feels hot on yours, his cum smearing between you, and he doesn’t seem have a care in the world. The only thing he does seem to care about is shoving his tongue in your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself, kissing you like he owns you and at this point, he might as well spell out his name on your body with his cum, because he has completely and utterly destroyed you and you know you’re irrevocably ruined for anyone else.   

“So good for me, baby girl.” He mutters wetly, mouth open against yours, breathing heavy. “So fucking sweet.” He whispers almost inaudibly and you cup his chin in your hand, squishing his cheeks between your fingers, pecking him on his puckered lips.   

“You’re fucking insane, Lee Haechan.” You weakly chuckle as he tries to kiss you again, his whine childish as your firm hold on his face prevents him from doing so. “Get off me, before I piss myself in your bed, you freak. You’re pressing against my bladder.”  

_

After having gently cleaned you up with a warm hand towel and carried you to the bathroom so you can sort yourself out, he’s got you back in his bed, safely cocooned in his arms and under the covers. His front is comfortably pressed against your back and you’re basking in the warmth and the nakedness.   

“Now I’m definitely sleepy.” You mumble with a content smile and he quietly chuckles in your hair, tightening his arms around you, holding you as close as possible, sighing in delight.  

“Mm same.” He mumbles sleepily against your neck. “You comfortable like this?” He checks, and you feel giddy at his attentiveness.   

“Mm-hmm, more than.” You nuzzle back into him, lazily stroking your fingers up and down the arm that’s wrapped around your middle, his palm casually cupping your boob; not squeezing, just gently holding. You feel him smile as he presses a sweet kiss on your shoulder.

A few moments of comfortable silence pass, and just when you think his breathing has started to slow down, he quietly speaks again.  

“Y/N?” He asks tentatively and his serious tone worries you.   

“Yeah?” You attempt to turn your head to look at him, but his tight embrace holds you in place and you presume he needs to not be looking at you when he says his next words.   

“I think-” He pauses, collecting his thoughts and you have a feeling you know what he’s trying to get at, so you give him time, hand still gently stroking his arm. “Are we on the same page here?”  

“Well,” You sigh, feigning uncertainty and the tensing in his arm almost makes you regret dragging this. “That depends Lee Haechan.” The teasing smile evident in your voice. “What page are you on?”