#soobin

What do you do when your ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend invite you to their wedding?

You ignore it. You don’t go, because, really, why would you? You don’t owe them some false sense of forgiveness simply because they assume enough time has passed for there to be no hard feelings. Any rational person knows that.

But…you are a people pleaser to the highest degree. It’s a trait that your mom used to say made you so good while your dad mumbled how it would get you in trouble one day. Seems one of them was right.

So now you’re sitting at the farthest corner table of the massive venue, a glass of wine swirling in your hand as the best-man gives his speech. He says something about the obstacles the couple overcame, how they managed to make something beautiful out of a bad situation.

The bad situation, of course, being you.

You aren’t sure how someone is able to make cheating on their girlfriend of six years with her childhood best friend seem like some kind of detour to getting a happy ending, but they do. And now people are cooing at it like their story is something out of a shitty rom-com on the Hallmark channel. You don’t miss the way people glance back at you either, like they’re waiting for you to either scream or cry. Maybe both. You just shoot them tight smiles, fingers tightening around your glass like it’ll ground you. (Newsflash, it doesn't.)

The night continues like that. You, sitting in the back corner wondering why you even came while people shoot you sympathetic looks. It’s kind of pathetic honestly. You should probably leave.

You can see Luke up there with Mandy, her shoulders shaking when she laughs at something he says. He looks at her differently than how he looked at you. He looks at her like she’s the gravity holding him onto earth–like he’d move the moon and stars if she simply asked. It’s sickening and…a little hurtful. Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

Sometimes you wonder how you didn’t see it. Looking back, it was obvious. All the lingering looks. The way Luke always made an excuse as to why he couldn’t come over when Mandy was in town. They barely even tried to hide it and you still hadn’t seen it.

You sigh, sinking further into your chair. You wish this wine was stronger. You wish you hadn’t come. You wish–

“If you scoot down any more you’re going to fall off your chair.”

You blink, the sudden voice catching you off guard. You weren’t aware anyone was even behind you considering the majority of the attendees were either interacting with family-friends or dancing in the center of the room. The thought of a stranger seeing you like this should make you straighten up. It should make you mumble out a soft apology and then try not to die from mortification.

But, instead, all you can manage is a soft, “True.”

You don’t try to sit up. You don’t turn to look at him. You just stay frozen, your eyebrows knitted and lips twisted in a painful grimace, watching as Luke feeds Mandy a piece of cake. Strawberry, of course. Your mutual favorite, The one you’d bonded with him over when you’d first met.

The stranger doesn’t say anything else. Just quietly slips into the open seat next to you. The one covered in crumbs left by one of Luke’s younger cousins. You’d met the kid back when you and Luke were still together. He was one of those obnoxious kids always covered in a mysterious sticky substance with constant red rimmed lips. You couldn’t stand him back then, and you still can’t now. So it seems only fitting that you’d end up in the seat next to him.

Silence stretches again, not uncomfortable, but definitely not comfortable either. Just there. Just kind of awkward. Like you’re two middle schoolers at a school dance together waiting to see who makes the first move.

“So,” The stranger starts again, his voice casual and low, like you’re two best friends catching up. “Which one is it?”

Your gaze flicks over to him lazily, eyes catching on the side of his face. His hair falls over his eyes effortlessly, blonde strands framing him in that casually messy kind of way only a few men can pull off. He’s not looking at you, which your partially grateful for, and instead his eyes are trained where yours once were. On them.

But he isn’t looking at them like they’re the cutest thing he’d ever seen like everyone else is. In fact, you think he might be glaring at them. It nearly tugs a smile at your lips. At least you aren’t the only one here with a grudge.

You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the way your lower spine has begun to slightly ache from your position. “Both,” You mumble, pulling your eyes away from him again. “You?”

He takes a moment to respond, like he’s deciding if he wants to answer. You think it’s only fair he does considering you did, but maybe he was trying to continue this mysterious cool guy act he had going on. You don’t really care either way.

He huffs out a breath, lips quirking slightly at the corners. “Neither.”

That catches your attention, because he says it like it’s a joke. Like he knows something you don’t. You straighten up finally, trying to pretend it’s because you wanted to and not because your back was starting to ache something mean.

He looks at you then, brown eyes glowing even under the dim lights. He looks…dangerous, as cringe inducing as that is. Like he’s playing a prank and you’re a part of it. Whether it’s as an accomplice or the punchline, you aren’t sure. You don’t think he is, either.

You squint your eyes at him, crossing your legs in an attempt to look serious. “What’d you say your name was again?”

He shrugs, fixing his tie like he’s attempting to be casual, but you know it’s because it’s hanging loosely across his neck in a way that screams i’m a grown man who can’t tie a tie. “What do you want it to be?”

You blink, your back hitting the seat when you lean back. It’s not like you’ve never had any weird interactions with people before. You were an awkward kid in high school and college, so bad interactions were kind of your thing. But this is different. This isn’t an uncomfortable game of spin-the-bottle that ends with your lip bleeding and a mutual agreement to avoid each other for the rest of your lives, this is something you aren’t sure how to navigate. You really aren’t even sure how you would go about attempting to.

You hum, blinking lazily. “I want you to just tell me,” You mumble, heeled foot tapping against the floor. “But I also know professional wedding crashers don’t usually share that information.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, his hand covering his eyes for a moment before falling back at his side. He smiles at you, lips revealing his teeth in a way that makes your stomach turn, even though it really shouldn’t. “You’re observant.” He mumbles, like he was expecting you to catch him. Like he wanted you to.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, taking another sip of your wine, “I know everyone here except for you.”

“What if I’m the brides super extended twice removed uncle?”

You don’t even spare him a glance. “You’re not.”

A beat passes, like he’s trying to decide where he wants to take the conversation. You think he wants to ask you why you’re so miserable back here, what you’d meant when you said both earlier. But he doesn’t. Instead he just stands and offers a hand to you without a word.

You look up at him, tie hanging at an angle against his neck despite his attempt at fixing it earlier, lips curved into a smooth smirk like he knows what you’ll do next, brown eyes sparkling with something you can’t quite place.

You shouldn't take his hand. You should leave and pretend none of this ever happened and go back to living your life.

But instead, for reasons you’ll claim as a strange lapse in judgment later on, your hand finds his. You let him pull you onto your feet, don’t protest when he maneuvers so he’s holding your waist. Don’t make a noise when he saunters onto the dance floor with you, making sure you’re right in Luke and Mandy’s view.

“What’re you doing?” You ask, albeit a little breathless. The stranger just hums, his hands finding your waist again, more firm this time–confident. You can see Luke watching you from the corner of your eye, his nose scrunched in that way it always does when something confuses him. Mandy’s too busy talking to one of your old mutual friends, one of the many who had chosen her in the breakup and not you.

The sight of it makes you frown slightly. You focus back on the blonde man in front of you again, trying to ignore the pit in your stomach that never seems to leave. His lips are twisted upwards, staring at you like he can see right through you. Like maybe this was the entire reason he’d come tonight.

“Do you trust me?” He asks, loud enough that only you can hear it. His eyes flicker from your eyes, to your nose, to your lips, and then up again. Like he’s studying your reactions.

You frown, letting your arms wrap around his neck. “Absolutley not.”

He hums, low and deep, leaning into you in a way that has your head spinning. “Good.”

And then his lips are on yours, kissing you slow and deep. It’s the kind of kiss that screams desperation, one that should mean nothing–but means everything. And it’s strange, because you should pull away. Should slap him for doing this before he even tells you his name. But you don’t do any of that. Instead, you melt into it and kiss him back just as hungrily.

His lips are slightly chapped from the cold weather, but your own lipgloss does good to mask it. One of his hands trails from your waist to your cheek, tilting your face and forcing you impossibly closer. His tongue slips out for a brief moment, smoothing against your lip, and you swear you die right there.

It’s messy and too much but somehow not enough. He kisses you like a man-starved, and it nearly makes your head spin.

You aren’t sure who pulls away first, all you know is that when you do your chest is heaving and Luke and Mandy are speedwalking away towards something you can’t see.

You blink after a moment, the post-kiss fog clearing in your brain and reminding you that you do not know this man.

And yet he just kissed you like he’d been wanting to do it for years.

You want to be angry, you want to scream and ask him what the fuck is wrong with him. But instead, you laugh. A real, chest laugh that comes from somewhere deep in your stomach. He’s smiling too, the tips of his ears a fiery red. The first sign that he’s at least somewhat capable of embarrassment and not completely immune to every human emotion aside from spontaneity.

“You’re insane.” It comes out teasing, like something you’d say in passing to a friend, but you mean it.

He just shrugs, the hand still attached to your waist tightening just slightly. You can feel his fingers digging into your skin, but it isn’t painful. Just a reminder that he was there. That he’d just kissed you breathless after meeting you barely ten minutes ago.

“It’s charming, though, right?” He asks, eyes flickering behind you when some kid, you’re assuming Luke’s sticky cousin, starts crying.

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Charmings one word for it.”

“Come on,” He insists, “If I hadn’t shown up you would’ve still been sinking to the floor in the corner like some kind of sad clay statue.”

You raise a brow, “Okay, weird comparison.” You mumble, doing your best to ignore the smile threatening to break through again. “But…you still haven’t told me your name.”

He nods, looking at you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like the fact he was keeping his identity a secret from you was something he always did. It was weird, but, also kind of exciting?

God, you’ve got serious issues.

“Would it make you feel better if I just came up with one?”

You raise a brow, “Is it your real one?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously, tongue pushing against your cheek in frustration. You don’t understand why he’s being so stingy about it. What kind of person sees kissing as less intimate then telling you his name? “If I tell you my name will you tell me yours?” You ask.

He lets out a breathy laugh, that cheeky smile he’s been sporting since you kissed never wavering. “No promises.”

You weigh your options in your mind. On one hand, you tell him your name and he keeps up this weird game of his and he gets the upper hand. On the other, you don’t tell him your name and you gain nothing and spend the rest of the night wondering what would’ve happened if you just told him. Plus, what if he’s feeling extra nice and decides to just tell you?

Either way, you were getting pretty sick of referring to him as the sexy stranger.

“Y/N,” You murmur, tone loud enough so he can hear over the sickeningly romantic music blasting through the venue speakers. Some sixties song you’d never heard before. “My name.”

He pauses, like the fact that you’d actually told him shocks him, and for the first time that smile of his falters. For some reason, it feels like a mini victory. But, he picks himself back up just as quickly, and suddenly it feels like you imagined all of it.

“Y/N,” he mumbles like he’s testing the name on his tongue. “Suits you.”

You shift on your feet, handle clasping together behind his neck. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, searching his face like you’ll find something in it. An answer, maybe. An explanation as to who he was when he wasn’t doing whatever the hell this was.

“It means it’s pretty,” He says easily, eyes never leaving yours, “And it suits you.”

You swallow, suddenly feeling uncomfortable under his gaze. He says it so easily, like it’s an undeniable fact that he doesn’t even need to think twice about. Like saying the sky is blue. You hate that it makes your cheeks flush and butterflies light up in your stomach.

You let out a breath, trying to calm your buzzing nerves. “Whatever,” You mumble, “I told you mine. Your turn.”

He stares at you silently, like he’s studying you. Trying to piece together what the best course of action would be. To you, it’s obvious. Tell you his name, and then…yeah. You’d figure it out from there. But the only way things could progress was if you knew the most basic piece of information about him.

He just smiles, hands sliding up your arms looped around his neck and grabbing your wrists gently. He pulls them down, letting one fall down to your side and intertwining his own with the other.

“How would you feel about eating processed food that’ll probably kill us before we turn forty?” He asks, completely avoiding the topic. You part your lips to argue with him on it, ask him why you should go with him when he won’t even tell you his name, but nothing comes out. When he tugs you gently behind him, you don’t pull away. You let him lead you out of the building and into the empty parking lot.

The suns just barely began to set, casting the sky in different shades of pink and yellow. The moon fades slightly into the sky, not fully showing, but making its presence known. The air’s got a sharp chill to it, one that makes goosebumps rise across your skin, but isn’t completely unbearable.

“Where are we going?” You ask, heels clicking frantically against the pavement as he drags you away from your past. Away from worlds of hurt and towards something new. Something that feels too real for what it is.

You should be scared. You don’t really know—him, and yet you’re letting him lead you away from civilization. Even if that civilization is the families of the worst people you know.

He glances back at you, shrugging his shoulders casually. “You’re hungry, right?”

“I guess—”

He hums, finally stopping in front of a sleek black car. “Then let’s go eat.”

You blink, watching as he opens the passenger door for you and waits for you to step in.

Your lips twist uncomfortably, gaze switching between the suspiciously nice car and him. “This is yours?” You ask. You don’t mean for it to come out so accusatory, but what else were you supposed to think? The man crashes weddings for fun. Not exactly rich-and-has-his-life-together behavior.

He tilts his head slightly, leaning against the door. “What? I don’t look I could own a car like this?” He asks playfully. You know he’s teasing you, but it still makes your skin bristle.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” You say sharply, glaring at him through your lashes.

He just chuckles, gesturing towards the open door once again. “Come on,” He mumbles, eyes glinting playfully. “Or don’t. I can’t make you do anything.”

Part of you knows the sensible thing to do would be to go back into that building and pretend the last half an hour never happened. Go back to watching Luke and fucking Mandy be happy and in love as if they hadn’t stomped all over you to get there.

You get into the car without any more hesitance.

He smirks, shutting the door behind you and walking around the front to get to the driver's seat.

You let yourself look around as he does. A yellow tree air freshener hangs off of the rearview mirror—typical of a man really—and there’s a small collection of CD’s next to your feet.

You pick them up mindlessly when he finally slides in next to you, flipping through them like they might have his name engraved into them. (They don’t.)

There’s some stuff you kind of expected, like Queen and Metallica. Some Indie 2000’s band that people only listened to so they could feel different. But only one catches your eye.

“Ariana Grande? Really?” You snort, holding up the disc. Ariana Grande’s ‘My Everything’ sits between your fingers, her iconic stool photo shining back at you. You remember you’d tried to recreate it in middle school and sprained your ankle. Safe to say, lessons were learned that day.

He doesn’t even flinch, just plucks it out of your hands and pushes it into the car’s built in cd player. You think it’s kind of cute that he still uses it despite the fact his car is new enough to have an apple carplay screen.

“Love Me Harder is one of the best songs ever made,” He says, tongue swiping over his lips as he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You don’t argue, because, yeah, it is. You’re just a little shocked that he would think so.

He puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the parking space with ease, glancing behind him with a practiced confidence. You watch him do it, studying him without shame.

He’s different from anyone you’ve ever met. Mysterious, really, even if it makes you want to roll your eyes until thy get stuck in the back of your head. But there’s something else to him, something that feels nearly familiar. You wrack your brain to try to remember, but nothing comes up.

His eyes catch yours, that same, cunning grin curling into his lips. The one that made your stomach turn and nerves fry when he’d first sat down with you at the beginning of the night. The same one he’d given you when he’d kissed you breathless like you were two lovers and not two strangers.

And it’s then that you realize that you are irrevocably and extremely royally screwed.

When you’d gotten up this morning you expected the night to end the way they usually do nowadays. You, lying in your bed, doomscrolling until questionable hours of the night, hating yourself for it but still continuing to do so. Although this time you imagined there’d probably be some tears involved, because you are nothing if not overly sensitive. And they wouldn't be pretty tears either, no, they'd be ugly, fat boulders rolling down your cheeks like they were claiming a permanent space over your heart.

But that doesn't happen. Instead, you’re sitting on a suspiciously damp curb outside of some run-down Taco Bell infested with teenagers, eating a soft taco while what you’re really hoping is just mud seeps into your dress.

Blondie, what you’ve chosen to call him until you can come up with something better, sits beside you. His legs are stretched out into the street, face illuminated by the glowing neon Open sign as he takes a sip of his Baja Blast. 

He's pretty in a way that should be illegal. Features fitting together like a finished puzzle, the kind of boy with a smile women pray their children have. 

The drive here hadn't been uncomfortable, mostly because he seemed to be good at making small talk into some kind of casual conversation. Where you would've been awkward, he seems smooth. It's kind of impressive, but you also envy the talent.

He glances at you, placing his cup beside him and leaning back on his hands. “So, what happened?”

You blink. You know he’s asking about Luke and Mandy–about why you were there if you clearly had some kind of bitter history with them. But the truth is…you aren’t even sure yourself. Maybe deep down you were just some kind of masochist who enjoyed the ache seeing them brought to your heart. Or maybe you just wanted to feel like you finally had the upper hand when you all know you don’t. Either way, every outcome ended with you losing.

You lean your elbows onto your knees, hair falling over your shoulder as you turn your face towards him. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you knowingly, head tilting until his ear nearly brushes his shoulder. He raises his eyebrows at you, as if to say, Really? Playing dumb? 

You hate that you break so easily.

You sigh, curling further into yourself, like that’ll make the story any less painful. Your lips tighten together, eyes falling to the floor. You don’t even know where to start. Do you tell him about meeting Mandy in middle school? How the two of you became an extension of eachother, two souls intertwined into one?

Or do you tell him about how you met Luke your freshman year of college? How he was the first boy to really sweep you off your feet and show you what it felt like to really love someone?

Or do you start at that day last year when you walked in on them going at it like rabbits in your bed?

All options were equally as painful.

You grip the fabric of your dress uncomfortably, like maybe it'll ground you. “Mandy was my best friend,” You start, eyes glazing over just like they always do when you say this story aloud. “Luke was my boyfriend. One day I came home and…yeah. And now they’re getting married and I'm…still alone.” You mean to say it like a joke, like your loneliness doesn't actually bother you, but your voice cracks and sounds way too small to be convincing.

Blondie just listens. Doesn’t push, doesn’t ask any questions. Just a stable presence listening to you without suffocating you.

Your hands shake slightly, eyes beginning to blur with unshed tears that you force back. Your throat gets that awful aching feeling it always does when you’re about to cry. You suck in a sharp breath in an attempt to get your feelings in check, and if Blondie notices, he doesn’t say anything about it.

Instead, his gaze flicks up to the sky. There aren’t many stars out, mostly because you're still relatively close to the city and normally Taco Bell’s don't have the northern lights above them, but he still studies it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

The silence stretches languidly, a tension in the air that you can’t help but feel like you caused. You probably made him uncomfortable, and he was deciding the best way to tell you he’s leaving you here and to find your own way home. Which is fine, but you should probably go ahead and call Sunoo and ask him to pick you up.

You’re reaching for your phone when he responds. His tone is the softest you’d heard it all night, hair blowing slightly across his forehead when the breeze picks up.  “You’re here with me, right?” He murmurs, eyes anywhere but you.

You watch the side of his face, trying to decide what kind of point he’s hoping to make. Yeah, you’re here with him, but you didn’t mean alone in such a direct way. More in a I-lost-my-bestfriend-and-boyfriend-and-can’t-get-over-it kind of way. Still, you go along with him. “I guess,” You hum, sniffling softly. The tears forming in your eyes have finally begun to subside.

He smiles softly, letting his gaze meet yours. His eyes are warm, staring into your own like melted pools of honey. “Then you’re not alone.” He murmurs, knocking your shoulder with his. He's got this proud look in his eyes--like he just gave some big speech on accepting your life and whatnot.

You laugh, shaking your head. You sit up straighter, letting your hands replace your elbows on your knees. “Is that your way of comforting me?” You ask.

He just shrugs, gesturing to you softly. “You’re not crying anymore, are you?”

Your lips part, because, no, you aren’t crying anymore. In fact, the tight feeling in your chest has been replaced by something lighter. Something more warm and less all-consuming.

You lean back on your hands, letting your gaze fall up to the sky. “No,” You mumble, “I guess I’m not.”

The air shifts after that, tension slipping into something softer. Something comfortable. Something that nearly makes you forget you just met him and haven’t known him for years. 

You crumble your wrapper (it'd been sitting discarded next to you and nearly flew away multiple times), into a ball and stuff it into the paper bag. With it out of the way, you allow yourself to scoot closer to him. Not close enough that you’re touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat emitting from his body. Can feel his gaze on you as you shift, eyes filled with curiosity and something else you can’t quite name.

“How’s it fair that I keep telling you about myself while you get to keep all your secrets?” You ask, eyebrows knit together. You aren’t angry about it, not anymore at least. Now it’s just confusing. Like he’s hiding things from you for a reason and not just because he managed to sneak into a wedding. 

He’s silent, like he’s thinking about what his next play should be. You’ve noticed he does that a lot. Plans what he's going to say before he does, like he’s trying to decide what’s acceptable and what’s not. 

“I like Toy Story,” He mumbles, turning lazily towards you. “Does that help?"

You pretend to think it over for a moment, leaning your chin into your palm. “Depends,” You shrug, dragging the word out. “Which movies your favorite?”

He doesn’t even blink when he responds. “The third one, of course," He scoffs, like he's offended you even asked. "That plot twist with Latso’s insane. And the monkey scene? Terrifying.”

You shrug, lips twisting thoughtfully. “True, but the scene of Jessie being thrown out in the second movie is the most iconic moment in all of the films. That song never fails to make me cry.”

He has a physical reaction at the mention of the scene, squeezing his eyes shut and grasping at his heart like he’s in pain. “Don’t mention that song around me again or I swear I’ll throw up.”

You laugh, throwing your head back and pushing his shoulder. He grins at the contact, teeth flashing and upper lip curling slightly.

“Okay, but can we both agree the ending of the fourth one was awful?” You scoff, hands gesturing wildly, “In what world would Woody leave behind his friends and his kid?”

He nods wildly in agreement, snapping his fingers like you've just said something Nobel Peace Prize worthy. “Oh, absolutely. I just pretend that movie doesn’t exist. I can’t watch them ruin Woody’s character like that.”

You kiss your teeth, definitely too worked up over a kids movie, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when the man next to you starts to go into a deep dive into Latso’s character and how he was just a really misunderstood bear with abandonment issues.

You listen intently, genuinely interested. You’ve never met someone with such strong opinions on an animated bear, but he manages to make it sound so intellectual you almost forget you’re talking about Toy Story.

“You’re really passionate about this, huh?” You tease. He flushes like you’ve just reached out and kissed him, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Is that a bad thing?” He questions softly.

You shake your head, “No,” You draw out, tone low in that playful kind of way. “Just not what I expected.”

He hums, letting his gaze wander over your face and across the space behind you. He tucks his knees closer to his chest, tie hanging helplessly against his neck. “I’m full of surprises.” He says, clearly trying to be cheeky, but his tone is too soft to properly convey it.

You don’t respond, instead copying him and tucking in your knees. Your ankles rest against the curve, arms hugging your legs closer to your body. 

The silence fills the space comfortably. You don’t feel any reason to fill it with mindless conversation, not like you normally would. Instead, for the first time in a long time, you feel like you can just be. No expectations, no nothing. Just two people existing in the same space.

“Shit,” He huffs under his breath suddenly. You turn to look at him staring down at his phone, eyebrows furrowed in frustration and thumbs moving frantically over his phone.

You raise a brow, “Something wrong?”

He swallows, taking in a breath and letting his phone fall to his lap. He shoots you a sheepish smile, “Something came up at work,” He tells you bashfully, slapping his hands on his knees as he stands. You follow, the hem of your dress blowing in the wind.

He nods towards his car, “Let me take you home?” He asks, holding out a hand for you.

You glance down at it and resist the urge to tell him that you don’t exactly have many other options right now—not unless you feel like dealing with Sunoo’s attitude for waking him up or paying a ridiculous amount of money for an uber. (Both of which you really don’t feel like doing). But the gesture in itself is sweet as long as you don’t think too hard about giving your address to a man who won’t even tell you his name.

So, after zero to no contemplation, you take his hand and allow him to lead you back to his car. He does the whole gentleman act again, opening your door and all that. Sweet, really.

By the time you tell him your address and he pulls out of the parking lot your eyes are heavy with sleep. Ariana Grande plays gently through the speakers, her voice unfortunately lulling you to sleep. He doesn’t say anything when your head slowly tilts towards the window, nor when your eyes start to drift closed. He just glances at you knowingly, fingers gripping the wheel tightly, overly aware of the road in front of him. He’d always been a bit of a reckless driver, speeding on empty country roads, forgetting to turn on his signal when he changed lanes. But tonight he drives careful. Smooth. Like he's moving something precious.

You don’t even register the car stopping. It’s not until he shakes your shoulder lightly do you stir, your head shooting up and a hand coming to wipe down your face. “I’m up, I’m up,” You mumble, voice slightly coarse.

He grins, one hand resting on the wheel and the other tapping against the center console. “Nice place,” He says, jutting his chin towards the window.

You shrug, too tired to care if he’s teasing or if he means it genuinely. Not like you’d ever be seeing him again anyway. You hum, stretching out your arms.

You look over to him, giving him one last look over, memorizing the small bump on his nose and the prominent curve of his cupid's bow. 

This guy, whoever he is, is by far one of the most interesting people you’ve ever met in your life. Maybe that’s why you let him kiss you--why you let him take you for shitty fast food despite the risks. Your chest feels hollow at the thought of leaving him—especially because you know the chances of ever seeing him again are slim to none. You can’t even look him up online either, which really sucks and is going to piss Sunoo off when you tell him about all this.

He raises a brow, leaning back in his seat as he watches you. “What is it?” He asks, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping him.

You part your lips to answer, but nothing comes out. How do you say, Oh, you kind of changed my life so now I'm trying to memorize your face so that when I'm old I can tell my kids about the man that should’ve been their father—without sounding like a total creep?

The answer is simple: You can't.

So, instead you just shake your head, letting your gaze fall to the door. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches as you pull the handle and slip out of the car. The air is chillier now, sending goosebumps up your arms, but you don’t rush inside. Instead, you let your gaze fall back onto him, lingering there like you're hoping for him to do something.

He blinks, shooting you a small smile. One that says more than he’s willing to say out loud. “I’ll see you around?”

You hum, disspointment curling in your chest even though you know it shouldn't. “Yeah,” You murmur, “I’ll see you around, Woody.”

And then you're closing the door and walking away, not even glancing back at him once. It’s not until you're inside and he’s been sitting outside long enough for it to be considered creepy does he realize what you called him.

Woody. Like fucking Toy Story.

And for some reason, he really hopes he’ll be able to hear you say it again.

“Okay, wait, let me get this straight,” Sunoo snorts, head hanging off of the edge of your bed. You can see him watching you through your vanity mirror. “You met some rando guy at the wedding from hell, let him kiss you, take you to eat, and drive you home–all without knowing his name?”

You roll your eyes, smacking your lips together as you apply your last bit of lipgloss. You had an interview for a promotion at work today, one that you’ve been both dreading and unreasonably excited for. 

“Yes, that is what I said.” You grumble. It’s only been two days since your encounter with Woody, a fitting nickname in your opinion given his expert analysis on Toy Story, but you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.

Which shouldn't be all that surprising, considering everything that happened, but it was a serious inconvenience for you at the moment. You had more important things to worry about that didn't include a beautiful blonde man with a sweet smile.

Sunoo rolls onto his tummy, shooting you a glare. “Well, excuse me for trying to wrap my head around all of…that.” 

You don't even blink. “You’re excused.”

He rolls his eyes, pushing himself up onto his knees and then maneuvering his position so he’s sitting criss-crossed on your bed. You fluff up your hair again, turning your head from side to side and assessing your makeup. It’s casual, something that says I-tried-but-not-too-hard. Something you've deemed safe for an interview.

“I’m just saying,” Sunoo continues, beginning to scroll mindlessly on his phone, “It’s just not like you. I mean, it took you months before you even let Luke hold your hand.”

You sigh, whipping around and grabbing your computer from your desk. You shove it into your bag roughly, wincing when it catches on a stray paper and rips it slightly. “I know that,” You huff, annoyed and slightly overstimulated, “It’s-I don't know- it just happened!” 

Sunoo’s nose scrunches slightly. You can tell he wants to argue, but he’s been your friend since your freshman year of college, so he knows when to push back and when not to. You're grateful for his kind of sixth sense, because if he would’ve said anything else you're not sure your friendship would survive the aftermath.

The office is busy, just like it always is, but today it makes you anxious. Someone walks too closely behind you, making you self-conscious about your pace. Should you speed up? If you did, would it be obvious that you did because of them?

Sunoo walks calmly beside you, Iced Coffee in one hand and phone in the other. He smiles at some reel on his screen, nudging your shoulder to show you. You barely glance at it, letting out a short hum of acknowledgment and going back to gnawing anxiously on your lower lip.

It’s not like you’re super worried. You’ve been working here for five years, head journalist in the sports department for two. The promotion should go to you–but just because it should doesn’t mean it will.

Your stomach knots up again.

By the time you reach the elevators you’re so pale you could be Dracula’s daughter. Sweat collects on your hands, and, wow is it getting hot in here?

“Sunoo,” You manage to grit out, eyes wide with panic. “I think I’m dying.”

He looks up from his phone then, and when his eyes land on you his expression immediately turns serious.

“Y/N,” He says, not harsh—just to the point. “You are not going to die because of an interview. You are going to go answer some bullshit questions about things you know you excel at, and then we’re going to celebrate at that coffee shop off of 5th Street, okay?”

You nod shakily, breathing still a little uneven. “Okay, okay, okay,” You mumble. “I got this.”

He nods, placing a hand on your arm, “You got this.”

God, you really hope you do.

The interview is over as quickly as it started. You were shaking the whole time admittedly, giving practiced answers and praying your voice doesn’t crack. (It did—but only once. So kind of a win but also not?)

Sunoo, as promised, takes you to coffee after. The cafe’s barely a block away from your work, and you hate to admit that you’ve definitely spent more money here the necessary.

The scent of coffee beans and steamed milk hits your nose when you push the door open. Most people are still at work or school, so it’s relatively empty aside from a few stragglers. 

“We’ll sit over there,” Sunoo says, lazily pointing towards a table by the back. It’s the same one you always sit at—one you’d joked had been specifically made for late night work sessions and early morning complaints.

You take your seats across from each other, your legs crossed and his outstretched until they nearly touch your feet.

“So,” He says, drawing out the world playfully. “How do you feel?”

You shrug, bottom lip finding it's place in between your teeth once more. You answered everything how you think they wanted you to, but was that enough? What if they wanted you to go beyond and give answers that were more intellectual than what you did? What if they gave it to that guy who spent 30 minutes perfecting the amount of sugar in his coffee instead of you?

You sigh, shoulders drooping slightly. “I don’t know. Good, I guess? But… also not.”

He raises a brow, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back in his chair. “What's that mean?”

“I’m just anxious, I think. Like, I know I probably did good, but there’s that little part of me that feels like I didn’t.”

Sunoo hums, a puff of air escaping him as he does. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself,” He mutters, eyes locking onto yours. “You and I both know no one in that office deserves it more than you do.”

“I know.”

He fixes you with a look, chin tilting slightly. “Do you?”

You don’t respond to that. Not because you don’t want to, but because you can’t. You’ve always had a knack for overthinking things, even when there was no reason to. That’s why your actions with Woody had been so surprising. Any other time you would’ve burst into flames at the mere thought of letting him kiss you like that, but for some reason you had–and you hadn’t even thought twice about it.

Your leg shakes uncomfortably, toes bouncing against the marble floor. Sunoo seems to sense your discomfort, and despite not wanting to, easily switches the topic.

“Anyway. Let’s talk about something other than your inability to give yourself credit–” He says cheekily, ignoring the glare you shoot at him, “What’re you wearing to Jay's wedding next month?”

You groan, throwing your head back before whipping it right back. “I completely forgot about that!” You cry. With the stress of your interview and whatever had happened last week with Woody your mutual friend’s wedding had completely slipped your mind.

Jay was one of the only friends who had chosen your side after everything blew up with Luke. He, along with Sunoo and one of your other friends Lizzie (Who Jay was now engaged to), had spent months making sure anyone who asked knew exactly what had really happened. They took any chance they could to drag Luke and Mandy through the mud, which you were secretly thankful for. Of course you told them to stop simply because it was the right thing to do, but inside you were cheering them on. Not that you’d ever tell them that.

“Wow,” Sunoo laughs, reaching a hand up to cover his mouth. “You really have been distracted then.”

You resist the urge to bury your head in your hands. “What am I even supposed to wear? I know Lizzie said she has a specific aesthetic in mind but I doubt I own anything with the exact same shade of pink as her fucking baby blanket.”

Sunoo shrugs, head tilting slightly. “Don’t think so hard about it.” He says, “I’m sure they’ll have something at the mall.”

Your nose scrunches, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge. “Whatever,” You huff, “I’ll probably just borrow something from someone.”

The conversation continues like normal after that, just like two friends having a casual meet together. But admittedly, your mind keeps drifting elsewhere–to a certain nameless blonde with honey brown eyes.

Maybe–just maybe–he’ll be at Jay and Lizzie’s wedding. And even though you know you shouldn’t, you secretly hope he is.

Jay and Lizzie’s wedding is much more comfortable for you than the last one had been. The reception was beautiful--filled with baby pink accents and subtle peonies. Notably, it didn’t make you want to claw your eyes out--and you’re actually able to converse with people instead of sitting in the back like some antisocial outcast. 

You laugh at something Sunoo says, head tilting back and wine splashing out of your glass. Lizzie and Jay are somewhere on the dance floor, looking at each other like how people do when they’ve met their person. It’s sweet, really. There isn’t anybody who deserves their happy ending more than them.

You lean into Sunoo, raising your voice as you stumble slightly on your feet. You weren't exactly tipsy, just bordering between the laand of clear minded and not. “I’m gonna go get another drink,” You tell him.

He nods, waving you off and continuing his conversation with an old friend from College–Soobin. You liked Soobin. He was funny and pretty in that boy-next-door kind of way, but he's always felt too elusive for you. The kind of man who seeped through your fingers like sand.

You weave through the countless bodies, mumbling apologies when you bump someone's shoulder. The open bar is located near the back corner, lined with multiple men trying to flirt with uninterested women. The sights more amusing than anything, really. 

You squeeze through a couple, ignoring the man's glare and shooting the girl a subtle wink. She whispers a quiet thank you, grabbing her fruity cocktail and making her escape back to her friends.

It takes a moment for the bartender to notice you, but he shoots you a practiced grin when he does, notepad already in hand. “And what can I get for you, pretty lady?”

You laugh louder than intended, face flushing with heat. “A Strawberry Daquiri, maybe? Something light.”

He laughs, and you can tell it’s meant to be smooth, but it comes off wrong. Doesn’t make warmth bloom in your chest, doesn’t make you want to hear it again and again. Just lands far, far away from you.

“Usually something like that takes me awhile" He says slowly, leaning over the counter slightly. "But for you? I'll be faster then lightning." He winks once, then swirls around on his foot and attends to the man across the bar. You watch him go, chin resting in your hand, debating if you felt flattered or not.

“A Strawberry Daquiri? Really?”

It takes a moment for you to even register someone’s talking to you, and even longer for you to register who it is. You blink, whipping your head to the side. Woody’s standing there staring at the menu, strands of blonde hair falling over his forehead. He looks the same as he did the night you met him–loose tie, cheeky smile. The very same man you’d been thinking about before bed every night.

You stand up straighter, resting an arm against the counter and facing your body towards him. “What are you doing here?” You mean for it to come off serious and demanding, but your underlying relief slips through like waves in an open current.

He looks towards you lazily, like you were the weird one for asking. “Could ask you the same thing.”

You squint your eyes at him, “The bride and groom are my friends.”

He just grins, eyes shining at you in that way that you know means trouble. “Maybe I know them too.”

“You don’t.”

He shoots back quickly. “How are you so sure?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Something about him is so infuriating it literally puts your brain on pause. You huff, rolling your eyes slightly. “You’re annoying.”

He lets out a low hum, resting his hip on the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you’re still talking to me.”

You want to deny him-- say it was because you were waiting for your drink and he was there, but you know that’s a weak lie. You know it’s because you’d been secretly hoping he’d show up, and now that he had, leaving his side was the last thing on your mind.

You don’t respond, instead just shrugging and turning away from him. You focus your eyes to the front, watching as the bartender moves swiftly between taking orders and making drinks. You feel Woody take a step closer to you, the scent of his cologne making your senses go blind. He smells like cedar and linen, subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention. But that’s exactly the problem–you can’t stop paying attention to him.

The bartender returns with your drink, shooting you a wink when he hands it over, one you barely notice. Instead, you're trying to ignore the way Woody’s mere presence makes your nerves light on fire and goosebumps rise against your skin.

“He was flirting with you.” He smirks, nudging your shoulder with his own.

You roll your eyes, stirring your drink with your straw before taking a slow sip. “He definitely wasn’t.”

You push off the counter and begin to walk away, trying to seem nonchalant despite the fire growing beneath your skin. Woody follows you seamlessly, lips curled in a toothy grin, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “He winked at you.”

You turn to him over your shoulder, raising a brow. “So?”

He doesn’t reply to that, just keeps following you closely like he’s afraid of losing you in the crowd.

“Where are you sitting?” You ask, gesturing lamely towards the array of tables. He nods towards one in the back, clearly meant for decoration and not guests. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying to hide the way your lips quirk up in a near smile. “Seriously?”

He shakes his head in mock confusion, shoving his hands in his pockets. “What?” He asks, completely serious. “It’s nice and secluded. Away from any prying eyes, if you know what I mean.”

You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculousness, shoulders shaking slightly as you do. “You’re seriously ridiculous.” You mumble, taking his hand and dragging him back towards your own table near the front. He doesn’t argue, but his eyes go wide and the tips of his ears flush a dangerous shade of pink.

Sunoo notices you approaching first, his lips parted over his glass and his eyebrows raised. Soobin is too consumed with something on his phone to even register what's happening around him.

“Guys,” You announce, dropping Woody’s hand and instead using it to present him like your modeling your cat for a cat show. “This is…um…”

You remember then that you don't know his name. The same man that you'd been thinking about every day was the same man who'd rather kiss you then properly introduce himself to you.

“Woody.” He finishes for you, locking his gaze onto yours. “That’s what all my friends call me, at least.”

You blink, nodding softly. “Yeah,” You force yourself not to get lost in his eyes. Try to remind yourself that even though he's looking at you like that--it doesn't mean anything. “Woody.”

“Like Toy Story?” Soobin asks, finally looking away from his phone.

You just ignore him, instead pulling out the chair next to you for him to sit at. He does so easily, slipping into it like he belongs there.

Sunoo gives you a look, one that subtly says, who the fuck is this and why have I never seen him before?

You return it with a look of your own. I’ll tell you later.

The tables tense at first, Soobin and Sunoo clearly trying to adjust to the new setting, but any tension is easily dispelled by Soobin. “But, seriously, did your parents name you after Toy Story?”

Woody laughs, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he does. “Uh, I guess so.” He shrugs, glancing towards you. “They have a pretty weird sense of humor.”

Soobin just hums his agreement, mumbling something about wishing his own parents named him after a disney character.

“So, how do you two know each other?" Sunoo asks, taking a casual sip of his wine. You have to admit, he’s good at getting what he wants without making it seem like that’s what he’s doing. He’s got the whole innocent, curious bystander act down to a T. But you know he’s just nosy and doesn’t know how to mind his own business.

“Uh,” Woody clears his throat, “Work?”

“Righttt,” Sunoo drawls, clearly not believing the lie. “And what exactly is it that you do Woody?”

You swallow uncomfortably, “He’s the…janitor.”

Woody coughs, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “The head janitor,” You continue, “Just got a promotion recently.”

Sunoo nods, still eyeing you both suspiciously, but either he’s too drunk to question you further or he just stopped caring. Either way, you’re thankful.

Conversation flows smoothly after that. The four of you (Well, everybody except Woody, who kept any personal questions as vague as possible), share stories from college and highschool, laughing until your cheeks hurt and the hours blend together like smudges of paint on an old pallet. Speeches are given, drinks are shared, and the music shifts from classy to downright dirty.

There’s a few stragglers on the dance floor, mostly drunk old ladies and their husbands–slow dancing to songs that didn’t call for it. You’re sitting in comfortable silence, pretending to keep up with whatever it is Sunoo and Soobin are deep in conversation about. Something about which disney princess had it the hardest. You think the obvious answer is Belle, but you’d rather not get chewed alive for even thinking about sharing your irrelevant opinion.

Woody sits beside you quietly, eyes glancing at you every so often like he wants to say something. You want to ask him what it is, but your eyes keep drooping slightly and the thought of talking makes your head hurt. Drinking always makes you tired, so you aren’t sure why you keep doing it–especially at public events.

Ariana Grande’s Love Me Harder begins to trickle through the speakers, the beginning notes familiar in your ears. Woody practically shoots up at the sound of it, lips parted slightly, staring you down like you’ll move if he looks at you hard enough.

You peak over at him, lips pursued slightly. “What?” You mumble.

He points to the ceiling, knee bouncing in excitement. “The song.” He states.

You stretch out your arms in front of you, confusion written all over your face. “What about it?”

He doesn’t say anything else, instead just grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the dance floor before you can even think about protesting.

Your eyes are wide when you get there, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. “What are you doing?” You ask in disbelief. Your body is stiff, glancing around at the people next to you. There's a young girl in her twenties singing along to the song with her friend, the both clearly drunk. And on the other side is a man way too old to still be seeking dates at weddings, but he does so anyway, eyes glued to every woman that walks past him.

Woody shrugs, beginning to nod his head to the beat. “Dancing.”

You snort, a hand coming up to cover your mouth when he starts moving the rest of his body. He’s a good dancer, but you feel awkward standing here watching him like this. He lips the song dramatically, holding an invisible microphone in front of him.

“Oh my God,” You mumble, “You’re so weird.”

He just shrugs, clearly unbothered. “It’s fun,” He says matter-of-factly. “Try it.”

You immediately shake your head, looking towards Sunoo for rescue, but he’s too busy arguing with Soobin to notice your dire calls for help.

When it becomes clear that you'll have to get out of this yourself, you take a deep breath and try to explain without sounding like a total weirdo. “I...can’t,” You state uncomfortably, taking a step back to build much needed space between you. “I’m not much of a dancer.” 

Woody doesn’t even flinch when you say that. Instead, he grabs your hand and pulls you closer again. You stumble forward, chest touching his, but he stabilizes you with a hand at your waist. “So?” He says softly, eyes shining. “It’s just me and you.”

He’s right. No one’s paying attention to the two of you, too focused on themselves and what they're doing. But it still doesn’t do much to curve the nerves growing deep in your chest.

You shake your head, “I don’t know–”

He doesn’t let you finish, instead using his free hand to poke your forehead gently. “Stop thinking so much,” He says, beginning to sway around gently, “And just feel the music.”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat crawling up your neck. His words shouldn’t make you feel like this, but for reasons you’d rather push down and ignore forever, they do. And so, you listen.

Your movements are stiff at first, arms mechanical like you’re thinking about everything before you do it. Woody watches with a grin, his tie swaying back and forth with every swing of his hips. You’re surprised it hasn’t given up completely and crumbled onto the floor.

His hands find your waist again, guiding your movements until they're smoother, less like a robot and more like you’re gliding through butter. “There you go,” He chuckles, voice coming out a little breathless. 

Your lips quirk up faintly as you get the hang of it, your nerves dissolving until you feel like you’re floating. Woody watches you shamelessly, continuing to mouth the words. He gets on his knees dramatically when the ending chorus comes on, singing into his invisible microphone during The Weeknds lines. When Ariana’s turn comes on again he tilts it towards you with a grin.

You laugh, singing her part and then pulling him back onto his feet. He pretends to stumble dramatically, grabbing onto his shoulder like you’ve hurt him. You just roll your eyes and keep dancing.

You continue like that well into the night. People walk by, shooting you sideways glances, all of which you hardly notice. For the second time, this nameless man has managed to coax you out of your shell, and all without even trying. 

Soon enough, the couple does their sendoff, leaving you and all the others outside. Sunoo’s busy getting the uber while you sit on the curb, a hint of a smile on your face that you can’t quite wipe away. 

You don’t turn when someone sits besides you, already too aware of who it is.

“So,” He breathes out, whistling low. “Tonight was fun.”

“Yeah,” You agree softly, hugging your knees to your chest. “It was.”

Theres a pause, and then, “You’re a horrible dancer, by the way.”

You elbow him so hard he nearly topples over.

“I'm kidding, I’m kidding! Truce!” He laughs, throwing his hands up in surrender. 

You glare at him, though there isn’t any resentment behind it. “You’re an asshole.”

He blinks, expression going soft. “An asshole you’d like to give your phone number to?”

That stuns you. Your head shoots up, gaze locking onto his. He looks almost sheepish, eyebrows knit together and hands tapping against his lap.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, giving him a once-over. “I still don’t even know your name.” 

He nods, like he’d been expecting rejection. “I know,” He murmurs, “I just…I want it to keep being like this for a while, yeah? Just me and you.”

Just me and you. He says it like it's a fact of nature. Like the two of you would be together well into the future. It's a thought that makes your throat constrict, though you don't know why.

You turn your gaze towards the road. “I don’t see how your name is going to change that.”

He shrugs, copying your actions and staring off into the dark. “Maybe it won’t,” He swallows, adams apple bobbing. “Or maybe it will.”

You cross your arms onto your knees and lean down on them, successfully hiding your face. You should say no. Should stand up, remember what it means to have self-respect, and walk away from him for good. What use is there in getting involved with a man you don’t even really know?

But then your eyes find the side of his face, eyes trailing down until you can see the rise and fall of his chest. In truth, he looks straight out of some cheesy romance novel you’ll read once and then compare every real-life romantic encounter to.

But it isn’t just his looks. It’s him. The way he gets you to open up so easily, pulling you out of your comfort zone without even blinking. 

Meeting once was a coincidence. But twice? Maybe…there was something pulling you towards each other that you couldn’t quite see. Something that wants you to memorize all his outlines even if it’ll inevitably end with your undoing.

You sigh, opening your phone and nonchalantly handing your phone to him.

He glances at it, eyes dragging towards you. There’s a sly grin on his face when he takes your phone from you, fingers brushing yours as he does.

“Knew you’d give in.” He teases, typing his contact information.

You scoff, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Don’t get a big head about it.”

“Too late.”

Sunoo approaches then, shoulders curled in on himself, clearly exhausted. “Are you done flirting yet? The Uber’s about to be here and if I don’t get in my bed ASAP someone is going to die.”

You flush, eyes going wide as you shoot him a warning look. “Sunoo.” You hiss.

Woody chuckles, waving you off. “Go ahead,” He nods, “Just text me when you get home, okay?”

“Uh,” You blink, standing and letting Sunoo drag you away. “Yeah, okay. Sure. I can do that.”

Sunoo complains in your ear, something about Soobin ticking him off, but you’re not listening. Instead your head is turned, watching Woody get smaller and smaller the further you get.

You don’t hear from Woody for two weeks. A fact you are painfully aware of, even though you’re trying very hard to seem like you’re not. Sunoo has commented on your apparent inability to sit still, constantly checking your phone like it holds the secret to life. You lie through your teeth every time he points it out, claiming that you’re just anxious to get the results for the promotion.

And while that is true, it’s not why your shoulders sag every time you're met with a notification from your mom instead of the person you actually want to hear from.

It’s not like you care. (You do). He clearly has better things to do than text you, and that’s okay! (You’re seriously starting to lose your mind).

Maybe it would be better if you had some kind of idea of what his day-to-day life looked like, but you don’t. And every time you remember that it’s a painful reminder that the man running circles in your mind is someone you don't actually know, no matter how much you try to act like you do.

You’ve tried to piece him together in your mind more times than you can count. Imagining him behind a desk, making deals over the phone. Or maybe he did something humbler, like volunteering for nonprofits or working at animal shelters. Anything was possible really.

It feels like you’ve begun to make up an entire life for him, one you know isn’t real yet brings a smile to your face every time you imagine him doing whatever task it is you’ve conjured up. Would he be more into movies or books? Did he like his coffee hot or cold? Why was he so obsessed with Ariana Grande?

You sigh, sinking deeper into your pillows. Your phone lays abandoned at your side, screen dimming until it eventually goes dark. Scrolling doesn’t even bring you comfort anymore, which is pretty inconvenient for you considering your mind seems to go a mile a minute without it.

You’d texted him like promised when you got home after Jay and Lizzie’s wedding, telling him that you’d made it home and had had a good time. (You wanted to say had a good time with him–but decided that was probably too forward and quickly deleted it.)

He’d responded immediately something about being glad you made it home and that he hoped to see you again soon.

And then that was that.

No more texts. No more encounters. Just the lingering memory of a man with no name who managed to seep into the cracks of your heart like sticky syrup.

It happens a couple days later. Your phone dings, but you’re so engrossed in writing another article on olympic figure skater Park Sunghoon to really register it. 

It’s not until it dings again do you spare it a glance, and there sitting casually against the screen like he hasn’t consumed your life is Woody. Or, more specifically, his text bubble.

You scramble to grab it, ignoring how your computer slides off your lap and instead ripping your phone from the charger. Is it pathetic? Maybe. 

Woody: Hey

Woody: Are you busy Saturday?

Your breath catches slightly, bottom lip finding purchase in between your teeth. He’s asking you a very normal, simple question. The kind of thing people ask their friends all the time. So why does it feel so different coming from him?

It takes you longer then you’d like to admit for you to respond. Everything you come up either feels too rehearsed or too casual. Should you use punctuation? He had in his second text but not the first, so that doesn’t exactly give you much to work with. 

You eventually settle on something safe. 

Y/N: Hi

Y/N: I’m not really sure yet. Why?

It’s a lie. In truth, your only plans on Saturday are sitting on your couch rewatching New Girl. But you don’t want him to know how much of a loser you actually are. Plus, if he can have secrets, you think it’s only fair you do too.

Woody: There’s a wedding this weekend. Friend told me about it…thought you might want to come.

Woody: Only if you’re available, of course. I’m sure you’re veryyy busy.

You scoff, lips curving into a smile. Of course he sees right through you–somehow able to read you even without seeing you.

That’s how you end up in a dress you’d gotten from Goodwill the night before, pacing in your living room while you wait for Woody to pick you up. You’d told him you’d meet him there, but he’d insisted he come get you instead. When you asked why he’d simply said: Pretty ladies shouldn’t be expected to lift a finger when invited somewhere.

And, yeah. You had squealed into your pillow like a middle school girl when he said that. But–whatever. That’s besides the point.

The point is that you’re about to go wedding crashing with a man who you feel like you know everything about when you really know nothing! Put that on a dating podcast.

You freeze when the doorbell rings, eyes going wide and pulse jumping in your ears. You force yourself to take several deep breaths, smoothing down the ends of your hair and doing your best to look casual and not like you were mid panicking.

You creak the door open slowly, and the sight that greets you is one that makes you pause. Woody’s there, same loose tie, same coy smile–but he’s holding flowers. A giant bouquet filled with a rainbow of different colored plants.

He looks almost shy, holding it out to you like he’s scared you’ll reject them. “I didn’t know which ones were your favorites,” He huffs out a laugh through his nose, “So I just got as many as possible.”

“That’s…” You clear your throat, trying to seem unaffected, when in reality your heart is spasming. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

He shrugs, trying to seem casual, but you can see the pink in his cheeks. “Wasn’t any problem.”

“Still,” You insist, taking the bouquet from him and setting it on your kitchen island. You open your cabinet and pull out a pink vase. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He swallows, watching as you carefully fill the vase with water and then peel the flowers out of their packaging. You do it gently, careful not to bump any of the petals and accidently damage them.

He lets out a shaky breath, like the site of you being so domestic is too much to handle. By the time you look up his gaze is focused behind you, eyes squinted like he’s hyperfocused on anything that doesn’t have to do with you.

Your eyes catch on his tie, noticing the way it dangles low on his chest, clearly strung together in a hurry. You’re used to it by now, but your body moves before your mind can catch up, and then your hands are on him, nifty fingers redoing the knot.

He watches you the whole time, chin tilted slightly and eyes filled with softness and something else. You’re careful not to focus on the fact that you can feel his breath against your nose, or the way his scent overtakes your senses until you can’t think about anything except for him, or the way he’s watching you so intently.

Your fingers loop the tie until it forms into a proper knot, tugging it up his chest until it rests just below his neck. His throat bobs when he swallows, and you faintly feel it against your knuckles.

The air in the room suddenly feels heavy, like a weighted blanket against your chest. You glance up at him, finally allowing yourself to meet his eyes. And, God, how you wish you hadn’t.

It’s one thing to feel his gaze. To know you’re being watched. But seeing it? That's an entirely different thing.

Your breath catches, lips parting just slightly. All you would have to do is push forward the tiniest bit and your lips would meet his. You watch his gaze fall to your lips and linger there for a moment before he forces them back up. 

There’s a moment where you’re sure gravity ceases to exist. All that’s left is the undeniable pull between you, the space feeling like water in your lungs and the only relief would be to close it.

“[Y/N],” He mumbles, voice shaking and breathless. He sounds…almost needy. Like this is something he’s thought about a thousand times before and he can’t believe he’s finally living it.

Your own voice isn’t much better when you respond with a quiet, “Mhm?”

“I should tell you–”

You jump when his phone begins to ring in his pocket, cracking through the moment like a bolt of lightning. You pull away from him swiftly, eyes wide and chest nearly heaving. Your entire body burns, from the tips of your ears to the soles of your feet.

He curses as he reaches for it, eyes glancing over the screen wearily before he silences it and shoves it back in his pocket.

You do your best to steady your breathing, clearing your throat and smoothing down your dress. “Who was that?” You ask.

His lips curl downwards, eyes flashing with annoyance. "Doesn't matter,” He sighs, extending a hand to you. “You ready to go?”

And because you have limited self-control around him and an inability to say no, you accept it and follow him to his car.

The wedding is big. Like, the kind of wedding that you come to and realize, wow, these people really are in a different tax-bracket than I am. There’s at least a hundred tables, all arranged around a large swan ice sculpture. The walls are covered in glass, showing off the expansive lake outside and the white wooden gazebo. It almost feels like something out of a movie.

You swallow uncomfortably, mouth going dry. You knew what you were signing up for when you’d agreed to come with him, but now that it’s actually happening you’re having some regrets. What if somebody realizes you don’t fit in? Your dress is from Goodwill for God's sake! Meanwhile every other woman here is dressed head to toe in name brands that you’ve never even heard of.

“Uh,” You manage, glancing wearily around the room. You swear you can feel people looking at you. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

He has the audacity to chuckle, head tilting back slightly. You shoot him a pointed glare, arms crossing over your chest. “I’m serious!” You hiss.

“I know you are,” He responds, voice smooth and light. “And that’s exactly why we’re staying.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to make sense of his logic. “That doesn’t even make any sense!”

He shrugs, turning on his heel and making his way to the open bar, leaving you behind. You stand frozen for a moment, still trying to process why the hell you’re here and coming to the conclusion that you should probably call an uber and go home.

You follow him anyway.

This bar isn’t nearly as chaotic as the one at Lizzie and Jay's wedding. It’s classier in a way, full of people drinking 80-year-old wine instead of cheap drug store beer. It’s kind of intimidating, and you can feel the way you shrink in on yourself when someone glances at you for too long.

Woody orders your drinks, but you’re not paying attention. Instead you’re picking at your fingers, wincing every time you pull the skin a little too far.

You’d picked up the habit as a kid, a way to curve your evergrowing anxiousness. But after your mom noticed your hands turning into a mini crime scene she’d quickly put a stop to the habit. But, sometimes, when you felt so overwhelmed you were sure you were going to pass out and die, you’d let yourself indulge. Anything to help ground you.

You can feel your head spinning, breaths coming in shallow and eyes welling up with tears. You really shouldn’t be here. This is weird and people definitely know what you’re doing and oh my god you’re going to be sick–

A hand shoots out to grab yours, fingers pulling you back to reality. You look up to see Woody gazing at you with so much concern it’s nearly enough to bring you out of your head completely.

“Hey, hey,” He mumbles, voice hushed. “You’re okay, just breathe.”

You do as he says, sucking in deep breaths in that way your therapist taught you when you were 12. Box breathing he’d called it. You’d thought it was ridiculous until freshman year of high school when you came face to face with your first F and realized why people had to use it.

It takes a couple of moments for you to get full control of your senses again, but when you do you’re suddenly panicking for an entirely different reason. What kind of person gets so deep into their head over where their dress is from they nearly send themselves into a full fledged panic attack? You, apparently.

You slap your hands over your face, lips twisting in discomfort. “I’m sorry,” You start, voice still a bit warbly and slightly muffled, “I just get really into my head sometimes and–”

Woody grabs your wrists with a featherlight touch, thumbs hovering over your pulse points. He pulls them away gently, forcing you to come back into the world and away from the safety your hands brought.

“Why are you apologizing?” He asks.

Your lips part. Then close. Then part again. Then close again. You don’t really know how to answer him because you’ve never been asked that before. Usually you apologize and then things are awkward for the rest of the night. But he doesn't expect that from you. Instead, he was genuinely worried–not just because it was seen as the polite thing to do. He genuinely cares.

And that in itself is enough to pull you back to reality completely.

“Because…” You laugh nervously, “I probably ruined tonight, didn’t I?”

He wets his lips, eyes catching on something past your head. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a crooked grin and wraps one hand more firmly around your wrist, the other falling to his side. “Who said anything about ruining?” He teases, tilting his head towards the entrance. “C’mon.”

He leads you outside, palm warm and heavy in your own. The sun has dipped low below the lake, casting the sky in deep shades of orange and pink. The air has the musky scent it always does when you're near fresh water, but there’s something else too. The faint smell of an approaching rain, one that you hadn’t prepared for.

Woody slows his pace when he reaches the steps to the small gazebo, wooden steps creaking under his weight. He bows dramatically, gesturing towards the open space. “After you.”

You roll your eyes, but there isn’t any mirth in it. More like…endearence? “What are you doing?" You ask, feet glued to the grass.

He looks up at you and straightens his back, “We’re enjoying the wedding? Is this some kind of trick question…?”

You frown, glancing towards the building. You can see people still talking inside, moving around each other like fish in a swirling sea of gold accents. “The weddings in there.” You point out.

He just rolls his eyes, grabbing your hand once more and pulling you up the stairs. “Stop thinking so much just this once, yeah?” He laughs, soft and airy and way too pure. “Just…dance with me.”

You can feel your skin flushing. Can feel the heat crawling up your neck in unwanted waves. You don’t even know how to respond, mouth going dry and lips tightening together.

“There isn’t any music.” You mutter lamely, avoiding his gaze. It’s a bad excuse, you know. But you're not exactly well versed in the art of…whatever this even is.

“That’s okay,” He says, snaking a hand around your waist smoothly. You hardly even register it until you're stumbling forward slightly, catching yourself with two hands against his chest. “We don’t need it.”

You aren’t exactly sure how things play out after that. It’s mostly him leading and you following blindly, but eventually you’re swaying softly together. His hands settle against your waist, holding you gently. Yours end up wrapped around his neck, fingers clasped at his upper back. The fairy lights flicker on once the sky turns from a painted canvas into something darker, highlighting the dips of his face in warm lighting. Somewhere, crickets chirp endlessly, speaking to each other in their native tongue.

In truth, you can’t quite meet his eyes. It’s absolutely embarrassing being a twenty-something-year-old and unable to look a guy in the eyes, but you really just can’t do it. And it’s not because of the fact that you’re slow dancing in a gazebo under an array of hanging lights, but it’s something else you aren’t sure you want to accept. Something that sits deep in your chest, practically begging to claw its way up and out and into the open air.

You push it down as hard as you can.

He cuts through the silence then, voice a hushed whisper, like he’s scared the moment will break if he speaks too loud. “This is better, right?”

You swallow, nodding once. “Yeah,” You breathe out. “Thank you.”

He hums, thumbs beginning to rub featherlight circles into your sides.

The entire thing is entirely too intimate. You should pull away. Should tell him that this is way too much considering he refuses to share the most basic piece of knowledge with you. But you don’t. Instead, against your will, your hands tighten around his neck, cheek resting against the hard plains of his chest.

His heartbeat picks up the slightest bit before smoothing out again. You can feel it beating against your ear, consistent and comforting in a way that nearly makes your eyes droopy.

“What are we doing?” You finally manage to ask him, voice so small you aren’t sure he’s even able to hear it. Rain begins to drop from the sky, pelting softly against the roof of the gazebo.

“Dancing.” He answers easily.

You lift your head then, eyes finding his own under the soft glow. They’re soft and beautiful and gazing at you in a way that should be considered illegal.

Your lips quirk up, but quickly fall back down. “That’s not what I meant.” You mumble.

He blinks, squeezing your waist once. “I know.”

There’s a moment of silence then, but the space between you is enough to cloud your mind with millions of thoughts. 

“I’m going to tell you,” He sighs, eyes falling to the floor. He watches the way your weight shifts back and forth on your feet. “Soon. I promise.”

Your eyebrows furrow, fingers running over the baby hairs at the back of his neck. “Why?” You ask, “Why is it so hard to tell me?” You don’t mean for it to come out as harsh as it does, but he doesn’t even flinch at your tone. Just takes it without firing back.

“It’s complicated,” He insists, voice low. The rain begins to fall down harder, plopping against the roof and muffling the world around you.

Truthfully, you’re getting kind of sick of his constant refusal. The only explanation you can come up with for it is that he’s either some kind of war criminal or secret service agent. Neither are options you particularly enjoy.

You release him and take a step back. His hands linger at your waist, clearly hesitant to let go, but you shoot him a look and they drop to his sides.

“How is your name complicated?” You question, arms crossing over your chest. 

He runs a hand over his face, head shaking softly. “You don’t understand–”

You throw your arms up, eyes widening visibly. “You’re right, I don’t understand!” Your breathings uneven now, a humorless laugh bubbling out of your chest. “You-You kiss me, dance with me, comfort me." Your voice becomes hushed, "Look at me like–like that.”

He takes a step forward, you take another step back. Then again. And again. Until your back is against the fence of the gazebo and you can feel the rain misting over your shoulders and hair. He doesn’t crowd you, but he’s close enough that your breath catches. “Like what?”

You swallow, resisting the urge to look away from him. Everything in you is begging you to run away. To turn around and pretend this never happened. 

“Don’t.” You breathe out shakily, hands clenched at your sides. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he lets your words hang in the air like a dre, the tension palpable. “I did all of those things,” He finally replies, voice tense. “Because I wanted to. Because you deserved it after what they did to you.”

Your eyebrows furrow, confusion written all over your face. “What–?”

“I lied to you.” He interrupts, taking the smallest step back. His hand runs through his hair, forcing the blonde strands back for a second before they fall back into place. “That first night we met. I told you I didn’t know Luke or Mandy. But…it wasn't true.”

You remember exactly what he’s talking about. But…why would he lie? What was the point? Because he wanted to? What does that even mean?

“You’re not making any sense right now.” You mumble, hands coming up to rub at your temples.

He smiles, the same one he’d had that night he met you. But it's bleaker now, filled with more emotion than you know how to handle.

“I know,” He says shakily, “Just hear me out, okay?”

Your lips tighten together, but you nod anyway.

“When I saw you at the wedding,” He sucks in a breath, “It reminded me of the first time I saw you. Back in college.”

Your breath stutters, heartbeat pulsing in your ears. You try to study his face now, going through everybody you knew back then, but nothing comes up.

He continues, “I didn’t know anyone except for Luke. We’d been the only two people from our high school to end up going to the same university. We were friends because it was convenient.” He sniffs, tugging the edge of his tie. “You and Mandy were there. At orientation. Your hair was in this crazy updo and I thought it was so cool. I wanted to go to talk to you. But Luke couldn’t stop talking about her. Mandy.”

Your chest constricts. It’d always been her then? He’d only gotten with you so he could get to fucking Mandy? You’d thought you were done getting hurt by them, but apparently not.

“You smiled at me that day.” He murmurs, voice thick. “And I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.” 

You swallow, heart hammering against your chest.

His lips curve downwards, eyes narrowing slightly. “Me and Luke stopped talking as much after that. He’d found his friends and I found mine. But the one thing I was certain of was that I was going to finally talk to you. So I went to a party, planned out how I was going to introduce myself to you and everything. I saw you and I was walking over to you but–” He pauses, eyes squeezing shut. “You were with him. And you looked so happy and in love and I knew I’d missed my chance.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to process any of this without a bucket of ice cream and reruns of Glee.

“I stayed in the background after that. Just watching. And it sucked but I figured that was just how it had to be.” He chuckles, “And then I got the wedding invitation and I saw that he wasn’t getting married to you, but to her. And I thought to myself what’re the chances you show up? Clearly very high, because you did.”

He sucks in a breath, finally meeting your gaze. He looks wrecked. “And I lied because I got too in my head. I wanted to be someone else. Someone more like him.” He grimaces when he says it. 

“I’m glad you’re not,” You finally cut in, taking the smallest step towards him. “I’m glad you’re not him.”

His lips quirk up and a breathless laugh leaves him. His face turns serious again, tone grim. "When you told me what they did...What he did," His eyes stay locked onto yours. "I wanted to fucking kill him."

You swallow, hands twisting into the fabric of your dress. He sounds so angry just talking about, like the thought of it is enough to rile him up again.

"That's why I kissed you. Why I dance with you. Why I comfort you. Why I look at you like that." He takes a cautious step towards you, "Because I'm so in love with you it hurts."

Tears well up in your eyes, a mix of disbelief and... relief. Like hearing him say those words is everything you'd been wanting to hear and yet too much at the same time.

You want to run into his arms. Want to kiss him until your breaths become his. But, for once, you're able to find your self control.

He tries to smile, but it's weak. Unsure. "Please say something." He nearly begs.

You let out a shaky breath, eyes flickering over his face. “I don't know what to say," You admit softly. You try to control your breathing, but your head is spinning and your emotions keep crashing over you in desperate waves. "I need...time. I think. I don't know. I just--" You hiccup without meaning too, "I need space."

His face drops, but he doesn't argue. Doesn't push for you to talk to him. Just puts his hands on his hips and nods. “Yeah. Okay. I can take you home–”

You shake your head, already pulling out your phone. “No,” It hurts coming out. “I’ll call someone.”

He freezes, something painful flashing in his eyes. “It’s raining.”

You swallow, unshed tears swimming behind your eyes. “I know.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but he refrains. His hands shove into his pockets, chin falling towards the floor. “Okay,” He says shakily. “I’ll go.”

You don’t respond, just watch him twist on his heel and walk into the pouring rain. He doesn’t turn around, and you don't call out to him.

It’s not until he’s no longer visible do you let the tears fall.

Sunoo doesn’t ask any questions when you climb into his car soaking wet and sobbing. Just turns up the heat and goes five over the speed limit the entire way to his apartment.

In truth, you don’t know why you’re crying. You think you’re just…overwhelmed. Does what he did count as lying? You don’t really know. You don't really know if you should be mad or hurt or what either.

You do know that you need to take some time to sort yourself out.

Sunoo leads you onto his couch silently, taking a seat next to you and crossing his arms. He hands you a tissue from the coffee table. “Alright, spill.”

It flows out of you like an open damn. The kiss (though he already knows about that), the dancing, the gazebo--all of it. It feels good to get it off your chest, but saying it out loud also makes it seem all the more real.

The way he’d looked at you when he left. The way his voice broke when he told you he loved you. That he was in love with you.

“And I still don’t know his fucking name!” You groan, hands wiping at the tears on your cheeks.

Sunoo hums, seamlessly handing you another tissue. “That’s…a lot.”

You scoff out a laugh, leaning against the cushions. Part of you hopes they’ll swallow you whole. “Tell me about it.”

Sunoo doesn’t say anything, and for a moment the only noise between you is his soft breaths and your quiet sniffles.

“Did you ever notice him?” He asks, “Back then, I mean.”

Your chest constricts, because, no, you hadn’t. You’d tried to remember his face, but all that ever comes up is Luke. You’d been so enamored with him that the thought of even looking at any other guys never even occurred to you.

Meanwhile, Luke was using you to get to the person closest to you.

Would things have been different if you would've just opened your eyes? If you would’ve looked away from him for a second and saw who was waiting for you? Would you have left? 

You hate that you aren’t sure.

“No,” You answer truthfully, breath catching in your throat. “I was so focused on Luke I never even…” You trail off, swallowing uncomfortably.

Sunoo nods, bringing a hand out to rub comfortingly on your bicep. “I can see you thinking.” He condemns, “Stop it. You didn’t know.”

“That’s the problem!” You insist, tears brimming behind your eyes again. “How could I not notice what was right under my nose. Woody and-and the cheating. I was so blind and for what? Because he was the first guy to give me attention?”

Sunoo gives you a sympathetic look, eyebrows knitting together. “He was your first love, [Y/N]. She was your best friend. No one suspects something like that without seeing it with their own two eyes.” He says gently.

You frown. He’s right, you know he is–but still. It doesn’t make you feel any less dumb.

“And I keep thinking about what might’ve happened if I’d just opened my eyes for two seconds. If what Woody said is true then…how much did I miss out on with him?” You murmur, eyes downcast.

Sunoo sighs, standing from the couch and grabbing water from the kitchen. You thank him as he hands it to you, taking a swift sip. It’s smooth going down, but it does nothing to soothe the ache in your chest.

“I won’t lie to you and say it’s not a valid question,” He tucks his feet under himself, propping his elbow against the cushion and leaning his head on it. “But you can’t spend the rest of your life wondering. Especially not when he’s here now. Still waiting for you, might I add.”

You snort, but there’s no humor behind it. “I know,” You mumble, “I just think I need time to try and process everything.”

He smiles, “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

You spend the rest of the night talking about work and whatnot. Anything that doesn’t have to do with college or boys. And it does help for the most part, but Woody's words still linger in your mind like honey in the cracks of your brain.

It happens a couple days later. Your boss calls you to congratulate you on receiving the promotion, voice loud and bubbling in your ear, but you can’t even find it in yourself to share in the enthusiasm. You want to, you really do, but your heart it too heavy.

You keep checking your phone to see if he’s sent anything to you, but he never does. You had asked him for space though, so you can’t exactly be mad at him for giving you exactly what you’d asked for.

But still…part of you had hoped he’d at least say something. Maybe even just a: Hey, How are you? I know I sort of lied to you but isn't it also romantic when you really think about it?

But, now that you’ve had some time to process everything…you want to see him. You want to speak to him and tell him exactly how you’ve been feeling.

So, when Sunoo off handedly mentions a wedding his jobs hosting you can’t help the idea that sparks in your mind.

You remember Woody’s words from that night; “What're the chances you show up?” He’d said, referring to you going to Luke and Mandy's wedding. So is it so crazy for you to ask the same?

If he does show up you aren’t exactly sure what you’re going to say. You don’t know how you’re going to look him in the eye, really. But you’d rather try and make a fool of yourself then not and never know what could’ve happened.

The first thing you notice when you arrive is how different this wedding is compared to all the others. It’s more soft, in a way. With twinkling lights and green hanging vines, the whole thing looks straight out of a fairytale.

You’d ditched the Goodwill dress and actually went to the mall and found a floor-length baby pink gown. The heart-shaped neckline is covered in white lace, accenting the pink silk in a way that looks almost doll-like. You’d pulled your hair up as well, letting a few strands loose to frame your face. Even you had to admit you felt good.

Your eyes scan the area, watching as the bride and groom dance to some classical version of a Taylor Swift song. People watch them, sipping on their wines and swaying back and forth with their own spouses. You look through the crowd, trying to find that familiar head of blonde hair, but you come up empty.

Your chest squeezes, thoughts of uncertainty beginning to float around your head. What if this all really had been a mistake? Maybe he truthfully didn’t want to see you again after everything. What if he’d finally decided to move on?

That’s when you hear it. The soft sounds of a piano from another room. Your head snaps towards it, legs carrying you towards the tune like you’re under the pied pipers spell. And maybe you are.

You push the massive doors open slightly, slipping through and letting it click shut softly behind you. The room is big, with highrise ceilings and massive windows. And there in the center, is a piano. Black and sleek and occupied by a boy with blonde hair and a loose tie.

He doesn’t notice you enter which you’re partially grateful for. He’s too focused gliding his fingers over the keys, playing that damn song.

“Love me harder?” You laugh, soft and warm. “Really?”

His fingers pause their movements, eyes flickering up towards you. He looks shocked for a moment, but it quickly dissipates into something that looks eerily similar to relief.

He chuckles, a small smile working its way onto his lips. “Only the best song ever made.” 

You wet your lips, taking small cautious steps towards him. He watches you the entire time, eyes trailing from your face all the way to your feet. He scoots down the bench swiftly, leaving space for you to take a seat next to him.

You do so hesitantly, your hands falling into your lap and your shoulder brushing his.

“Hi,” You breathe out, holding out a hand. “I’m [Y/N].”

He stares at you for a moment, at the hand stretched out in front of him, a silent offering. Something flashes behind his eyes--recognition, maybe. Relief at the thought of starting over.

“Hi,” He croaks, eyes glued onto yours. He takes your hand firmly, fingers fitting over your own like they were made just for you. “I’m Heeseung.”

Heeseung. You let the name bounce around in your mind, going over each syllable and committing them to your memory.

“Heeseung,” You murmur, letting it roll on your tongue. “It’s pretty.”

He grins, letting out a breath that’s bordering on a laugh. “You think so?”

You nod, squeezing his fingers once. “Yeah,” You murmur. “I really do.”

Heeseungs silent for a moment, his eyes glued to where your hands are connected. He clears his throat before bringing your hands down to the keyboard. “Do you know how to play?” He asks.

You shake your head, letting the pads of your fingers run over each key. “Never had the chance to learn.” 

He hums, placing his hands over yours. “I could show you,” He offers softly, “If you wanted.”

Your eyes flicker over to him for a moment before they fall back to your joined hands. His thumbs rub into your knuckles, silent encouragement.

“Yeah,” You manage, even though your heart feels like it’s about to tear out of your chest from how hard it’s beating. “I’d like that.”

He smiles, but it’s not the cheeky one you’re used to. It’s sincere and filled with so much love it nearly makes you melt.

He guides your hands over the piano, pressing down keys and chuckling every time your fingers slip. His cologne floods your senses, clouding every thought in your mind until all you can think about is him.

The way his fingers feel against yours, the way his shoulder stays pressed against you, the way he keeps glancing at you like he can’t believe you’re real. 

He guides you through the song, murmuring praises every time you play a chord correctly–Really it's just him playing and pretending you’re doing it on your own.

For a moment, the entire world disappears. It’s just you and the boy you’ve absolutely and impossibly fallen in love with, playing piano at the wedding of people you don’t even know.

Your breath shudders as the song comes to a stop. He doesn't lift his hands from yours, doesn’t back away. It's not until you turn to look at him does he even attempt to shift, and even then all he does lean away from you so he can see your face better.

“I’m sorry,” You start, “For everything. For making you leave like that. I should’ve–”

He cuts you off gently, foot nudging yours. “Don’t,” He breathes, “Don’t do that. You don’t need to apologize for needing space.”

God, can he get any more perfect?

You sniffle, nodding once. “Right. I just…” You sigh, eyes diverting from him. “I didn’t know what to do when you told me everything. It was a lot to process.”

He nods, encouraging you to continue.

“But I don’t think it’s everything you told me that scared me. I was scared because I-I was starting to fall for you and I didn’t know how to let you in after everything happened with you-know-who. And not to mention the fact that I didn’t even know your name.” You laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. You finally look at him then, eyes brimming with tears. “But after you left I knew. I knew that I loved you. That I do love you. And if you’ll still have me, I don’t want to run from it anymore.”

Heeseung’s silent, eyes searching yours like he’s looking for any bit of hesitance. When he doesn’t find it, he lets out a soft groan, head tilting back slightly. He squeezes his eyes shut like he's in actual pain. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of hearing you say that?” He mumbles, leaning into your space. You can feel his breath against your lips, his heartbeat against your own. “Being yours is the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

You suck in a shaky breath, your eyes darting down to his lips. “Heeseung,” You breathe.

He doesn’t hesitate then, surging forward and capturing your lips in a kiss. 

This one is different from the first one all those months ago. It’s sweeter, slower. He takes his time memorizing the taste of you, a hand trailing up your arm and cupping your cheek.

You pull away for a second, attempting to get a word out, but he doesn’t let you. Instead his lips capture yours again, deeper this time. Your lungs beg for air, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. For this–to keep having him kiss you like you’re the only girl he’s ever seen–you’d learn how to live without air.

“Hee–” You gasp against his lips, a smile breaking through. “Hold on–”

You push against his chest lightly, and he whines–actually fucking whines–and his lips chase yours like it hurts him to be away from you.

“Heeseung,” You giggle, “We’re in public.”

“So?” He questions, breathless and absolutely flushed. “Can you blame me for wanting to kiss the girl I love?”

Heat rises up your neck, lip tugging between your teeth as you try to hold back your smile. 

He takes your hand again, pulling you to your feet. “Let’s get out of here then, yeah?”

You barely register the door to his apartment slamming behind you until he’s pushing you against it. His hands find your hips, thumbs digging into the bone but never moving. Never straying beyond respectful.

“You’re so beautiful,” He mumbles, lips crashing against yours, “Nearly fell to my knees when I saw you in this dress.”

You smirk, hands clasping around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. “Yeah?”

He chuckles, parting from your lips to rest his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You look like a fucking dream.”

Your lips part, a wave of want splashing over you so fast you barely register it. “Heeseung,” You manage, dragging your hands down his chest. “Touch me.”

He immediately shifts, lips pressing against yours and hands dragging up and down your body. He traces your collarbones, lips trailing open mouthed kisses down your jaw and neck. Your eyes flutter closed, hands tangling in his soft hair.

His breath gives when you tug slightly, a groan spilling through his lips. “Fuck,” He sighs, lips leaving deep red marks everywhere they touch. Like he's claiming you.

You can feel yourself getting needier, hands grasping onto whatever you can find, hips rolling against nothing.

“Hee,” You whine, the nickname slipping out easily. “Please.”

He hums, digging his hands into the flesh of your hips. “Yeah, Baby?” He pecks the side of your jaw, breath fanning against your ear and shooting a shiver down your spine. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Just need you to say it.”

You tug on your bottom lip, cheeks flushing. It's not that you were embarrassed, but the way he says it makes you want to scream.

Your chest heaves against his when you bury your hands into the fabric of his shirt, tugging against his already loosening tie. “Please,” You beg, embarrassment lingering in the tremble in your voice, “I want you to touch me.”

He groans, already leading you into his bedroom. He kicks the door shut behind him swiftly, gently pushing you towards the bed until your knees hit the edge. He guides you down, and your back lands against the sheets with a soft huff, your hair fanning out around you like a halo.

“Gonna give you everything you want,” He murmurs above you, kissing your lips sweetly. His hands linger everywhere, from the dip of your shoulder to the curve of your breast, fingertips featherlight. “You gonna let me, Sweetheart?” He asks.

You nod swiftly, already feeling your underwear grow damp with want. “Yes,” You gasp, “Fuck, Please.”

He chuckles, sliding the straps of your dress down your shoulders and revealing your bra and tummy. He sucks in a breath at the sight, and then swiftly lowers his lips down to the swell of your chest, leaving open mouthed kisses atop the skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “So perfect.”

You arch your back and allow him to unclip your bra, tossing it onto the floor somewhere. His lips are on you then, kissing and sucking your nipples into his mouth like a man starved. Drool dribbles down his chin and down the curve of your breast, shining against your skin. 

He makes his way down your sternum, kissing over your ribs, down the soft skin of your stomach, all the way down until his knees hit the floor and he's in between your legs.

He swallows, running his fingers over the silk of your dress covering your legs.

He looks up at you, silently asking for your permission. You give a weak nod of confirmation. 

His fingers hook into the top half of your dress pooled around your waist and tugs it down softly. It drags down your legs and plops onto the floor, leaving you in just your underwear.

The air is thick with tension when he comes face to face with the lace covering your folds, eyes zeroed in on the growing damp patch between your legs.

“Fuck,” He groans, breathless. His cheeks are flushed, pupils blown so wide his eyes are nearly black. “You’re perfect.”

His lips find your inner thigh, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses over the skin, all the way down your calf, and over the hard bone of your ankle. He does the same on the other side, taking his time worshipping you like you’re his personal deity.

“Hee,” You whine, hips rolling against nothing, “Don’t tease me.”

He chuckles, his hands running up your thighs before finding purchase against your hips. He doesn’t hold you roughly, but there’s enough intention behind it to keep you in place.

“Just wanna worship you, baby.” He hums, nudging his nose against the crease of your pelvis, “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You roll your eyes, but heat crawls up your neck anyway. “So you’ve said.”

He taps a finger against your hip bone teasingly, lips widening into a cunning grin, like he knows exactly what he does to you. And, honestly, he probably does. “Dreamed about how you’d taste, the sounds you’d make. ” He murmurs, tongue jutting out slightly to wet his kiss-swollen lips. “You gonna let me make you feel good, baby?” He asks.

“Yes,” You gasp out, “God, yes.”

It doesn’t take much after that.

He starts slowly, giving small kitten licks over your panties. You let out a sigh, hands tangling in the sheets and teeth tugging on your bottom lip. 

It’s not messy. It’s not rough. It’s sweet and slow, like he’s taking the time to figure out what makes you keen and buck your hips into his mouth.

He finds a soft rhythm, licking into you until the thin border covering your folds gleams with a mix of his saliva and your slick. His nose bumps against your clit, earning a whine from you every time it happens. 

He curls his fingers into the waistline of your panties, dragging them down your hips and tossing them onto the floor. The cool air brushes against your slick folds, making you shiver.

Heeseung pauses for a moment, gazing at your sex like he’s committing it to memory. Embarrassment clouds your mind at being stared at like this, like you’re a piece of art he’d pay millions to have. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, lips glistening with your slick. “I know I’ve already said it,” He mumbles, dragging a hand down your tummy and letting his thumb brush over your clit. “But you’re beautiful. Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

He emphasizes your words with a long lick up your folds, tongue flat against your hole. Your back arches off the bed, a whimper sliding out of you without your permission.

Your hands fly to his hair as he eats you out like a man starved, his tongue swirling around your clit. 

“Fuck!” You whine, “Fuck–yes! Don’t stop!” You sob out, tugging at his roots. He groans at the feeling, the vibration buzzing against your clit in a way that actually makes your thighs shake.

His lips wrap around your clit then, sucking it into his mouth and lapping his tongue against it. You let out a broken moan, back bowing off the bed. But he presses a hand firmly on your stomach to keep you in place.

He continues, soft then fast, pace fluctuating like he can’t decide whether he wants to take his time. Your thighs shake as you get closer, chest heaving and moans slipping from your mouth like prayers.

You jolt when he prods a finger at your entrance, teasing you slowly before pushing inside. The stretch is good–and when he curls it just right you swear you see stars. Your eyes fill with tears the closer you get, the coil in your stomach tightening to unbearable levels.

“F-fuck–Close–” You manage to gasp.

He hums against you, then adds another finger. You let out a high-pitched whine as he does, hips rolling against his mouth and hand, body completely lost to the pleasure.

He fucks his fingers in and out of you gently, constantly curling right against your g-spot in a way that should be illegal. 

“Can’t believe you ever let him taste you,” He says, voice slightly muffled against your pussy. “Bet he couldn’t even make you cum, huh?”

You’re too far gone to form a reply. All you can think about is Heeseung and how close you are to release.

But he doesn’t seem to want a reply from you. Instead, he licks a broad stripe up your clit, and it’s enough to finally break you.

You cum with a sob, fingers tightening in his hair and thighs tightening around his head. Your vision goes white for a moment as he laps up your release like a dog receiving a treat from its owner.

He fucks you through it, mumbling soft praises the entire time. It’s not until you’re crying from overstimulation and pushing his head away does he come up for air. And when he does, you swear you nearly cum all over again.

His hair is a disaster, sticking up in places and curling against his forehead. His eyes are lidded and his pupils are blown out, while slick mixed with saliva glistens across his nose, lips, and jaw. He looks like pure sex and every secret fantasy you’ve ever dared to have.

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, pulling him up gently until he’s situated atop you again. You kiss him hard and messy, tasting yourself on his tongue. He nips at your bottom lip, requesting access, and you grant it easily.

He swirls his tongue in your mouth, hands gripping your hips and rolling them against the growing bulge in your pants. You gasp when you feel him–thick and hard and already drooling with pre-cum.

He groans when you roll your hips experimentally, his lips parting in a pant and forehead resting against yours. “Fuck, if you keep doing that…” He trails off, eyebrows knitting together.

You grin, wrapping your hands around the tie hanging off of his neck and tugging it off. He seems to get the idea and quickly rids himself of his shirt and pants, leaving him in just his boxers.

You swallow at the obvious bulge, a wet patch of pre-cum practically dripping against the fabric. He gasps when you hand experimentally brushes over it, his eyes falling shut. 

You carefully palm him, watching how his face contorts in pleasure. “Fuck–wait–you’re gonna make me cum like this.” He mutters, reaching down and pulling your wrist away and over your head.

He uses his freehand to push his boxers off, revealing his flushed cock to you. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of it–thick and flushed and oh, so pretty.

He sucks in a shaky breath before lining himself up with your entrance, his lips brushing yours as he does. He kisses you as he enters, swallowing every broken whine and whimper that escapes from your mouth.

He’s big–bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, at least. The head of his cock stretches you deliciously, nudging against your walls and carving a place for himself. 

“You feel so fucking good,” He whimpers against your lips, the hand holding your wrist shifting so he can intertwine his fingers with yours. He squeezes your hand three times as he bottoms out, and your eyebrows furrow at how deep he is.

He’s resting right against your g-spot, putting continuous pressure onto it until you’re certain you see stars. He doesn't move inside you, letting you adjust to the feeling, but you can tell he’s holding back.

“Hee-Heeseung,” You attempt, using your free hand to paw at his chest. “Please move.”

His breath hitches, burying his face into the crook of your neck. And then he’s rutting into you slowly, broken gasps leaving his kiss-stricken lips.

You squeeze his hand, lips forming into an ‘O’ as he rocks into you with a perfect rhythm. It’s not too rough, not too fast–just enough to drive you fucking crazy. Enough to ensure you feel every vein and every ridge of his cock inside you.

“I love you,” He whines into your skin, leaving dark marks around the curve of your neck, the line of your jaw, the swell of your breasts. Anywhere he can reach. “Love that you’re letting me touch you like this. Love you so much it’s fucking painful.”

A groan rumbles deep in his chest when you roll your hips to meet his. “You like that?” He asks, “Like knowing how crazy you drive me?”

You try to reply, but all that comes out is a broken sob. He picks up the pace now, slamming into you with a rhythm that rivals anything you’ve had before.

“Yeah, you do,” He teases softly, “Don’t worry. Gonna remind you every fucking day.”

You tighten around him instinctively, walls attempting to milk him for everything he’s worth. His hips falter at the feeling, sweat beginning to stick to his forehead.

He fucks you like a man starved, like he’s angry at you for keeping this from him. Tears of pleasure streak your cheeks, each one he kisses away without a word. 

The entire thing is too much, too good, and before you know it you’re tightening around him and cumming harder than you ever have in your life.

“There you go, baby,” He gasps, reaching his freehand down to rub light circles against your clit. “Such a good girl for me.”

He fucks you through the orgasm, enjoying every keen and whine you give him, until he’s releasing inside you himself. His cum fills you in hot spurts, painting your hole a creamy white.

He collapses atop you, chest heaving against yours. It takes a moment for the both of you to collect yourselves, but once you do he’s pulling out gently, whispering apologies when you twitch from overstimulation.

He leans over to grab a cloth from the bedside table, kneeling between your thighs and cleaning you softly. He leaves lingering kisses on the inside of your thighs as he does, like he’s thanking you for letting him touch you.

When he’s finished he crawls into bed beside you, staring at your face with a dopey smile. 

You raise a brow and let out a confused giggle. “What?” 

He shrugs, shaking his head softly. “Just can’t believe I’m so lucky.” He mumbles, leaning in and kissing you softly. You kiss him back easily, hand coming up to cup his cheek.

And it’s then that you think that maybe, just maybe, things were always meant to play out this way.

Maybe, just maybe, that wedding invitation was the best thing that ever happened to you.

And maybe, just maybe, one day you'd be able to send out your own.

wowwowo she’s done!!

this was my first time writing smut so if it’s bad pls forgive me 😓

reblogs are really appreciated and i love to hear from you guys!

but you're already leaning into him, your hand finding his knee through the soft gray fabric of his sweatpants.

"i'm serious! think about it, babe."

your voice is that special kind of excited, the one soobin usually hears when you're explaining a new game you're completely obsessed with or suggesting a takeout place you've been dying to try.

"we've never done it like that. it's always, you know... we're both already hard, and it's kind of rushed and intense. but this..." you squeeze his knee, your thumb tracing a small circle. "this would be different. slower. we could just... be together. and feel everything."

soobin's heart is doing something erratic in his chest.

he's still holding his pen, still surrounded by highlighters and flashcards, and his ridiculously attractive boyfriend is sitting on his bed, talking about his dick like it's the most natural thing in the world. which, okay, it is, they've been together for eight months, they're past the awkward stage. but this is... new.

"you want to..." soobin swallows, his throat suddenly dry. he glances down at his own lap, then back at you, his cheeks impossibly pinker. "you want to sit on it? while it's... you know?"

"soft, yeah."

you nod enthusiastically, scooting closer, and your thigh presses against his.

"i just keep thinking about what it would feel like. the sensation of it... waking up inside me. getting harder because of me, because of us," your voice drops a little, losing some of its excited energy and gaining something warmer, something more intimate. "i think it would feel really good, babe. really close."

and that's the thing.

soobin has never been able to deny you anything when you look at him like that, when your voice goes soft and you say his name like it means something more than just letters strung together. he's completely, utterly gone for you, and you know it. you use that power sometimes, but never cruelly. always like this — to pull him closer, to bring him into a moment with you.

he sets his pen down carefully, marking his place in the textbook with a sticky note; a small, practical gesture that's so distinctly him that it makes your heart clench.

"you really want to?" soobin asks softly, his voice quieter now, a little shy.

"yeah, more than anything right now," you admit, and it's the truth.

the textbook, the phone, the outside world — it's all completely faded away. there is just soobin, in his ridiculously soft-looking oversized white t-shirt and those grey sweatpants that you've told him a hundred times should be illegal, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his glasses framing those warm, curious eyes that are currently fixed entirely on you.

soobin bites his lower lip, a telltale sign that he's thinking, he's considering. then, slowly, he shifts on the bed, putting his textbook on the nightstand. he leans back against the headboard, the wood creaking softly, and his long legs stretch out, then bend slightly, creating a space for you, an invitation.

"okay," he breathes out, the word carrying a mix of nervousness and genuine curiosity. "let's... let's try."

and oh, you don't need to be told twice.

you're moving immediately, crawling over the messy comforter to settle between your boyfriend’s legs. soobin watches you, his hands coming up to softly rest on your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs.

you're face to face now, close enough to see the tiny mole under his eye, the way his eyelashes flutter.

"hi," you whisper, a stupid, giddy smile spreading across your face.

a matching smile tugs at soobin's lips, despite his obvious embarrassment.

"hi," he whispers back. his hands are warm through the thin fabric of your pajama pants. "this is so weird."

"good weird or bad weird?"

"just... weird. different."

soobin ducks his head slightly, looking at where your bodies meet, at the tentatively interested bulge in his own pants that's nowhere near full attention.

"are you sure you're gonna be comfortable? what if—"

you cut him off with a kiss; it's soft, just a brush of lips, simply meant to soothe.

"we'll go slow. if it's weird or uncomfortable, we can just stop. okay?"

soobin nods against your mouth. "okay."

you kiss him again, deeper this time, and you feel his huge hands tighten on your hips. you rock forward experimentally, just a small shift of weight, and soobin makes a tiny sound against your lips.

you break the kiss to sit back slightly, your hands finding the hem of his oversized t-shirt. "can i?"

soobin lifts his arms without a word, and you pull the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind you, and your breath catches, like it always does.

you've already seen him naked countless times, but the sight of his pretty bare chest, the smooth expanse of pale skin, the subtle definition of muscle from carrying heavy books and the occasional gym session with his friends — it never gets old. he's beautiful in a way that feels accidental, unassuming.

soobin doesn't seem to fully realize how hot he is, and that, somehow, makes him even hotter.

your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants, and you look at him for permission. once again, soobin gives a small, shy nod. you tug them down, along with his boxers, just enough. his cock lies soft against his thigh, and you feel a fresh wave of heat pool in your stomach. it's still him, still soobin, still the part of him that makes you feel so incredibly full and complete.

it's just... resting.

you shimmy out of your own pajama pants and boxers quickly, not wanting to break the moment. when you settle back on his lap, it's skin-to-skin, his soft length pressed against the curve of your ass. soobin hisses in a breath, his fingers digging into your hips.

you position yourself carefully, one hand on soobin’s shoulder for balance, the other reaching down to guide him. your eyes meet his.

"ready?"

he looks terrified and thrilled in equal measure.

"ready."

you shift your weight, lowering yourself slowly. the head of soobin’s soft cock presses against your entrance, and for a moment, it just... sits there. it's an odd sensation, really — the familiar pressure, but without the familiar hardness. it feels almost impossibly soft, pliable.

you take a breath and push down gently.

the slide is different; way slower. there is no resistance in the same way, because he's soft, but your body still has to accommodate his size. even soft, soobin is... well, considerable. you feel yourself stretching around him, taking him in inch by inch, and the sensation is so unique, so new, that a shaky moan escapes your lips.

soobin's eyes are wide.

"oh," he breathes. "oh, wow."

"you okay?" you manage to ask, pausing when you're about halfway seated.

soobin nods frantically, his hands softly stroking up and down your sides.

"y-yeah. it's just... it feels so warm, and so tight. but it's also different. it's like... i can feel everything. i can feel every part of you."

you lower yourself the rest of the way, and then you're fully seated, his soft cock buried completely inside you. you sit there for a moment, just breathing, just feeling; the weight of him, the fullness, the strange, intimate knowledge that he's inside you but not hard inside you.

it's like a secret, a moment stolen from time.

you're both still for a long, breathless moment. soobin's hands are splayed across your lower back, warm and grounding, and you can feel his heartbeat, or maybe it's yours — it's hard to tell anymore when you're this close.

"how does it feel?" you whisper, your forehead resting against his.

"warm," he repeats, his voice soft with wonder. "and... tight. but it's like..." he struggles for words, his brow furrowing adorably. "it's like i can feel you holding me. not like... fucking. just holding."

you smile, pressing a gentle kiss to soobin’s lips.

"yeah. that's what i wanted."

you start to move, but not in any real rhythm.

just small, subtle shifts of your hips. you were rocking, more than anything, simply testing the sensation. with each tiny movement, you feel him, soft and pliant, moving inside you, and it's incredibly intimate in a way you hadn't tully anticipated.

soobin's hands roam your back, your sides, his touch full of reverence. your boyfriend is looking at you like you're something so precious, something he can't quite believe is real. his cheeks are still flushed that pretty pink you love so much, his lips slightly parted.

"you're so beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.

you feel a flutter of warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with where you're connected.

"so are you."

you kiss him again, deeper this time. your tongue slides against his, slow and exploratory, and soobin’s hands come up to cup your face, holding you close. the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent, more hungry. you feel his hips twitch beneath you, a small, unconscious thrust.

and then, finally, you feel it — the slightest change; a thickening, a growing weight inside you. you gasp against his mouth at the very new sensation, pulling back just enough to look at him.

soobin’s eyes are hazy, his pupils blown wide.

"soobin," you breathe. "i can feel you."

he looks down, as if he could see through both your bodies to where they're joined.

"it's you," soobin whispers, his voice wrecked. "it's because of you. you feel so good."

another small, unconscious thrust. another surge of growth. soobin’s cock is filling out inside you, pressing against your walls in a way it couldn't when it was soft. the sensation is really overwhelming — the gradual stretch, the increasing fullness… you can feel every ridge, every vein as they become more pronounced.

you can feel soobin getting harder because of you, because of the way your body is wrapped around him, because of the kisses, because of the closeness.

"oh—my god," soobin pathetically whimpers, his head falling back against the headboard. his hands grip your hips tighter, his knuckles white. "oh my god, that feels... that feels so..."

"i know," you groan, and you start to move with more purpose now, rolling your hips in a slow circle. each movement seems to encourage him, to draw more blood, more hardness. "i can feel every second of it. you're getting so hard inside me, babe."

soobin makes a sound that's somewhere between a moan and a whine, high-pitched and desperate.

"d-don't stop. please don't stop."

you don't. you keep moving, keep kissing him, keep whispering praise against his lips.

"feel how good you feel. feel how perfectly you fit."

"i can't—" soobin cuts himself off with another whine, his hips starting to thrust up in small, jerky movements that meet your rolls. "it's too much. it feels too good."

"it's not too much," you assure him, your hand coming up to card through his soft hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "you're doing so well. just feel it. feel me."

soobin is fully hard now, thick and heavy inside you, and the transition from soft to hard has left you both breathless and shaking. you've never experienced anything like it — the gradual, inexorable filling, the knowledge that his arousal is a direct response to you, to this moment. it's really intoxicating.

"i wanna move," soobin begs, his voice cracking. "please, baby, please can i move? i need—i need to—"

you simply nod, unable to form words properly. you lift yourself slightly, and soobin thrusts up, a real thrust this time, deep and sure. you both moan, the sound mingling in the small space between you.

"y-yeah," you gasp. "like that. just like that—"

soobin sets a rhythm, slow at first, still overwhelmed by the newness of it all. his thrusts are deep, deliberate, each one punching a soft sound from your lips, and his hands are everywhere — your hips, your back, your face.

he can't stop touching you, can't stop looking at you.

"you're so perfect," soobin babbles, his words tumbling out between kisses and pretty moans. "so perfect for me. i love you so much. i love being inside you. i love—ah!—i love feeling you."

you capture his mouth with yours, swallowing his words, his every sounds. you simply love him like this — open, vulnerable, completely undone by you. the pretty nerd who annotates his textbooks and makes color-coded study guides, reduced to a whining, desperate mess because of how you feel around him.

you start to meet his thrusts, matching his rhythm, making it deeper and harder. the bed creaks beneath you, the sound joining the wet, obscene noises of your bodies coming together.

"i'm close," soobin warns, his voice tight.

he's gripping you so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow, and you can't bring yourself to care.

"i'm so close, baby, where do you want—"

"inside," you moans. "stay inside—wanna feel you come inside me."

soobin’s eyes roll back slightly at your words, and his thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm. he's chasing his release, but he's also watching you, making sure you're with him. your boyfriend’s hand snakes down between your bodies, finding your cock, stroking you in time with his thrusts.

it only takes a few more strokes; you come with a broken cry of his name, your body clenching around him, and that's all it takes to push soobin over the edge. he follows with a desperate, high-pitched moan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and deep.

for a long moment, neither of you moves.

you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same humid air. soobin's hands are still on you, but they've gone soft, just resting.

right now, you can feel him softening inside you, the reverse of the sensation from before, and it's just as incredible in its own way.

finally, you shift, wincing slightly at the oversensitivity, and soobin's hands immediately try to hold you still.

"wait," he murmurs. "just... wait a second. i'm not ready to not be inside you yet."

you smile, pressing a kiss to his nose.

"okay."

you simply stay like that for a long time, connected, breathing together. soobin’s thumbs trace absent patterns on your skin, and your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

the room slowly cools around you, but you're both warm, wrapped up in each other.

"that was..." he trails off, searching for the right word.

"incredible?" you offer.

"yeah," soobin laughs softly, a little puff of air against your lips. "incredible. you always have the best ideas."

"i know," you tease, but you're smiling too.

eventually, you have to move.

the practicalities of cleanup, of bodily functions, of reality intruding on the perfect bubble you've created. but even as you disentangle yourselves, even as soobin disappears into his attached bathroom and returns with a warm, damp washcloth to clean you both with gentle, careful hands, the intimacy doesn't break.

when you finally settle back into bed, both of you having pulled on fresh boxers, soobin immediately pulls you against his chest. he's warm and solid, and you can feel his heartbeat, still slightly elevated, against your cheek.

"so," you mumble against his skin. "worth interrupting your study session?"

soobin laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest.

"my biology textbook can wait. this was..." he pauses, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. "this was the best kind of practical application."

you snort, elbowing him gently. "such a nerd."

the room falls into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes after moments of profound intimacy.

outside, the city continues its endless hum.

inside, in soobin's small, cluttered bedroom, there's just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, sated and sleepy and utterly, completely in love.

but you liked him, just a little. you liked the way he always saved you a seat. liked the way he looked at you when you talked, like you were saying something important, even when you weren’t. and maybe, once or twice, you thought about kissing him. maybe, if he kissed you first, you wouldn’t have stopped him. and soobin, well, he’s just your friend. even if you’re always in his lap. even if you always call him baby when you’re drunk. even if sometimes he looks at you like he wants to ruin you.

but then you hooked up with that girl from your lit class and remembered: oh. right. you like girls. you’ve always known you were mostly into girls. since before you even had a word for it. barbie made out with other barbie. you had crushes on your best friends. and when you finally kissed a girl for the first time, it felt like everything made sense. you’re bi, technically. but girls were always easier for you. guys were… well, guys. loud, messy, handsy. they talked over you. and every time you tried to “give it a shot” with one, it ended in disappointment. sometimes disgust. you got tired of being disappointed, so you stopped trying.

but then there was soobin.

your friendship with him is… complicated. you watch movies together all the time. mostly 1980's horror films. bad ones, always. you eat from the same bowl of popcorn and scream at the same jump scares. he lets you paint his nails while you ramble about some bullshit while you’re high, and he acts like it doesn’t hurt when you say things like i think i’m into her.

but also, you caught him staring once. not in a gross way. more like… sad? like he wanted to ask something, but didn’t know if he should. well, you didn’t ask either. you just laid your head on his shoulder and said, “you’re my favorite boy, you know that?” and he said, “i better be."

you’ve seen him shirtless more times than you can count. not on purpose, just sleepovers, gym selfies, pool days. but still, his stupid abs live rent-free in your head. and maybe you’ve thought about kissing him. maybe you wonder what it’d feel like to let him touch you, like, really touch you. maybe your brain goes quiet when he calls you pretty. maybe you’re scared of what that means.

maybe you don’t know if you’re confused about him, or just confused about yourself.

and soobin? oh, soobin wants you in ways he can’t say out loud.

it is not sweet, nor soft. no, he wants you in the most carnal way a person can want someone. wants your thighs around his face. wants to hear you whimper. wants to fuck the brat right out of you. and it’s hell, you know, being your friend.

because you’re always touching him. always looking at him like he’s just soobin, your favorite pillow, your emotional support boy. you straddle his lap like it means nothing. call him baby when you’re tipsy. you whisper in his ear at parties like you’re telling him secrets, when really it’s just to feel your lips on his neck. he knows what you’re doing. or maybe you don’t. maybe you’re just like this. maybe you really don’t know what you do to him.

but he does, because he thinks about it way too often. you on your knees. you moaning his name. your lipgloss smeared across his skin. and he hates himself for it, for the way his cock aches just from being around you. for the way he jerks off after you leave his apartment, like some sad, pathetic, friendzoned loser. he wants to blame you, but he can’t. it’s not your fault you’re like this.

and tonight’s the worst. today is taehyun’s birthday party. everyone’s sweating through their clothes and the floor’s sticky and someone’s already puked in the sink. but you look unreal, you always do. little black skirt, bare thighs, something sparkly on your chest. and of course soobin wants to bite you.

you’re drunk, but not too drunk. just buzzed enough to be mean about it. to smile at him with that lipglossed mouth and say shit like: “you know you’re stupid hot, right?”

he freezes. “what?”

you grin. lean in, real close. “you heard me.”

he tries not to react. tries to keep his eyes on your face and not the way your fingers trail down his arm. but his skin’s buzzing, and you’re everywhere. your perfume, your voice, your thighs on his. you’re pressing into him like you want him to do something. and fuck, he almost does. but you’re gone again, like you always are. off to refill your drink, or to dance, or to do whatever the fuck you do when you’re tipsy and glowing and unstoppable.

he finds you later in the kitchen. kissing some girl against the counter, all teeth and tongue and fingers knotted in hair. and he shouldn’t be surprised. he’s not surprised. he’s just, well. soobin is hard.

and ashamed. and dizzy with it. so he turns away. drinks whatever’s in his cup. vodka? piss? who cares.

an hour later, you sit on his lap like nothing happened. like you didn’t just let some other girl bite your neck while he watched. like he isn’t the one unraveling.

“hey,” you whisper. one arm around his shoulders, nails grazing the back of his neck. “you okay?” he doesn’t answer. you tilt your head. “what’re you thinking about?”

he says it before he can stop himself. “don’t know what to say to you,” he breathes. “i feel… you’re always on my mind.”

you freeze for a second. then your face softens. not in the way he wants. “soobin…” you laugh, too gentle. “i’m really not that into guys.”

the words hit like a blade to the gut. or maybe like a jump scare in one of those shitty 1980s horror films you always make him watch. the kind where someone’s about to get gutted, but the music’s still cheerful. like the world doesn’t know something awful is happening.

and he’s sitting there, hard as a rock, hands on your waist, and he can’t even move. just smiles, swallows it down. lets the blood drain from his chest to somewhere lower. because fuck it, right? because he wants you so bad he’ll take anything. even this.

but after that night, things started to change inside you.

you didn’t want to admit it, not even to yourself. you played it off, laughed it off, because that’s what you always do when things get a little too real. but something shifted, something you didn’t know how to name. but you weren’t stupid. you knew what you were doing that night. you were drunk, yes. but not that drunk. just loose enough to let your hands wander. just tipsy enough to call soobin pretty and pretend it didn’t mean anything. just bold enough to climb into his lap and act like you belonged there.

and god, the way he looked at you. he always looked at you soft. like you were something delicate, something sacred. but that night? something in his eyes was darker. heavier. something that made your stomach flip and your thighs press together just a little.

you liked it, you fucking liked it. and then you said it — i’m really not that into guys — and watched it hit him like a punch to the face. you weren’t lying. well, not entirely. you are bi. you always have been. but it’s been a long time since a man made you feel anything. it’s been years since one touched you and your body responded like this. and it’s not like you didn’t try, you did. dates, hookups, situationships. they all fizzled out into nothing. no spark. no heat. just another guy thinking he deserved something just for showing up.

but soobin isn’t like them. soobin is sweet. soobin holds your hand when you’re hungover and makes playlists for your moods and never pushes, never assumes, never demands. he’s soft-spoken, polite, too damn good for his own sanity. and maybe that’s why you liked teasing him so much. maybe that’s why you started testing your limits.

you knew he liked you. he never said it, but it clung to everything he did. the way he lingered when you touched him. the way he looked away when you changed clothes in front of him, but not too fast. the way he let you flirt and flirt and flirt, and never told you to stop.

and well, you’re a little fucked up, you know that. you like playing with fire just to see how long it takes to burn. and with soobin? soobin had this face, all soft lashes and pink lips and that stupid shy smile, and yet you knew he wasn’t innocent, no, not really. you’d catch him looking sometimes, like really looking. not just at your face, but at your thighs. your chest. your mouth. the hunger was there, hiding behind the sweet boy act.

and it did something to you, something ugly. something hot.

so you started to lean in closer when you talked to him. started calling him baby more often, just to see how his ears turned red. you wore shorts that barely covered anything when he came over. you let your fingers linger a little too long on his hand when you passed him things. and when you caught him staring, you smiled.

but you told yourself it was just fun. you told yourself you were figuring things out, seeing if your body could still want a guy. if your brain could still go there. and if it was anyone else, you probably would’ve pulled away already. but it’s soobin, and you trust him. and that’s what makes it worse. because now every time you’re alone together, you can feel it crackling between you. every laugh, every brush of skin, every too-long stare— it all builds and builds until you feel like your bones might snap from the pressure of not doing anything.

you wake up thinking about his mouth. you fall asleep wondering how he tastes. you touch yourself and pretend it’s still just curiosity. you don’t know what this makes you. don’t know if you’re into him, or just into how he makes you feel. don’t know if you want him because it’s him… or because your body is begging for something and he’s the first person to really look at you like he’s starving.

and maybe that’s the scariest part. not wanting him, but not knowing why you want him.

so you text him two nights later.

[you]: hey, movie night?

[you]: u owe me horror and gore

he answers in under five minutes.

[soobin]: omw

you stare at the message longer than necessary, because you don’t know what you’re doing. but also— you know exactly what you’re doing.

you pick the movie carefully, not something classy. the slumber party massacre. a cult slasher soaked in tits and blood and bad acting. the kind of movie that makes you feel sticky just watching it. the kind of movie you’d make fun of together. the kind of movie where sexual tension is part of the plot, of course

you throw on a hoodie and tiny shorts. not for him, not really. you just want to be comfortable. or you just want to see what happens.

and when soobin shows up, he looks like he always does. hoodie, sweats, his hair slightly messed up from the wind. but his eyes flick to your legs when you open the door. just for a second. and that’s all it takes. that second burns straight through you.

“hey,” he says, voice a little too low.

“you brought snacks?” you ask, already turning your back to him, pretending your skin isn’t hot.

“yeah,” he says, and when you glance back, he’s still standing there, holding the chips awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“you ever seen the slumber party massacre?” you ask, flopping onto your bed. 

soobin blinks. “uh, yeah. tits and blood, right?”

you grin. “exactly.”

you settle on your bed with the laptop open, lights off except for the screen’s dim glow. he kicks off his shoes and joins you, back against the pillows, a little too far from you. he swears his heart skips. or maybe it’s his dick. hard to tell.

you don’t say anything, you just press play. and the movie starts. basically: girls scream, clothes come off, fake blood splashes across the screen. it’s stupid. you’ve seen it before. but you don’t care. because all you can feel is the space between your bodies.

you stretch your legs out and let one brush against his thigh. you pretend it’s accidental. it’s not. he stiffens a little, but doesn’t pull away. fifteen minutes in, you shift closer. your bare thigh fully pressed to his now. he still doesn’t move, but his breathing changes, though. a little shallower. you don’t look at him, not yet. you lean your head back, neck exposed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

you’re not watching the movie anymore. you’re watching him watch the movie. he’s tense and quiet, too quiet. and then one of the girls on screen moans — loud and ridiculous and obviously fake — and you can practically feel soobin’s whole body flinch beside you.

you turn to him, finally, and your voice comes out low. teasing. “you okay?”

he nods, too quickly. “mhm.”

you smile and lean in a little closer. “you’re so jumpy. it’s just a dumb movie.”

he swallows hard. “yeah, i know.”

and then silence again. well, except it’s not silence. it’s the sound of his breath catching every time you shift. the rustle of sheets when your leg slides higher against his. the creak of the bed when you lean into his side and pretend not to notice how he holds himself like he’s about to explode. you rest your chin on his shoulder. your lips brush his neck. again— just pretend.

your eyes are half-lidded as you stare at the screen, though you’ve long since stopped registering anything happening in the movie. he’s so still beside you it’s almost funny, like he thinks if he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe too loudly, the tension will somehow break on its own. but you feel him. the way his thigh tenses beneath yours. the way his hands are clenched, fingers digging into his own leg. the way he keeps his eyes on the screen like he’s being tested. like this is some exam he has to pass.

“you still think this movie’s just tits and blood?” you ask voice low, teasing. your lips graze the curve of his neck just slightly as you speak, enough to make him flinch.

he lets out a sound, half a laugh, half a breath he’d been holding. “that’s literally all it is,” he says, but his voice is tight, a little hoarse, like it’s caught on something he’s not saying. “plot? never heard of her.”

you grin, slow and lazy. “right. because you only watch movies for the plot.”

“i do, actually.” he turns his head a little, just enough to glance at you, and you catch the flicker of something in his eyes, maybe amusement, restraint, a quiet kind of want that makes your stomach flip. “that’s why i’m here. for the deep narrative of slumber party massacre.”

you laugh, you can’t help it. “mm, yeah. so insightful.”

“exactly,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping (not very subtly) to your mouth. “truly… cinematic.”

there’s a beat of silence where neither of you speaks, where the only sound is the girl on screen screaming as a power drill tears through a door. you shift closer again, just barely, and his breath catches. you can feel the way the air between you is thick. the push and pull of something neither of you wants to name.

you smile, almost wicked, and lean into him fully now, your weight settling half across his chest, your hand resting on his stomach, too casual to be casual at all. you can feel the tension in him, the way his body is coiled tight, like he’s holding himself back from something. “hey..” you whisper, voice syrupy and low. “you uncomfortable?”

he swallows hard. “no,” he says, way too fast. “why would i be?”

you let your fingers drag slowly, lazily over the hem of his hoodie. “dunno. you just seem kinda… stiff.”

you know you’re being cruel. you know exactly what you’re doing, and part of you hates yourself for it. and the other part (the louder one) is trying to make sense of the chaos inside you, the confusion, the heat, the sudden ache that’s been gnawing at you ever since that night at the party. you tell yourself this is about clarity, you just want to know.

he exhales sharply, like he’s trying to keep himself from combusting. “you’re really playing with fire right now,” he mutters, half under his breath.

you tilt your head again, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “me? i would never.”

he turns to you then and suddenly he’s close, so close that his nose almost brushes yours, and all the tension from before condenses into a single, dangerous moment. “are you really not that into guys?” he asks, low and careful, like he’s trying to sound casual but can’t quite pull it off. “or are you just… not into me?”

the words hit harder than you expect. you blink, thrown for a second. you were playing a game, but suddenly you’re not sure what the rules are anymore. and he doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. he’s not teasing now, he’s just waiting. you open your mouth, then close it again. because what the hell are you supposed to say? you could lie. you could laugh it off. you could flirt your way out of it like you always do. but you don’t. because suddenly you feel a little sick, like something’s lodged in your chest.

“i…” you start, but your voice cracks, and you have to look away. you pull back just slightly, your hand slipping off his stomach, and the loss of contact makes you feel cold. “i don’t know.”

and that’s the truth, and it’s the worst answer you could give. but soobin doesn’t respond right away. he just watches you for a moment, eyes sharp, mouth tight. “you know,” he says finally, voice low and calm in that dangerous way, “i can’t keep pretending this is nothing. that you don’t know what you’re doing.”

your breath hitches. “i didn’t mean to—”

“yes, you did,” he cuts in, not harsh, but not gentle either. “you did mean to. you do it all the time.”

you want to argue, but you can’t. because he’s right. “i don’t know what i want,” you admit, your voice small now. “it’s not about you. it’s not— it’s not because i don’t think about you. i do. i think about you more than i should.”

he exhales slowly. “then stop acting like it’s a joke.”

you look up at him, and suddenly he’s too close again, and the space between your bodies feels like it might collapse. “i’m just... scared,” you whisper, and it’s the first honest thing you’ve said all night.

his expression softens, not completely, not enough to erase the frustration and the want, but enough to remind you who he is. that it’s soobin. that he’s not going to take advantage. that he just wants you to be sure. “then say that,” he says gently. “don’t play with me.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just sit there with your hands in your lap like some kind of penitent virgin, like you weren’t half on top of him five seconds ago whispering in his ear like a tease. it’s funny, in a pathetic kind of way. you don’t even realize how obvious it is, how you’re still pressed up against him, still breathing like you ran a mile, still watching his mouth like it might do something terrible. and soobin? soobin’s done pretending he doesn’t notice.

“you know what your problem is?” he says, voice calm in a way that’s somehow more dangerous than yelling.

you blink. “um—”

he leans in just slightly, not enough to touch, but close enough to make you feel it. “you think you can keep playing these games with me and i’m just gonna sit here and take it.”

your stomach flips. “i wasn’t—”

“you weren’t?” he cuts in, tone sharp now. “what was that then? just casual flirting with your friend since you are 'not that into guys’? calling me baby and crawling into my lap and rubbing up against me during a fucking slasher movie? just normal behavior?”

you open your mouth. close it again. because yeah. yeah, okay. you have no argument. he laughs, humorless. “you want to know what i think?”

you don’t, you really don’t, but you nod anyway. he shifts his body, finally, his legs opening just slightly, taking up more space, spine straighter now, eyes locked on you like he’s finally tired of pretending he’s not starving. he doesn’t touch you, not yet, but every inch of his posture says he could. would, if you let him.

“i think you like pretending you’re in control,” he says. “i think you like pushing me just far enough to feel powerful. but you never let it go further, because then it’s real. and if it’s real, you can’t hide behind your sexuality crisis or your drunk-girl flirty bullshit.”

you suck in a sharp breath. “wow.”

“yeah,” he says. “wow.”

there’s a long pause. you don’t move, but your skin’s buzzing, your thighs pressed together like that’ll help. it won’t. your whole body’s betraying you. and the worst part is that he knows. because he continues: “but here’s the thing,” he continues, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “you’re not in control. not anymore.”

“oh?” you shoot back, voice a little thinner than you want. “and you are?”

he tilts his head, eyes dark now, smile lazy. “wanna find out?”

you hate him. you hate that your legs feel weak and your face is hot and your stomach is doing flips like you’re seventeen and he’s the first boy who ever looked at you like he meant it. you swallow hard. “you think i’m scared of you?”

“i know you’re scared of how bad you want me,” he says, and it’s not cocky. it’s not a guess. it’s a goddamn fact.

and you hate that he’s right. so you laugh, mostly to cover the way your heart is slamming in your chest. “you’re full of yourself.”

“maybe,” he shrugs. “but you’re still sitting in my lap like, so.”

you blink. your brain short-circuits a little. “jesus christ.”

“say the word,” he says, voice dropping just enough to make your spine tingle. “say it and i’ll stop. we can finish the movie, you can pretend you’re totally unbothered, and i’ll go home like nothing happened.”

you look at him, and he’s still soobin. your sweet, smart, quietly hot friend who lets you paint his nails and listens to your drunk girl rants and always brings the right snacks. except now his eyes are blown wide, his lips are parted, and he’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. you’re not used to this version of him, but god, it’s doing something to you.

“i’m not saying stop,” you whisper, and it sounds like a confession.

he grins, slow and dangerous. “didn’t think so.”

you don’t have time to think before he moves. he’s grabbing your waist and pulling you into his lap like you weigh nothing. just grabs you, shifts you over until you’re straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, face inches from his. like it’s easy, like he’s done it before.

your breath catches in your throat. your hands find his shoulders out of instinct, grounding yourself, but your head is spinning, because he’s so close. his hoodie smells like laundry detergent and something distinctly him, and you’re hyper-aware of how warm his hands feel on your hips, how his thumbs drag slowly against the waistband of your shorts like he’s barely restraining himself.

“you okay?” he asks, but there’s no softness in his voice this time. just control. “still playing?”

you blink at him, wide-eyed. “i’m not—”

“don’t lie,” he cuts in, eyes dark and steady on yours. “not now.”

your lips part, but no sound comes out. you can feel the tension in your own body of the pull, the ache, the raw want that’s been building for weeks, maybe months, maybe longer than you care to admit. and now it’s all boiling under your skin. he leans back slightly against the pillows, relaxed now, one hand still heavy on your hip. his other arm stretches behind his head, the picture of composure, like he’s not losing his mind with you sitting like this on top of him.

“so,” he says, almost lazily, like this is just another dumb conversation between friends. “what do you like?”

you blink. “what?”

“sexually,” he clarifies, casual as anything, like he’s asking what your favorite color is. “what do you like? do you even know?” you swallow hard and he tilts his head, watching you. “you’ve been playing this game for weeks. teasing me, acting like you don’t notice when i’m hard because you’re grinding on me. so i wanna know. is it just for fun? or do you actually get off on this?”

your cheeks burn. you should get up, you should say something. instead, you shift slightly in his lap, barely, and his hands tighten on your waist in warning. “don’t do that unless you’re ready to take responsibility,” he says, voice lower now, dangerous. “you wanted to know how i feel? this is it.”

you bite your lip, heart pounding. you feel too exposed, even fully dressed. like he’s peeled something open inside you and now there’s nowhere to hide. “you’re being mean,” you whisper.

he grins, sharp and slow. “good. someone’s gotta stop letting you play dumb.” you stare at him, chest tight, skin buzzing. “so,” he says again, voice softer now but no less intense. “what do you like?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud would make it real. and he watches your face, expression unreadable. and then he leans in again, voice low in your ear. “tell me what you want,” he murmurs. “or nothing happens. i’m not gonna touch you unless you ask for it.”

you don’t mean to move, not really, but your hips shift slightly, like your body’s trying to answer for you. your lips part, and for a second, you just breathe. you’re not sure where your voice went. everything’s tight in your throat, but soobin doesn’t rush you. he just waits, watching you from below with a look that’s way too composed for someone whose thighs you’re currently sitting on.

“i…” you start, barely above a whisper. “i like…”

he arches an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “yeah?”

you glare at him, cheeks burning. “don’t be smug.”

“i’m literally just sitting here,” he says, all innocent, like his fingers aren’t gripping your hips like a fucking anchor. “you’re the one grinding on me.”

you huff, exasperated, but your body betrays you again— your thighs tighten, your nails dig lightly into his shoulders. you lean in closer so you don’t have to look at him full in the eyes when you say it. “i like…” you pause, then exhale hard. “i like being in control. usually.”

he hums. “yeah?”

“with girls,” you clarify, quieter now. “it’s just always been easier. they… let me lead.”

soobin’s eyes flicker darker, but he keeps the same calm expression on his face, his voice steady. “so you’re a top,” he says, teasing, like he’s just making an observation about the weather.

you roll your eyes. “not like that.”

“no?” he tilts his head. “how then?”

you bite your lip, struggling for the words. “i mean— i like the dynamic. i like girls with that…” your voice drops. “with that… innocent face. it’s hot.”

you feel soobin’s breath hitch under you, just barely. it makes your heart spike in your chest. he laughs softly, but there’s something sharp underneath it. “so is that how you see me?”

you finally meet his eyes. they’re unreadable now, but locked onto yours with a focus that makes your stomach twist. “no,” you say, and your voice is firmer this time. “you’re not like that.”

he hums again, this time low and slow. “so what am i like, then?”

you swallow, your hands sliding slightly down his arms. “you’re… harder to read. you play along, but i know you’re not passive. you pretend you don’t care, but i can feel it when you touch me.”

“yeah?” he says, fingers tightening just slightly at your waist. “and what does that make you?”

this time you don’t look away. “i don’t know,” you admit. “i like… control. but sometimes—” you pause, frustrated at how hard it is to say. “sometimes i like giving it up.”

“why?” he asks, and his voice is quieter now. not mean, just curious. like he genuinely wants to know what makes you tick.

you think about it. “it depends,” you say slowly, choosing your words with care. “on how the person treats me. if they make me feel safe or wanted. if they deserve it.”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “and am i treating you like that right now?”

that question hits somewhere deep, somewhere between your lungs and your core, and you can’t tell if it makes you want to run or stay forever, so you nod. and he smirks, not cruel, not cocky. just knowing. “good,” he says, voice low. “because i’m not trying to play pretend with you anymore.”

you nod again, smaller this time, your breath shaky. “i don’t want to play either.”

his thumb strokes gently along your side, slow and steady, grounding you. his other hand moves up to rest lightly against the back of your neck, just holding you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips. “you like being in control,” he says, like he’s repeating it back just to make sure you know he heard you. “but you don’t need to be.”

you don’t answer out loud. your body answers for you, because your hips are rolling forward slightly without permission, the friction making you gasp. his grip tightens instantly, holding you in place. “ah ah,” he tuts, voice like velvet. “you still haven’t told me what you want.”

your head drops forward, forehead resting against his. “you’re so fucking annoying.”

he grins. “am i?”

you’re burning. your whole body is vibrating with need and frustration and anticipation. you feel like you’re going to scream if he doesn’t do something, or let you do something. “i want you to touch me,” you whisper, barely audible.

he leans in just a bit more. “gonna have to say that louder, baby.”

you grit your teeth. “fuck you.”

he smiles sweetly. “you wish.”

your fingers tighten in the fabric of his hoodie. your thighs are trembling now, and you’re so wound up you feel like your skin might split open. you inhale shakily, close your eyes, and say it again. louder this time. clearer. “i want you to touch me.”

you feel the way his breath catches, like even he wasn’t prepared to hear you say it like that. and then his voice drops, low and hot in your ear. 

“good girl.”

you almost moan at his words, but you bite your lips and hold yourself back. his hands rest on your thighs like they live there. his thumb draws slow, absent circles against your skin, barely noticeable if your entire nervous system wasn’t screaming at you. his eyes are on you like he’s watching a storm roll in. and you’re trying not to come apart over a fucking stare. you shift a little, chasing friction, and he smirks immediately.

“comfortable?” he asks, voice too soft to be innocent.

you glare. “you’re enjoying this.”

“obviously,” he says. “you’re so easy to read it’s kind of adorable.”

you roll your eyes, annoyed and flustered, which only seems to please him more. his thumb trails higher, a little closer to the hem of your shorts, but doesn’t go any further. he’s doing this on purpose. you know he is.

“you’re not gonna kiss me?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

he raises an eyebrow, gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes. “is that what you want?” your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he smiles, slow and cruel and so fucking pretty. “then kiss me.” you freeze. his voice drops, lower now. “what? don’t get shy now.”

you want to hit him. you want to kiss him. you want to melt into him. mostly, you want him to stop talking. but you don’t move. so soobin leans in and exhales. “or do you just want me to do everything for you?”

you swallow hard. “you’re insufferable.”

he hums, grinning. his hand moves again, dragging up the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate, until he’s cupping the underside of it, holding you just a little tighter. “you gonna kiss me or what?” he asks again, voice practically a purr. “or are you scared of that too?”

“i’m not scared.”

“then what’s stopping you?”

you stare at him. you can feel your pulse everywhere — in your neck, your wrists, between your legs. he’s right there. he’s asking for it. and still, you hesitate. so he keeps going. “you want it to be me?” he asks, fingers now pressing into your thigh a little rougher. “you want me to make the first move? pin you down? take it from you?” you shiver. “i could,” he adds. “but i won’t. not until you ask for it.”

his words hit low and deep, and you can’t tell if your thighs are shaking from nerves or want. maybe both. so you reach up, slow and hesitant, and brush your fingers along his jaw. he doesn’t move, he just waits. and when you finally lean in and kiss him, it’s like biting into lightning.

he doesn’t move at first. lets you kiss him, tentative, searching, like he wants to see how far you’ll go on your own. but when your fingers curl into the collar of his hoodie and your hips shift forward instinctively, he groans low in his throat and grabs your waist tight. his mouth moves against yours like he’s been waiting. like he’s been holding back for weeks and now he’s finally letting himself want. well, because he is. so he kisses rougher, deeper, his tongue slipping into your mouth like it belongs there. and when you whimper, he pulls back just barely, breathing hard.

“that what you wanted?” he asks, voice ragged now. you nod, dazed. he kisses the corner of your mouth. your jaw. down your neck. everywhere but where you’re begging for it. “you’re gonna have to be more specific,” he murmurs against your skin. “i wanna hear exactly what you like.”

your hips grind down again. he grips your thighs harder, holds you in place. “you like being on top?” he asks, almost amused.

you nod, biting your lip. “sometimes.”

“but not tonight?” he asks, tilting his head. “you want me to take over, baby?” you can’t speak. you just breathe and nod. he grins. “you know what to do then.”

you press your forehead to his, shaky and desperate and so ready to say it. “please,” you whisper. “i want you.”

“how bad?” he asks.

“i can’t think,” you breathe. “i need you to do something.”

he chuckles — low, smug, wrecked. “good. now we’re getting somewhere.”

his hand is on your throat before you even process it. not squeezing, just resting there, firm enough to feel the beat of your pulse against his palm. he holds your gaze steady with his, like he’s daring you to pull away. you don’t. your breath comes out shaky and uneven, and his thumb strokes just once along the column of your neck. “say it again,” he murmurs, voice low and unforgiving.

you swallow hard. “need you to do something. please.”

he nods once, like that’s all he needed. his other hand slides up under your hoodie, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your waist. his fingers are cold at first, but the way they move is purposeful, not searching, not unsure. he knows what he’s doing. he drags his hand up slowly, deliberately, until his palm rests just under your bra.

“like this?” he asks, thumb teasing the edge of the fabric. “or do you want more?”

you gasp, breath catching. “more.”

he grins, lazy and infuriating. “thought so.”

he slides your hoodie up, not bothering to take it off, just pushing it out of the way enough to get what he wants. his hands move with a kind of patience that makes you ache, like he’s got all the time in the world to make you lose your mind. he cups your breasts through the thin fabric, thumbing over your nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. you arch into it without thinking. “you like that?” he asks, voice close to your ear.

“yes.”

“say it.”

“i like it.”

his hand dips lower, sliding down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your shorts. his fingers toy with the edge like he’s still deciding if he’s going to keep going. “you want me to take these off too?”you nod, dizzy. he clicks his tongue. “use your words.”

“yes. take them off.”

he drags them down slowly, watching your face the whole time. he wants to see everything— the way your lips part, the way your body tenses when he touches you, the way you shiver when the fabric brushes down your legs. you kick them off and now you’re in nothing but your underwear, straddling him, your hoodie still half pushed up, breath coming in shaky bursts.

“fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “you’re really just gonna sit here looking like that and expect me to behave?”

“i like it,” you manage to say.

he smirks. “of course you do.” 

his hands slide down slow, fingers splaying wide as they skim the sides of your thighs, tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing it. and then they’re under your ass, lifting you just enough so he can shift your panties to the side, fingers brushing over where you’re wet and aching. he whistles low, mouth curling into a grin. “fuck,” he mutters. “you really needed this, didn’t you?”

you let out a shaky breath, gripping his shoulders like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. your whole body jolts at the first real contact, the drag of his fingers through your folds, slow and sure, like he’s testing what you can handle. “so wet for me already,” he murmurs, circling your clit with maddening precision. “and i haven’t even done anything yet.”

he rubs slow circles with the heel of his palm, watching you squirm. your hips jerk instinctively, but his hands pin you down. he keeps you still, makes you feel every slow movement, every teasing glide. he’s not in a rush. you might be desperate, but he isn’t. not anymore. still, he slips a finger inside you, slow, deliberate, and your whole body tightens around him. he groans low in his throat.

“tight,” he mutters, adding a second finger without warning. “jesus. you’d fall apart if i fucked you right now.” you moan, breathless. “you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he says, curling his fingers just right. “after all that teasing.”

“yes—”

his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight, lazy circles as his fingers fuck into you deep and steady. you can’t breathe, can’t think, just clutch at him like you’re drowning. and then he leans in close, voice a growl against your ear. “you need someone to put you in your place,” he says. “you act like you’re in charge, but look at you now. look how easy it is to break you.”

your thighs tremble around his hips, pleasure building sharp and fast, overwhelming. “you like being handled like this, don’t you?” he asks again, his tone dark, laced with smug delight. 

“yes,” you gasp, hips twitching.

“of course you do,” he says. “you like being fucked slow. deep. with a hand on your throat so you remember who’s in charge.” his other hand slides up again, fingers wrapping gently around your neck and your whole body tenses in response. “you make everything so difficult,” he says. “all your mixed signals, all your little games. but this? this is simple. this is what you really wanted.”

your walls clench around his fingers as your body tips over the edge, sudden and hard and overwhelming. your mouth falls open in a moan you can’t stop, hips jerking despite the grip he has on you. he doesn’t let up. just keeps fucking you through it, watching your face the whole time.

“look at you,” he breathes. “so fucking pretty like this. i should’ve done this a long time ago.” your body’s shaking when he finally slows down. he pulls his fingers out and brings them to his lips, licking them clean like he’s tasting something expensive. “mm,” he says. “sweet.”

you stare at him, wrecked and speechless, still trying to remember how your lungs work. then he leans in, takes his fingers back to your clenching cunt again, his voice rough in your ear. “tell me how it feels.”

you grip his shoulders tighter, fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie. “it feels good.”

“how good?”

“i don’t know—fuck—soobin—”

he presses a little harder, the friction just right now, and your hips jerk again. “you like when i touch you here?” he asks, eyes locked on yours, no trace of softness in his voice.

“yes,” you breathe. “yes, i do.”

his fingers slide between your folds, slick and warm, and he lets out a low groan. “fuck,” he mutters again. “you’re soaked.” you whimper, forehead dropping to his shoulder. his fingers move with ease, finding your clit again and circling it with infuriating slowness.

“look at me,” he says. you lift your head, barely. your eyes meet his, and the intensity there nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. he curls his fingers inside you, hitting just the right spot, and you cry out before you can stop yourself. your hips grind down, chasing the pressure. “needy little thing,” he says, amused. “so much for being in control.”

you whimper again, half shame, half desperation. he’s relentless now, thrusting his fingers in and out while his thumb circles your clit, pushing you higher, closer. “soobin—”

“tell me you’re close.”

“i’m close,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.

he leans in again, lips ghosting over your ear. “then say please.” you hesitate, and his pace slows. “come on,” he murmurs. “you’ve been bossing me around for months. let me hear you beg.”

you’re shaking now, thighs trembling around him, every nerve on fire. “please,” you whisper.

“louder.”

“please, soobin—please don’t stop.”

his mouth curves into a grin, and he gives you exactly what you asked for. “good girl,” he says again, and this time, you fall apart in his fingers, and god, this feeling is smoothing, something you don’t remember feeling it before. 

you’re still in his lap, limbs loose, head buzzing, the movie’s looping on the laptop like background noise at a bad dream rave. his hand is parked on your waist—heavy but not pushing, more placeholder than threat—and you can’t decide if you’re melting into him or trying to keep from slipping clean off the planet.

he’s the one who breaks the hush. “you’re thinking again,” he says, voice low.

you don’t look at him. “i’m recovering.”

“that’s what i’m worried about.” his thumb taps a slow beat against your skin. “every time you start thinking, you talk yourself out of wanting me.”

you snort, tired and raw. “i literally just made a mess on your hand. i think the wanting part is confirmed.”

“for now,” he says. “in ten minutes you’ll start reciting the ‘i’m not that into guys’ speech again, and i’ll be back at square one.”

you lift your eyes, glare half-heartedly. “square one was me calling you pretty in a kitchen full of tequila fumes. i’d say we’ve upgraded.”

“fine,” he admits, lips twitching. “square two, then. still a demotion from where i’m sitting.”

you finally meet his gaze, and it is clear, unflinching, annoyingly perceptive, and something inside you trips. the room tilts a millimeter. because you realize he isn’t holding you tighter, he isn’t trying to start round two, he’s just… waiting.

the silence stretches. your brain tries to sprint off a cliff, but your body’s too heavy to follow. so you talk, because you can’t not. “i’m not gonna pretend i’m suddenly into guys again,” you say, words slurred around honesty. “and i’m definitely not in love with you, so don’t get weird.”

“bold of you to assume i want either,” he shoots back, all teeth.

you blink. “you don’t?”

“i like you messy,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “in love is boring. this—” he gestures to the tangle of limbs and shame you’re both stewing in— “this is entertaining.”

you should probably punch him. instead you laugh, breathless. “you are absolutely dirty.”

he smiles, small but real. “dirty keeps you on my lap, apparently.”

you roll your eyes, shift, realize he’s still hard beneath you and freeze. he notices, of course he does, and tilts his head, studying your face. “thinking again,” he murmurs.

“wondering,” you correct, voice thin.

“about?”

“if i should, um… help you?”

his brows lift. “help?” he echoes, amused. “sound mighty altruistic of you.”

“shut up,” you mutter, cheeks burning. “i’m new at this.”

“new at what?”

“wanting a guy enough to… you know.”

he hums, all fake contemplation. “we could have a symposium. ‘introduction to blowing choi soobin.’” you smack his chest; he laughs, catches your wrist, threads your fingers through his. the joke dissolves, but the warmth sticks. “we can slow down,” he says, quieter now. “or stop. or order pizza. i don’t care—just don’t ghost me.”

you stare at him, throat tight. “i don’t want to stop,” you whisper.

his thumb strokes the back of your hand. “good. then tell me how you want to start.”

the question hangs there, simple but also terrifying. your pulse trips a little faster. “kiss me again,” you answer, voice steadier than you feel. “but slow.”

“slow.” he nods, serious. “any further instructions, boss?”

“don’t call me boss,” you mutter.

“princess?” you glare. 

“soobin,” you warn.

his grin spreads, wolfish. “see? thinking stopped. progress.”

he leans in (slow, like requested) and kisses you softer than before, mouths parting, breath catching, no rush. your hands slide up into his hair, anchor there; his free hand cups the back of your neck, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. and when you finally pull back, you’re trembling again, but it’s a quieter shake.

his eyes search yours. “so?”

you laugh into his shoulder. “shut up and keep going.”

“sure,” he whispers, mouth brushing yours, “but remember—if you want more, you ask.”

you nod, firm. “i will. i promise.”

you don’t remember when his hands started moving again, but they’re under your hoodie again now. his mouth is still pressed against yours, but the kiss has changed. it’s deeper and slower. and he’s not letting you lead anymore. he tilts your chin up with one hand, holds you there like he’s adjusting the angle of something he owns. his other hand slides along your spine, dragging heat everywhere it touches.

his hands slide back down to your hips, pulling you toward him until you’re close enough to feel everything again. he shifts his leg just slightly between yours and applies the lightest pressure, forcing you to roll your hips against his thigh. your mouth falls open without meaning to.

“feels good?” he asks, low.

“yeah,” you whisper.

he hums, unimpressed. “what was that?”

“yes,” you say again, louder.

his hand moves to the back of your neck. not rough, just enough to hold you still. to keep you looking at him. “you’re gonna do what i say,” he says. “because you want to. not because i make you.” you nod. “say it.”

“i want to,” you whisper.

“you want what?”

“i want to do what you say.”

he smiles. “then take your hoodie off.”

your hands move before your brain catches up. you pull it over your head, toss it to the floor. your chest is rising and falling too fast, and he’s just sitting there, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.

his gaze drags over your body, slow and hungry, but he still doesn’t touch. instead, he leans back slightly and says, “take off your bra.”

your fingers fumble a little, but you do it. it joins the hoodie on the floor. he exhales like it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to. and then he looks you in the eyes again. your body’s humming, nerves and heat and need all tangled together. his hands slide up to cup your chest, thumbs brushing over your nipples, slow and deliberate. he watches every twitch of your face as he touches you.

“you like being told what to do?” he asks, voice low, dragging.

“yeah.”

he raises an eyebrow. “say it.”

“i like being told what to do.”

he kisses you slow one last time before pulling back. “then get off,” he says quietly.

you blink, breathless, already lightheaded. “what?”

he tilts his head. “off my lap. on your knees. on the ​​floor.”

you stare for half a second. then your body moves before your brain can argue. you climb off the bed and drop down onto the floor between his legs, palms pressing into the hardwood for balance. your knees hit the floor, and the air shifts.

he exhales like the sight alone is enough to wreck him. his legs spread wider, slow, deliberate, and he leans forward a little, one hand cupping the side of your face. his thumb drags along your cheek, down to your lip. “look at you,” he murmurs. “you ever been on your knees for a guy before?” you shake your head. he smiles. smirks, really. “good.”

his thumb presses against your bottom lip, slipping inside just slightly. your mouth parts for him on instinct. “open,” he says, and you do. he pushes his thumb in deeper, then pulls it out just as slow. “good girl.”

your breath stutters. he leans forward more, one elbow resting on his thigh as he looks down at you. “you’re doing so well for me. on your knees, waiting for what i give you. you don’t even know how pretty you look like this.” his other hand slides into your hair, not hard, but firm. guiding and steady. you can feel how calm he is—like this is just natural for him. like having someone kneeling between his legs is a position he was meant for. “hands behind your back,” he says.

you obey, slowly, feeling the shift in your own body when you do. your balance changes. your chest pushes forward slightly. your breath feels deeper and needier. he smiles. “you want to do something for me?”

“yes,” you whisper.

“then ask.” your throat tightens. he leans closer, almost nose-to-nose, his voice a quiet threat. “ask me what you want, baby.”

“can i…” your voice breaks. you swallow. “can i touch you?”

he leans back, sits up straight, eyes heavy on yours. “you want to touch me?”

“yes.”

“where?”

your cheeks burn. “your cock.”

his breath hitches. he doesn’t show much, but that gets him. a shift in his jaw. a slight flex of his thigh. “say it again.”

you breathe in. “i want to touch your cock.”

he smiles. “then take it out.”

you move carefully, your hands now free again, fingers working his waistband, slow and precise. you don’t rush. he watches you the entire time, like you’re a performance made just for him. and when you finally pull him out, hard and heavy in your palm, his breath leaves in one long, quiet exhale.

you look up, eyes wide. “now what?” you ask, voice barely there.

he smirks again, hand back in your hair. “first, you keep those pretty eyes on mine the entire time,” he says, voice low and dark. his hand tightens just slightly in your hair, not painful, just present. like a reminder: he’s the one leading. “start slow,” he says, voice steady. “get used to the way i feel in your hand.”

you swallow, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. he’s warm and heavy. hard enough to make your pulse spike just from the weight of him in your palm. you glance up. “like this?” you ask.

he nods once, but doesn’t say anything. just watches. the corner of his mouth lifts a little. proud, curious and patient. you start to stroke, slow and careful, your thumb brushing over the head like you’ve done this before—you did, but it’s different with him. he makes it feel deliberate, like every movement matters.

“good,” he murmurs. “tighter. don’t be scared.”

you adjust, hand squeezing a little more, sliding down and back up in a steady rhythm. you’re learning how he twitches, how his breath catches, how his thighs tense a little under your arms when you get the pressure right. he lets out a quiet groan.

“yeah. just like that,” he says, hand sliding to cradle the side of your face. his thumb traces your cheekbone. “you’re so fucking good at this, fuck—” you blush, ridiculous considering the situation, and he smirks. “you like hearing that?” he asks.

you nod. “yeah.”

he hums, thumb brushing your lips again. “then earn more of it.”

your hand speeds up slightly, bolder now. you’re watching him just as much as he’s watching you, studying every reaction. every flicker in his eyes, every tiny breath that tells you yes, this.

“spit on it,” he says suddenly, and your stomach flips. you glance up again. he looks right back, unblinking. “go ahead. don’t be shy.” you lean in, let spit fall from your lips, and he groans when it lands just right, messy and perfect. “fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, hips jerking slightly. “that mouth’s gonna ruin me.”

you stroke him again with your now-wet hand, and his jaw clenches. he leans forward, hand sliding back into your hair, this time with more grip.

“open your mouth,” he says. you do, lips parting obediently. he taps the tip of his cock against your tongue, slow, dragging it over your bottom lip, and you hold still, waiting, not rushing. letting him guide you. “don’t take me yet,” he says. “just taste.”

you lick him, slow and soft, and his eyes flutter half-closed. “again,” he says. his voice is lower now, strained. you lean forward more, lips wrapping around just the tip, sucking gently. “fuck,” he breathes, thumb brushing your cheek. “you keep looking at me like that and i’m gonna lose it.”

you moan softly around him, just enough to make him shudder. his hand tightens in your hair. “you want to keep going?” he asks. you nod, mouth still full, eyes wide. he groans again. “then you’re gonna take what i give you.”

and you do. you let him guide the rhythm, slow thrusts, shallow, letting you get used to the weight, the stretch. his grip is steady, voice low as he talks you through every inch. “you’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “look so fucking pretty on your knees like this. taking it like a good girl.”

you press your thighs together, pulse pounding in your ears. your whole body’s on fire, but you don’t stop. you keep your eyes on his. you let him control the pace. you listen. because nothing’s ever felt quite like this. he’s barely holding himself back now, his hips rolling deeper into your mouth, hand fisted in your hair, jaw clenched tight. your throat’s sore, your lips stretched, spit dripping from your chin, but you don’t stop. you don’t want to stop.

“fuck, that’s it,” he growls, voice sharp. “you like this, don’t you? like being used like this.”

you hum around him, and his whole body jolts. his other hand grips the edge of the bed like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. he’s panting now, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours as your head bobs with the rhythm he’s set.

“look at you,” he hisses. “so fucking obedient now. you’ll take anything i give you, won’t you?”

you nod, gagging just a little as he pushes deeper. his thumb brushes your cheek again, almost tender, but not soft. “shit, baby,” he groans. “just like that. don’t stop. don’t you fucking stop.” his breathing gets rougher. his thighs tense. his grip tightens. “you’re gonna take every fucking drop,” he says, voice low and wild. “don’t even think about pulling back.”

and when he comes, it’s with a broken, wrecked moan, his head falling back, his whole body shuddering. he holds you there, deep in your throat, as his cock pulses between your lips. you stay still. obedient. take every drop, exactly how he told you to. he pulls out slow, panting hard, watching you swallow every bit like it’s a reward.

“fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re dangerous.”

your legs are shaking, your body’s buzzing and your throat hurts. but your eyes are still on him. and he smiles.

he leans forward, grabs your arms, and pulls you off the floor like you weigh nothing. places you back in his lap, one hand still wrapped in your hair, the other gripping your thigh. his voice is calmer now, but darker.

“so?” he asks, breath still a little ragged. “you like praise better?”

you blink. “what?”

“you like when i call you a good girl?” he says, fingers brushing your jaw. “tell you how pretty you look on your knees?”

you nod, a little dazed. “yeah…”

his hand tightens suddenly on your thigh. “or do you like it more when i talk to you like a fucking toy?” your breath catches. his eyes narrow. “like when i say you’re only good for your mouth? that you were made to take cock and nothing else?” you gasp. your body tenses, and he sees the reaction instantly. his smirk spreads slow. “that’s what i thought,” he says.

your voice is barely a whisper. “i like both.”

he raises a brow. “yeah?”

you meet his gaze. “you can do whatever you want.”

his eyes darken completely. something in him shifts. he leans in close, voice like a promise against your skin. “you don’t know what you just agreed to.”

he hasn’t let go of you. your legs are thrown across his lap now, arms limp around his shoulders, your chest pressed to his. and still he’s got one hand curled around your jaw like he’s not done claiming it. he tilts your face up and studies you. not like you’re fragile, but like you’re fascinating.

he chuckles, meanly. “you look wrecked, baby. wrecked and all fucking mine.” his fingers trail down your neck, slow and soft. “you like when i say that?” he murmurs. “that you’re mine?”

you nod, small. “yeah.”

he kisses the edge of your jaw. “you like being good?”

“yes.”

he smirks against your skin. “but you also like when i treat you like a dumb little toy.” your whole body tenses. he chuckles again. “you fucking melt when i talk like that, huh?” he says. “wanna be praised and spat on in the same breath.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you. your face flushed, lips swollen, eyes wide and glassy. “fuck, you’re pretty when you don’t know what to do with yourself,” he says, almost admiring. “bet you don’t even know who you are when i touch you like this.”

his hand slides down your stomach—over the curve of your hip—back between your thighs, over your ruined underwear. you gasp and twitch. he grins. “yeah. that’s what i thought.” he presses just a little harder, fingers rubbing through the fabric. “still this wet for me? even after everything?”

you nod, biting your lip. he tsks, shaking his head. “you don’t learn, do you?”

you swallow, trembling. “i wanna be good.”

he chuckles. “you are. but you’re also a little desperate. greedy. filthy.” his fingers tug your panties to the side and slide against you again, slow, controlled, so light it makes you ache. “should i finger you again like this?” he says. “while you sit in my lap like a good girl? or should i bend you over and fuck the brat out of you?”

your breath catches in your throat. “or maybe i shouldn’t touch you at all,” he adds, tilting his head. “maybe you don’t get to come unless you beg.”

“soobin—”

he grabs your chin again, eyes sharp. “say it.”

you’re panting now. hot and flustered and completely under him. “please,” you whisper. he waits. “please touch me,” you say again, voice cracking. “please make me come.”

his smirk is slow. cruel. gorgeous. “that’s more like it.”he slides two fingers back inside you without warning, and your whole body jolts. “you’re gonna take everything i give you,” he murmurs. “and you’re gonna say thank you when you come.” your legs shake. your grip on his shirt tightens. “say it.”

“thank you,” you breathe.

he kisses you—filthy, fast—and then breaks away, breath hot against your mouth. “don’t come yet.”

he’s not moving fast. he’s not giving you what you want, not really. and that’s the point. he’s watching you, studying you, like he’s waiting for something specific. a crack. a shift. the moment where your body stops trying to lead and just listens. he leans back slightly, his fingers inside you don’t speed up, and they don’t slow down either. just deep enough to tease, never enough to let you lose yourself. he’s giving you nothing and everything at once.

he watches your face closely, eyes scanning your mouth, your eyebrows, the way your breath catches. you’re close, he knows it. he can feel the way your body tightens around him, the way your thighs shake just barely. you’re trying to hold back. trying not to move too much. it’s cute, in a way. respectful, obedient even. but he doesn’t want nice right now.

“you’re doing it again,” he says, voice low, calm.

your eyes flutter open, confused. “what?”

“holding it in,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your waist. “trying to be good in the wrong way.”

you blink, breath trembling. “i thought you wanted—”

he cuts you off with a quiet laugh, not mocking, just amused. “i want you to be good, yeah. but not quiet. not frozen. not careful.” his fingers slide deeper and you gasp, hips twitching. “good doesn’t mean silent.” he leans in, mouth near your ear. “if i wanted a doll, i’d buy one.”

your breath stutters. your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly, and that makes him smile. “there you go,” he murmurs. “there’s my girl.” he moves his fingers again, just a little faster now, just enough to make your whole body jerk. you bite your lip hard, trying not to cry out. “still fighting it?” he says. “you think i don’t notice how tight you’re clenching around my hand? you think i don’t feel how close you are?”

you shake your head, desperate. he pulls back slightly to look at you. “look at me.” you do, barely. your vision’s blurry, and your mouth’s open, and you’re so close it almost hurts. “you wanna come?” he asks, calm. direct.

“yes,” you breathe.

“you sure?” you nod. his voice drops lower. “you ready to say thank you when you do?”

you nod again, more frantically. he keeps his eyes on yours as his thumb finally finds your clit, rubbing slow circles while his fingers thrust deeper. your whole body reacts at once, tensing, jerking, then unraveling. 

“come for me,” he says, and you do.

it hits hard, sharp and blinding. your legs tremble. your fingers dig into his arms. your mouth opens but nothing comes out except broken gasps and a soft, choked sob. and through all of it, his hand doesn’t leave you. he works you through it, slow, steady, like he’s memorizing every second.

your body slumps against his chest. he holds you there for a moment, his hand still resting between your legs but not moving anymore. you’re breathing hard, face pressed into his shoulder. then his mouth finds your ear again. “thank me.”

you whisper it without thinking. “thank you.”

he exhales, satisfied. his fingers slip out of you, slow and careful. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean without breaking eye contact. you watch, dazed, and he grins. “good girl.”

he lifts you gently, shifts you until you’re straddling him again, your knees on either side of his hips, your body still shaky. his hands hold your waist firmly, steadying you like he knows you can’t do it on your own yet.

he tilts your chin up, and there’s something new in his eyes now—still dark, still dominant, but softer around the edges. like he’s trying to decide something. “you were made for this,” he says, quiet. “you know that, right?”

you swallow hard. “yeah.”

his thumb brushes your cheek, and then he leans back, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs like he’s just relaxing, like he’s not watching every single twitch in your body. you’re still on his lap, still catching your breath when he says, low and steady, “get on.”

you look at him, confused, dazed. “what?”

he grabs your hips, drags you forward slightly, then leans in just enough for you to feel his breath on your jaw. “you like being on top, right?” he says, voice calm but full of something sharper underneath. “so ride me.”

your heart stutters. your thighs are still shaking. he knows.

“go ahead,” he says. “show me how good you are.”

you shift back slowly, thighs trembling, one hand steadying yourself on his chest while the other wraps around his cock. he’s already hard again—how is he already this hard?—and thick in your palm, warm and heavy. you hold him there, just under the tip, as you line yourself up, and for a second, you hesitate.

you bite your lip. your body’s still sensitive, your legs sore, your mind fogged, and there’s a pressure building low in your stomach that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the way your heart starts to race. it’s been a long time since you let a guy inside you. since you even wanted to. and even now, it feels foreign. like your body’s remembering something it forgot on purpose.

but you want this. you want him. so you press down slowly, barely taking the tip, and your breath catches in your throat. he doesn’t say anything, just watches. his hands resting on your hips, not moving, not pushing. but he’s tense and alert. like he knows you’re struggling and he’s waiting to see how far you’ll go on your own.

you lower yourself more, inch by inch, and the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut. it burns. not unbearable, but tight, too tight. your thighs start to tremble harder, and your fingers dig into his shoulders for balance. his grip on your hips tightens.

“breathe,” he says, calm. “take your time.”

you nod, shaky, and try to relax. you ease down another inch, and your whole body reacts—hips twitching, core clenching, thighs starting to cramp. it’s too much all at once, and not enough at the same time.

he exhales slow, voice lower now. “you’re doing good. keep going.”

you swallow hard. “fuck, i—”

he cuts you off gently, one hand lifting to brush your hair from your face. “don’t stop now. you wanted to ride my cock, right? prove you can take it.”

you whimper, breath catching again, and finally sink lower, slowly taking more of him. your legs feel weak. your cunt clenches tight around him, and the stretch still burns, but underneath it, there’s something else. a pulse. a heat that starts to take over the discomfort.

he groans quietly, his jaw tense. “shit. you’re so tight.” you press your forehead to his collarbone, trying to stay steady. “don’t hide,” he says. “let me see you.” you lift your head, barely, and his eyes lock on yours. “good girl,” he mutters. “you’re almost there. just a little more.”

you shift again, forcing your hips down further, until you’re fully seated in his lap. he groans, deep and low, his fingers pressing harder into your skin. “fuck. there you go.”

you’re breathing hard, thighs trembling, everything inside you stretched to its limit. “hurts?” he asks. you shake your head. he smiles, not sweet. “good.” you glare at him, but there’s no strength behind it. “you’ll get used to it,” he says, voice low. you sink down slow, body trembling, and his grip tightens on your hips. “that’s it,” he mutters. “fuck—look at you.”

you start to move, unsure at first. he lets you find your rhythm, lets you work for it, but his hands don’t leave you. he keeps you steady, fingers digging into your waist. his eyes never leave your face.

“you like being in charge?” he says, breath rougher now. “then don’t fucking slow down.” you moan softly, trying to keep the pace, but your legs are tired, your body already wrecked. your movements falter, and he notices immediately. “what’s wrong?” he says, lips curling. “getting tired already? thought you liked being on top.”

you try to keep going, bouncing slow, your hands braced on his chest.

“keep your eyes on me,” he says. you do, barely, and he grins when he sees the look in your face. “you’re falling apart,” he murmurs. “and you’ve barely done anything.” 

he doesn’t slow down. he grabs your chin again, makes you look at him. “ride me like you mean it,” he snaps, thrusting up into you suddenly, making your whole body jolt.

“fuck, soobin—”

“no. don’t whine. you wanted this. show me.” you try. you move your hips, faster this time, trying to match him. he watches you closely, hands on your ass now, guiding your movement, controlling the depth. “that’s better,” he says. “now you’re working for it.”

you gasp, leaning forward, forehead on his shoulder. he grabs your hair and pulls your head back up. “no hiding. i wanna see you struggle.” your thighs are shaking so hard it’s hard to keep the rhythm. your breathing’s uneven, your nails digging into his arms. “you can take it,” he says, voice lower now, almost gentle. “i know you can. you’re my good girl, remember?”

you moan again, louder, and he smiles. “there she is,” he murmurs. “knew you’d come back to me.” your hips stutter again, and he slaps your ass once, not hard, just firm enough to make you move. “don’t stop until i say,” he says. “and if you come first, you’re doing it with my name in your mouth.”

your fingers grip his shoulders harder, your thighs are burning now, trembling with effort, but you force yourself to keep going. up, down, again. you’re trying to stay focused, but the stretch of him inside you, the heat building low in your stomach, the pressure of his hands guiding you—it’s all too much, and not enough at once.

he watches you the whole time, eyes fixed on your face. you can’t hide anything from him like this. not the way your brows pinch together, not the way your mouth keeps falling open with each bounce, not the quiet, broken sounds that slip out no matter how hard you try to hold them in. 

“you wanted this,” he reminds you, calm. you nod, desperate, hips moving faster now, sloppy and uneven but still trying. he lets you ride him, lets you feel like you’re in control, just for a second, until he shifts beneath you and fucks up into you hard, once, and your whole body folds forward with a gasp. “thought so,” he mutters.

your forehead falls against his collarbone, and he pulls your hair, tilting your face up again. “no hiding.” his mouth brushes yours, not quite a kiss. “you look like you’re gonna cry.”

“i’m not,” you breathe, though your voice is shaking.

“you will if i tell you not to come yet,” he says, like it’s just a thought. you whimper. his hand moves from your hip to your throat, loose but solid, just enough to hold you still. “you like this?” he asks. “being used like this?” you nod quickly, eyes fluttering shut. “don’t lie.”

“i’m not.”

he leans in, lips by your ear again. “you gonna come for me?”

“yes.”

“say my name.” you pause, too close to think. “say it.”

“soobin…”

he groans, deep and low, and that’s all it takes for his rhythm to break. he grabs your waist hard and starts fucking up into you, fast now, with purpose, like he’s chasing the end and dragging you there with him. “come on,” he mutters. “come for me. make it count.”

you do. your whole body shudders, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent moan. everything inside you pulls tight and snaps all at once, and you collapse against him, shaking. he holds you through it, breath heavy against your ear, his arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s trying to keep you from slipping through his fingers.

then he moves. he lifts you off him slowly, carefully, lays you down on the bed like you weigh nothing. you’re still catching your breath, blinking at the ceiling, when you feel the mattress dip again and his weight settles beside you. his fingers slide down your stomach, soft now, slow. “you like praise,” he says, almost casual. “but i think you like it more when i’m mean.”

you glance at him, lips parted. he leans in close. “so tell me, baby,” he murmurs. “you want me to ruin you with my mouth or just make you cry again first?”

“i can’t,” you breathe, voice shaky. “i can’t take it anymore.”

he tilts his head, like he’s not sure he heard you right. his hands are already back on your thighs, spreading them open again, his body moving lower, slower, like this is nothing for him. like he’s just getting started. “can’t?” he repeats, tone light, mocking. “you sure, baby?”

you swallow hard, legs twitching under his grip. he presses his mouth to your inner thigh, kissing slow, warm, soft, too soft. like he’s pretending to be sweet again. and it only makes the tension worse. “you looked so fucking confident riding my cock,” he murmurs, right against your skin. “and now you’re what? tapped out?” you shake your head weakly, but he keeps going, lips trailing higher, breath hotter. “you want me to stop?” he asks, voice low.

“no.”

“then don’t say can’t,” he says, and bites down on the inside of your thigh, sharp enough to make your hips jerk. “say please.” your breath catches. “say it.”

“please,” you whisper, barely audible.

he smiles against your skin. “thought so.”

he kisses higher, right between your legs now, and you gasp when his mouth finally finds you again, tongue slow, deliberate, dragging over your sensitive skin with zero mercy. you’re already overstimulated, every nerve lit up and shaking, but he doesn’t stop. he knows you’re right there again, and that’s exactly what he wants.

“you’ve teased me for weeks,” he says, voice muffled against you. “walking around in those tiny fucking shorts. sitting on my lap like it’s nothing. saying shit like ‘you’re my favorite boy’ with that little smirk on your face.” you whine, twisting under him, but he holds your hips down with one arm and licks a slow circle around your clit without touching it directly. “you think i didn’t notice? think i didn’t see you bite your lip every time i looked at you too long?”

you’re panting now, legs trembling again. “and now you wanna act all shy?” he scoffs. “now you can’t take it?” his mouth finally closes around your clit, sucking slow and deep, and your hips buck hard, but he doesn’t stop. “you can take more,” he mutters. your fingers find his hair, tugging, trying to anchor yourself to something while your body starts to come undone all over again. “i’ll be gentle,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, mouth wet, eyes dark. “but only if you fucking ask.”

you stare down at him, dazed, lips parted. “go on,” he says. “ask for it.”

“please,” you gasp, voice breaking. “please, soobin—be gentle.”

he grins against your skin, slow and cruel. not because he wants to be mean. because he can. because you gave him permission. “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “knew you could ask nicely.”

then he moves again, mouth right where you need him, tongue flat and slow against your clit this time, no teasing now. just heat, rhythm, and pressure. your hands grab at his hair, your back arching off the bed, and he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even pause. “fuck, you’re so wet like this,” he says, voice low, fingers gripping your thighs to keep you wide open. you moan, louder now, hips trying to move against his face, chasing the rhythm. “good girl,” he mutters. “you want to come for me like this?”

“yes—yes, please—”

“then keep your legs open.”

you do. you try. your whole body’s tight, burning, desperate. he knows exactly how to keep you right there, his tongue curling just right, lips pressing just enough, his hand slipping lower, fingers teasing your entrance without going in. “you close?” he asks, voice rough and muffed now. 

you nod frantically. “so close—please don’t stop—”

he groans into you, and the vibration alone almost pushes you over the edge. his fingers finally slip inside, two of them, smooth and deep, curling just right, and that’s it. you fall apart.

your whole body spasms, legs trembling violently, a loud moan breaking from your throat as you come hard, everything clenching tight around his fingers. your vision goes white for a second, and you barely register the way he keeps going, slow now, helping you ride it out, dragging every last wave out of you until you collapse into the sheets, twitching and breathless.

he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawling up over you, eyes dark and satisfied. “you’re so fucking hot like this,” he says, voice low. “all soft. all mine.” you can’t even speak yet. your chest rises and falls, skin flushed, lips parted. he leans down. “now,” he says, tone shifting—less gentle, more commanding again. “turn over.”

you don’t speak. you just move. your body shifts slowly, limbs still weak, and you roll onto your stomach like he asked, like he told you to. your face sinks into the pillow, and you feel his eyes on your back. you know what he sees: the curve of your spine, the way your legs part instinctively, the way you arch your back so he sees your ass available for him to take it. you hear him exhale, sharp through his nose. a pause, then the bed dips as he moves behind you, knees spreading yours a little more, hands running down your back with purpose, not care. he doesn’t soothe. he positions.

soobin stays still at first, taking his time. watching how you lay there for him, waiting. looking how your shoulders tense like you don’t know what’s coming next, but you want to. he likes that. he likes that a lot.

his hands drag down your back, not to comfort, but to arrange. he touches you like he’s correcting something. a tool out of place. a painting hung crooked. “lower,” he says. you sink deeper into the mattress. his palm lands between your shoulder blades, keeping you there. “stay.”

then nothing. just the weight of his hand. the silence. he takes a deep breath. “you have any idea how long i’ve waited for this?”

you don’t answer. he leans down, lips barely brushing your ear. “how many times i pictured you just like this?” his voice is calm, almost bored. “on all fours for me,” he mutters. “but you talk too much. always making jokes. always pretending like you’re not dying for me to shut you up.” his fingers slide down your side, pausing at your hip. “you don’t get to pretend now.” his grip tightens. “so stop fidgeting.” he forces your hips up, adjusts the angle himself like your body’s just another thing to be handled. “just like that,” he says. “good girl.”

he doesn’t rush. doesn’t say more than he needs to. because he knows you’re listening to every breath, every word, every shift in tone. and when his cock teases your cunt and he watches the way your body twitches. the way you don’t stop him. “still so sensitive,” he mutters. “but you’ll take it.” he presses slow, watching you squirm, watching you try to be still. “don’t you dare move.” you breathe out hard. he can hear it. feel it. “that’s what i thought.”

he pushes deeper. drags it out. makes sure you feel every second of it. then he leans back, sitting tall behind you, hands steady on your waist. this isn’t about what you want. not anymore. so he aligns his cock with your drooling entrance again, and smacks his hand in your ass, and you whimper, a whiny whimper. he chuckles, low and provocative. “you’re not gonna come until i say,” he says. “and if you do, i’ll edge you ‘til you cry.”

you whimper into the pillow. “but if you listen?” he continues. “i’ll let you come so hard you forget your own name.” he rolls his hips forward, just once, just enough to make you scream. his cock makes you feel so full already, especially in that position. your legs shake. “choice is yours. not mine,” he adds. “yours.”

he pauses again. then pulls back, only to snap his hips forward harder this time, controlled and deep. again. again. his pace isn’t rushed. it’s mean. efficient. every thrust timed with precision. he watches your hands claw at the sheets. hears the sounds you’re trying to hold back, and it makes him smile. “you were so sure you didn’t like boys,” he mutters. “but look at you now.” another thrust, harder. “fucked out like a bitch.”

his hand slides to your throat from behind again, just resting there. “you’re mine tonight,” he says. “say it.” 

“i’m yours,” you whisper.

he grins. “louder.”

“i’m yours, soobin! please!” you choke out.

his grip tightens, choking slightly, just containing you, grounding you to the moment. then he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “yes, yes,” he says. “you are fucking mine.”

if anything, now that you’ve said it—i’m yours—he settles deeper into it, into you. into the full weight of what it means to have you like this: pliant, spread out, quiet except for the sounds you can’t hold back. it’s not just about the physical now. it’s the power. the permission. and he’s going to stretch it as far as it can go.

his hands stay locked on your hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist as he fucks into you slow and heavy, no urgency in his pace, just control. all of it his. he watches your shoulders tighten with each movement, the way your back arches when it’s too much, the way your face twists into the sheets to muffle sounds you don’t want him to hear. he hears them anyway. he loves them.

your hand reaches for the pillow, gripping tight, but you don’t fight him. you don’t even ask him to slow down. he leans over you again, pressing down on your back with one hand to keep you steady, his chest brushing your spine. his breath fans hot against your shoulder as his hips drive into yours again, firmer now, drawing a helpless cry from your throat.

“you gonna keep taking it like this?” he asks, not because he needs permission, but because he wants to hear the sound of you begging again. “or you gonna fall apart like a little brat who talked too much?” your fingers dig into the mattress. “go ahead,” he mutters, almost laughing. “prove me wrong.”

you let out a shaky breath, half a moan, half something broken. he sits back up, dragging you with him by your hips, making you meet each thrust head-on. he doesn’t slow. he doesn’t give. he stays steady and mean, dragging it out just enough to feel cruel. “you wanted to be in charge, right?” he says. “whatever you tell your little girlfriends.”

he leans in again, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back just slightly. “but you came crawling to me. let me put you on your knees. let me fuck you like this.” he pauses, breath heavy. “so which one is it, baby?” he murmurs. “you like being in charge? or you like being ruined?”

you try to answer, but all that comes out is a moan. his grip in your hair tightens just a little. “nah. use your words.”

you manage to whisper, barely audible: “i like it—like this.”

he smirks. “i know you do.”

he lets go of your hair, both hands dropping back to your waist as his movements grow rougher, rhythm sharper now, like he’s chasing something but refusing to let either of you reach it until he decides. you feel your body tighten again, another orgasm building fast, threatening to take over, but you remember what he said earlier. not until he says.

you try to hold it. try to breathe through it. but your legs are trembling, hands fisted in the sheets, and he’s relentless now. he notices. he always notices. “you close again?” he asks. “tsk tsk… already?”

you nod desperately. he chuckles under his breath, dark and satisfied. “don’t come yet.” you whine, legs shaking harder. “nope. not yet,” he says again, slower this time. “you want it? then beg.”

you gasp. “please, soobin—i—i need it—”

“yeah?” he says, still moving, still holding you right on that edge. “wanna cream my cock again?”

“yes—please—”

“beg harder, angel.”

“please—please, i need it, i need you—”

he groans deep in his throat, and finally, finally, his hands shift, his pace changes, more erratic now, more brutal, like he’s losing his own control right along with you. “come for me,” he growls. “right fucking now.”

and you do, loud and raw and completely undone. your whole body tightens and shakes beneath him, and he doesn’t stop. doesn’t give you time to catch your breath. he fucks you through it, eyes locked on the way you break for him. his name’s the only thing that comes out of your mouth.

he follows seconds later, a sharp curse escaping him as he buries in your cunt deep and stills, hands gripping so tight they’ll leave marks on your hips. he breathes through it, shaky and harsh, chest heaving, body pressed to yours like he needs the contact just as much as he needs the release.

the room is silent for a beat. just the sound of two people wrecked and catching up to themselves. finally, he leans down again, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and murmurs against your skin—

“you really don’t hate boys, do you?”

you let out a laugh, a real one. exhausted and a little horrified. “don’t start.”

“no, i’m serious,” he grins, turning his head toward you, as you switch your body, turning around to face him. “i feel like i just contributed something meaningful to your sexual awakening.”

“that’s… such a weird sentence to say out loud.”

“yeah, well. you’re the one who was like, ‘i’m not into guys’ and then came on my cock like, what? four times or something?”

you groan and cover your face with your hands. “i hate you.”

“you’re literally still shaking.”

“shut up.”

he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t. instead, he sits on the edge of the bed right next to you, and his fingers start tracing light, absent-minded patterns along your spine, featherlight, soothing, almost tender. it’s stupid, really, how soft he is now, after everything. after the way he touched you, took you, like he had no intention of being gentle.

and yet here he is, brushing his fingertips over your back like you might break. and you hate how much you like it. how easily it melts something inside you. because it’s not just the touch — it’s him. the contradiction of him. soobin, with his filthy mouth and his gentle hands.

“listen,” he says, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone, he stretches his arms behind his head, still catching his breath like nothing monumental just happened. and then, in that same too-casual voice, he says, “if you ever feel like exploring your… curiosity more, you know, about your preferences or whatever…” you glance over at him, one eyebrow raised. his expression doesn’t change, except for the little shrug he gives, half amused, half dead serious. “i’m available for educational purposes.”

you exhale, slow and disbelieving. “you’re such an asshole.”

“maybe.” he turns his head toward you, gaze dragging over your bare shoulders, his mouth twitching. “but look where it got me.”

you shake your head, but you don’t move away. you don’t slap his arm or tell him to shut up again. instead, you let your knee knock against his, your breath finally starting to feel like your own again. the air shifts between you, not heavy or awkward like you thought it might be. just… different. charged, maybe. softer around the edges. there’s a quiet comfort in it now that you hadn’t expected.

minutes pass, the movie already ended, the blood-streaked screen frozen in place. then your voice breaks through, low and almost thoughtful. “do you think they survived?”

soobin blinks. “who?”

“the girls,” you say, nodding toward the laptop. slumber party massacre, paused on a cheap shot of cleavage and red corn syrup. “from the movie.”

he tilts his head, gives it a second of actual thought. “nah. they’re all dead. definitely.”

you hum in agreement, a small smile playing at your lips. “yeah. figured.”

there’s another beat of silence, and then he says, “but you would’ve made it.” you look at him, unsure what he means. he keeps going. “you’ve got final girl energy. like… the type who doesn’t run upstairs. the type who waits. watches. stabs the killer with his own weapon.”

you laugh under your breath. “i feel like that’s a lot to project onto me.”

he shrugs. “or maybe you’d flirt with the murderer and confuse the shit out of him until he gave up.”

you grin. “there it is.”

he smirks. “i’d be the dumb hot one who dies first.”

“you are the dumb hot one.”

“thank you for seeing me.”

it shouldn’t feel like relief, this moment. but it does. like something that could’ve broken just… didn’t. like maybe it bent a little, stretched out of shape, but held. and somehow, you’re both still here—naked, slightly dazed, watching a bad slasher movie with blood on the screen and probably some still on your thighs.

you peek at him again. he’s looking at you like he never stopped. “you okay?” he asks, voice quieter now.

you nod. “yeah. i’m good.”

his hand finds your knee again, thumb brushing idly across the bone. it’s casual. but it’s not. you let your head fall onto his shoulder, stare at the screen without really seeing it. plastic knife. overexposed skin. predictable death.

and next to you, soobin. the same soobin who still uses three-in-one shampoo and forgets to charge his phone. the same boy who always lets you pick the movie. who saves you the middle seat on the couch. who carries your bag when you complain and never says anything about it. the same boy you trusted enough to call when your heart was broken. the same one you teased too much and touched too often and didn’t admit you wanted until now.

maybe you were never that into guys. but soobin never felt like just a guy. he felt like a constant, a question mark that stayed open too long. and now, with his hand on your leg and that dumb horror movie frozen in front of you, it finally clicks:

maybe you were never into boys. but you were always, always into him.

Each of the five hosts attracts guests with their own distinct type, all of which are widely loved for their different appeal.

CHOI YEONJUN ! The ‘prince charming’ type

With his good looks, princely charm, and flamboyancy, Yeonjun is the most popular member of the host club, with a 70% request rate. His rose's color is white and his representative animal is a fox. Choi yeonjun was the one to create the club, his family plays a significant role in funding the university, hence why he is able to get away with having such a club. He personally recruited all of the other members and the club is something he values more than anything. A fashion major, Choi yeonjun is the heir to a global luxury fashion house. He also excitedly designs and creates many of the costumes for the host club events and members. He is the most flirty member and does the most fanservice.

CHOI SOOBIN ! The ‘gentle leader’ type

As the club’s president, Choi soobin is known for his calm authority and soft spoken nature. He is very polite and known to be very gentlemanly. His family is also the richest, with very old money and an aristocratic lineage. Despite this, he remains humble and approachable. His rose’s colour is pink and his representative animal is a bunny. Guests love him for his soft posh boy vibes, often wearing fake glasses as he knows guests love it, leaning into this image. His soft nurturing nature as the leader earned him the club’s unofficial title of the ‘mum’, whilst yeonjun is referred to as the ‘dad’ - a contrasting dynamic guests really seem to like. He also studies English literature. Guests ask soobin to create bullshit poetry for them, which they fawn over. Despite being an English lit student, poetry is not one of his strong suits.

CHOI BEOMGYU ! The ‘emo rockstar’ type

He is very brooding and emo, known for his mysterious nature which, unsurprisingly gains him a lot of attention from guests. With his messy wolfcut, guitar, and multiple facial piercings, he leans into a rockstar aesthetic that many find appealing. It is a role that sells. His roses’s colour is red and his representative animal is a bear. Unlike the other members, he is also secretly on a scholarship and does not come from an esteemed or wealthy family. He has his issues with the club, but it pays well and he does love his members. He remains deeply attached to the club and still enjoys being a host. Choi beomgyu studies music. Seems to always be tired and sleeping due to balancing his studies and being a host club member.

HUENING KAI ! The ‘cute angel’ type

Often referred to as ‘Honey Kai’, a nickname guests who favour him use fondly. Kai is known for his bright, sweet, sunshine personality and his sweet tooth. His cheerful energy and soft, approachable nature makes him especially popular with those drawn to the cute type. He loves plushies and collecting them, particularly penguins and is almost never seen without one. Guests frequently gift him penguin plushies, to the point where he now just has two rooms filled entirely with them. His roses’s colour is yellow and his representative animal is a penguin. His family owns hotel and resort chains. Kai studies music alongside beomgyu. Occasionally, beomgyu and kai will produce background music for events together.

KANG TAEHYUN ! The ‘cool intelligent’ type

Kang taehyun is known for his cold and unemotional resolve. He is highly intelligent and academically driven, taehyun is the treasurer of the club. While soobin and yeonjun handle overall planning, taehyun oversees the numbers and tracks profits, keeping track of who performs best and what brings in the most revenue. He claims to only be involved for the experience and connections it offers, treating the club more like a strategic investment. His rose’s colour is blue and his representative animal is a squirrel. Though, many guests argue he is more of a cat. Despite all of this, taehyun is known to have a soft spot for kai, who is his best friend. Their dynamic is also especially popular. Kang taehyun studies finance and comes from a family involved in finance and brokerage. He also workouts the most and is popular for his good shape and muscles.

RELEASE DATE: TBA

COMMENT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST !

A/n: this probably won’t be out until around June since I have exams lol but I wanted to post a teaser since it was fun to make and to see the reception !! This series is going to be a mini series and will probably have 5 parts for each member. Also don’t get your hopes up LMAOO each chapter probably won’t be too long and will sort of be like oneshot smuts with each member. I do have rough ideas for each member now but this is still probably not going to be plot heavy or super cohesive loll

Also tell me which character has caught your eye so far based on the profiles in the comments I’m very curious hehe…which host would you be requesting for?