#met them twice now and this is like really not working for me.... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heejamas · 3 months ago

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WAITING ROOM ──★ ˙

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: heeseung x fem!reader ... ﹒ friends to lovers, fluff ... ﹒ w/c: 21k synopsis: for three years, you and heeseung have hovered between friendship and something more—stolen glances, late-night car rides, hands brushing under tables. but when the waiting finally ends, you realize you were never just friends to begin with. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: smut, mdni! explicit sexual content, petnames, unprotected sex (dont do it!!!!) not proofread 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: waiting room - phoebe bridgers

Three years ago, you met Heeseung at a Halloween party. And, in a way, he never really left.

You remember the night in sharp, neon clarity, the kind that only exists in memories warped by time and too many cheap drinks. The bass of the music was rattling against the walls, distorting into something unrecognizable by the time it reached your ears. The air was thick, humid with the breath of a hundred strangers crammed into an apartment too small to hold them. It smelled like spilled alcohol, synthetic fog from a cheap smoke machine, and the faintest trace of cinnamon, probably from some idiot who thought Fireball was a good idea.

You were standing in the kitchen, gripping a plastic cup half-full of something blue and questionably sweet, when you felt it. The warmth of someone moving too close. The press of a shoulder against yours. And then—disaster.

A smear of green, across your arm, your ribs, your stomach.

You stared at it, confused. It looked like paint. Wet, sticky, and clinging to the fabric of your skeleton costume like it belonged there. You blinked once, twice, before dragging your gaze upward, locking eyes with the culprit.

“Oh, shit.”

He was green. No, really, he was covered in it, from his jawline to his collarbone, down his arms, streaked across his hands. He was, in fact, one of the Ninja Turtles.

“Are you radioactive?” you asked, because that felt like a genuine concern at this point.

Heeseung—though you didn’t know his name yet—blinked at you, then looked down at his own arm as if just realizing that, yeah, maybe painting his entire body for a costume wasn’t the best idea. “I, uh—fuck, I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think what?” you repeated, glancing down at your once-pristine skeleton costume. “That maybe body paint takes a while to dry?”

“No, see, I thought it was dry. I waited, like, an hour before putting the costume on.” He sounded both defensive and regretful, like someone who had just now realized the full extent of their mistake.

You sighed, poking at the stain. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially made me the first skeleton in history to die of green slime exposure.”

He let out a breath of laughter, then scratched the back of his neck—a habit you’d later come to recognize as his go-to nervous tic. “On the bright side… at least now you match me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

A slow grin spread across his face, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And he did.

That was the beginning of it, you suppose. A stupid mistake, an even stupider conversation, and a boy painted green who somehow managed to wedge himself into your life like he belonged there. You didn’t know then that he’d become your best friend. That in three years, you’d be sitting next to him in a car at two in the morning, singing along to songs you didn't really know. That you’d learn the exact way he liked his coffee, the rhythm of his breath when he fell asleep next to you on your couch, the way he always looked at you like he was on the verge of saying something important but never quite did.

No, back then, all you knew was that he was an idiot. And that, somehow, against all odds—you kind of liked him anyway. But you and Heeseung became friends by accident.

It wasn’t an immediate thing, not like some cosmic force snapped its fingers and tied the two of you together. No, it was slower than that, more like a series of small collisions, a gradual intertwining of orbits. And most of it had to do with Yunjin.

You and Yunjin had been friends since the beginning of college. One of those friendships that happens fast, like flipping a switch. One day, you were just two people forced into the same group project, and the next, you were sneaking snacks into late-night study sessions, texting each other memes at 3 a.m., and laughing until your stomach hurt over things that weren’t even that funny. She was the kind of person you felt like you had known forever, even though it had only been a few years.

But somehow, despite all that time, you had never actually registered who she lived with. You knew she had a roommate—she’d mentioned him in passing a few times, usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh or an eye roll—but you had never put much thought into it. The guy could’ve been a faceless NPC for all you cared. Just a background character in the world of Yunjin’s apartment. Until one fateful Tuesday afternoon.

You had gone over to Yunjin’s place to work on a mind-numbing, soul-draining research paper, and the two of you were sitting cross-legged on her living room floor. The atmosphere was calm, quiet—at least, until the front door swung open with the force of someone dramatically entering a scene in a sitcom.

“YUNJIN,” a voice rang through the apartment, loud and excited. “I JUST BOUGHT ZELDA: BREATH OF THE WILD. I NEED TO PLAY IT IMMEDIATELY.”

You barely had time to process before the source of the chaos came bounding into the room. A guy, slightly breathless from what must have been a very passionate journey home, clutching a Nintendo Switch game case like it was the most important thing in the world.

And he was green.

Well, not literally—he wasn’t still covered in body paint—but your brain made the connection instantly. The excitement, the unfiltered enthusiasm, the slight air of someone who had been making questionable life decisions since birth.

It clicked.

“Oh my god,” you blurted. “You’re the Ninja Turtle guy.”

Heeseung froze mid-step, eyes flickering to you like he was only now realizing there was another person in the room. For a second, he just stared, lips parted in muted shock, like you had just caught him committing a crime.

Then, in a tone that was both confused and slightly mortified, he said, “Oh. Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”

You squinted at him, taking in the full picture—the messy hair, the slightly wrinkled hoodie, the expression of someone who had absolutely not been expecting to relive his Halloween mistakes today. Then, you turned to Yunjin.

“You live with the Ninja Turtle guy?”

Yunjin, who had been watching this interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, grinned. “I guess.”

Heeseung cleared his throat, regaining some of his composure. “For the record, my name is Heeseung.”

“Really?” you said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name was Donatello”

He looked mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” you said, gesturing vaguely, “I feel like I at least deserve to know which turtle was responsible for my suffering. I thought it was Donatello.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes but played along. “Leonardo. Sunghoon was Raphael, Beomgyu was Michelangelo, and Jake was Donatello.”

You considered this for a second, then turned back to Yunjin. “I can’t believe you live with Leonardo.”

Yunjin, deadpan, replied, “Trust me, I can’t either.”

And that was the second collision.

You didn’t know it then, but this was how it would always be with Heeseung—dramatic entrances, loud declarations, and an energy that burst into the room like an unexpected firework. You had met him twice now, and both times, he had been the human embodiment of chaos. But for some reason, that chaos felt a little less like a background character now. And after that day, Heeseung stopped being just Yunjin’s roommate.

You started seeing him everywhere. Not because you were seeking him out—not at first, anyway—but because he had a tendency to appear in your life like some kind of recurring side character in a sitcom. You’d be minding your own business in Yunjin’s apartment, and he’d burst through the door, ranting about how someone stole his favorite study spot in the library. You’d go to grab coffee before class, and there he’d be, dramatically arguing with the barista about why oat milk was a scam. He just kept showing up, like the universe had decided that, for better or worse, he was part of your story now.

And then, you found out you had a class together. It wasn’t a real class. Not in the sense that it required effort or critical thinking. It was one of those ridiculous elective courses that the university offered purely to fill up credit requirements—something slapped onto the catalog as an afterthought, designed for students who were too lazy or too exhausted to take anything serious.

You had signed up for it without even reading the description, choosing it solely because it fit into your schedule and had a reputation for being an easy A. Heeseung, apparently, had done the same.

That was how the two of you ended up in "The Philosophy of Memes and Internet Culture."

The class was exactly as stupid as it sounded. The professor was a guy in his late 40s who still said things like “epic fail” unironically. The syllabus included assignments like “analyzing the impact of Vine on modern humor” and “writing a 500-word essay on the evolution of the Rickroll.” It was the kind of class that could only exist in a university desperate to appear progressive and relevant, and you were 90% sure the school administration had no idea it was happening.

It was, in short, the best class either of you had ever taken.

You and Heeseung immediately became the worst students in the room. Not because you weren’t paying attention, but because you were paying attention too much—finding everything so absurdly hilarious that neither of you could take it seriously. Every lecture felt like a fever dream. Every assignment was an excuse to see how much nonsense you could get away with before the professor caught on.

And then, of course, came the group project. It was a simple assignment: pick a meme, trace its origins, and present its cultural impact. Most people chose something predictable—Doge, Grumpy Cat, Distracted Boyfriend.

You and Heeseung, however, chose Shrek. More specifically, you chose Shrek’s cultural legacy as an ironic meme figure.

It was supposed to be a joke. A way to entertain yourselves in a class that was already ridiculous. But the further you got into your research, the more serious it became.

Somewhere along the way, you and Heeseung stopped just pretending to care and actually started caring. You spent hours deep-diving into obscure Shrek forums, analyzing the rise of “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” discourse, debating whether or not the character’s internet resurgence was fueled by genuine appreciation or detached irony. You became scholars of the Shrek Renaissance.

The night before your presentation, you were in Yunjin’s apartment, sitting on the floor with your laptops open, surrounded by a mess of half-empty snack bags and unfinished slides. The clock blinked 2:37 AM, and neither of you had any business still being awake.

Heeseung was slouched against the couch, staring at his screen with the expression of a man who had seen too much. “I think I know too much about Shrek,” he said, voice hollow.

You let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yeah. We flew too close to the sun on this one.” There was a beat of silence.

Then, Heeseung slowly turned his laptop around, revealing a slide titled ‘Shrek and the Post-Ironic Era of Internet Humor: A Critical Analysis.’ And for some reason, that was it. That was the moment you broke.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that you had just spent the past three hours watching deep-fried Shrek memes with Gregorian chants in the background. Maybe it was just the sheer, stupid absurdity of the entire situation. But suddenly, you were laughing.

Not just laughing—cackling. The kind of breathless, full-body laughter that made your stomach hurt. That made you feel like you were going to die right there on Yunjin’s living room floor, lost to the void of Shrek academia.

And Heeseung—poor, equally sleep-deprived Heeseung—was right there with you. He doubled over, gasping for air, his head nearly colliding with your shoulder as he choked out, “We’re never recovering from this.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You turned to him, trying to catch your breath, and found him already looking at you. His eyes were crinkled at the edges, his cheeks flushed from laughter, his whole body still shaking slightly from the aftermath. And for a moment—just a moment—you thought, this is nice.

Not just the laughing. Not just the inside jokes and the chaos.

But him.

You pushed the thought away before it could settle.

Because, at the end of the day, Heeseung was your friend. Your dumbass friend who still had green body paint under his fingernails two weeks after Halloween. Who got irrationally angry at mobile game ads. Who had just spent the last six hours dissecting Shrek memes with you like it was a matter of academic integrity.

And that was all he was.

Right?

Heeseung, on the other hand, wasn’t sure when it started. That feeling.

That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling. The one that sat quietly in the back of his mind, like a notification he refused to check. Like a waiting room. A vague, almost imperceptible awareness that he enjoyed your company a little too much—that your laugh had started to feel like background music in his life, something he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.

Not that it meant anything. Obviously.

He liked lots of people. He was a social guy. He made friends easily, enjoyed being around them, and—despite Yunjin’s many accusations—was not emotionally repressed. He just… liked the things you liked. That was normal.

It was normal that he started watching that terrible reality show you always talked about, even though he swore he hated it. It was normal that he got a random impulse to buy you a weirdly specific snack he saw at the store because “it just screamed your vibe.” It was normal that he sent you voice notes every time he saw something even remotely related to Shrek, even months after your presentation.

That was just friendship. Which was why, as a friend, he invited you to an arcade.

It was one of those places that felt like it had been stuck in time since the 90s—neon lights, sticky floors, a vague smell of burnt popcorn in the air. The kind of place that probably hadn’t passed a health inspection in years, but had an undeniable charm to it. You were too good at skee-ball.

It was honestly annoying. Heeseung had challenged you three times, and each time, you had obliterated him without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t even close. “You’re cheating,” he accused, arms crossed as he watched you land another perfect shot.

You grinned, tossing the last ball effortlessly. “You’re just mad because you suck.”

“I don’t suck,” he argued. “This game is just—rigged. The physics are all off.”

“Oh my god. Did you just say ‘the physics are off’ in a skee-ball game?”

“Yes,” he said, completely serious. “I am a man of logic and reason.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Sure. Okay. Man of logic and reason. If you’re so smart, let’s see how well you do at Dance Dance Revolution.”

Heeseung froze. “I—uh—what?”

“Come on,” you said, already dragging him toward the machine. “Let’s see those skills.”

Here was the thing about Heeseung: he was good at a lot of things. He could play video games for hours without blinking. He could talk his way out of almost any bad situation. He could even recite the entire “All Star” lyrics from memory.

But he could not dance. At all. And that became painfully clear the second the game started.

Heeseung missed every step. Every single one. While you moved effortlessly, barely even glancing at the screen, he was flailing. His feet weren’t in sync with his brain. His arms kept jerking awkwardly, and he could hear you laughing beside him, and somehow, that made it worse.

By the time the game ended, Heeseung was defeated. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping dramatically. “I think I died,” he announced.

You patted his back. “You fought bravely.”

He looked up at you then, about to retort, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat. Because you were smiling at him—really smiling. Your eyes were crinkled at the edges, your face still flushed from laughing. The neon lights flickered against your skin, casting everything in shades of blue and pink, making you look—

Well. Heeseung swallowed. That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling? Yeah. It was there.

But you were just his friend.

So, when Beomgyu casually mentioned, in the most offhanded, unbothered way possible, that he thought you were cute, Heeseung should’ve just let it go. But he didn’t.

“You think she’s what?”

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “Cute. You know, in a hot way.”

Heeseung felt something in his chest twist. It was irrational. Objectively, completely irrational. Because, yeah, you were cute. That wasn’t news to him. He had eyes. He was aware. He had just… never thought about the fact that other people might also be aware.

Heeseung almost laughed. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the kind of dry, disbelieving scoff that came when someone said something so absurd it didn’t even process at first. But then, Beomgyu kept talking.

“I was thinking of asking her out.”

And Heeseung felt it. That twist, low and tight, in the pit of his stomach.

He blinked at Beomgyu, waiting for the usual rush of banter to kick in, for the easy teasing to roll off his tongue. But for some reason, his mouth felt dry. Beomgyu liked you. Beomgyu thought you were cute. Beomgyu wanted to date you.

It wasn’t that wild of a concept. People liked you all the time. You were funny and charming in that effortlessly chaotic way, the kind of person who made friends in the span of a single conversation. It made sense that Beomgyu, out of all people, would look at you and go, Yeah, she’s my type.

And it wasn’t like Heeseung had a say in the matter. So he shrugged, leaning back against the couch, and said, “Yeah, good for you, man. Good for you”

And that should’ve been the end of it. Except. Beomgyu actually did ask you out. And the worst part? You said yes.

At first, Heeseung didn’t think much of it. He was fine. It was fine.

So what if you had gone out with Beomgyu last Friday and came back looking kind of flushed, kind of happy? So what if, the next time he saw you, you had that soft, secretive look in your eyes, the one that said you were thinking about something that made your stomach twist in the good way?

So what. You weren’t dating. You weren’t his. And he sure as hell wasn’t jealous. Except then it wasn’t just one date. Because you went out again. And again. And again. And suddenly, Beomgyu wasn’t just one of Heeseung’s friends anymore—he was the guy you were seeing. And that, for some reason, was so much worse.

The thing about Beomgyu was that he was annoying. Like, Heeseung had always known this, but now, for the first time in his life, it felt personal. “Dude,” Beomgyu groaned, stretching his arms behind his head as they sat in their usual spot in the campus lounge. “Y/N is so fun, bro. Like, actually so fun.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s, like… different.” Heeseung made a face. “No, I’m serious,” Beomgyu whined. “She’s not like other girls.”

I’m gonna walk into traffic, Heeseung thought.

“No, like—” Beomgyu hesitated, looking off into the distance. “She’s just cool, you know?”

And Heeseung didn’t know why that pissed him off. Maybe because he knew that already. He had always known that. He had known it before Beomgyu, before any of these dates, before whatever the hell this was.

He had known it since the night he met you. Since the moment you called him Donatello when he was, in fact, Leonardo. Since the first time you said his name with that teasing edge, like you were permanently in on some joke he didn’t even realize he was making.

So, yeah. Maybe he didn’t like hearing Beomgyu say it like he had discovered it first.

But whatever. Heeseung let it go. Because it wasn’t like this was going to last forever. And then, it didn’t.

One day, you walked into Yunjin’s apartment, kicked your shoes off in a way that sent one flying across the room, and threw yourself onto the couch with all the weight of someone carrying a great and terrible burden.

Heeseung, sitting on the floor, scrolled mindlessly through his phone, pretending he hadn’t immediately noticed you. But then, you sighed. A deep, world-weary, existentially exhausted sigh.

Yunjin looked up from where she was painting her nails. “Jesus,” she muttered. “What.”

You groaned, stuffing your face into a pillow. “I think I’m over it.”

Heeseung’s thumb froze mid-scroll. Casual. He had to be casual. So, without looking up, he mumbled, “Over what?”

Another dramatic sigh. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself. “Beomgyu.”

Heeseung blinked. Okay.

Yunjin, who had been the biggest advocate of this whole thing, frowned. “Wait, what do you mean? You were literally texting him heart emojis yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” You stretched out your legs like the weight of your own existence was exhausting you. “I just… don’t feel like it anymore.”

Yunjin gave you a look. “Like, what? He’s a hobby you got bored of?”

“No! It’s just—” You hesitated, pressing your lips together. “Like, I liked the idea of him. And at first, it was fun. But then, the more time we spent together, the more I realized… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

You exhaled, shutting your eyes. “I feel like I was trying to make myself like him the way I was supposed to. But it just wasn’t working.”

And that was when Heeseung’s grip on his phone tightened. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “The way you were supposed to?”

You turned your head towards him. “Yeah. Like, Beomgyu is great, okay? He’s funny, and he’s cute, and he’s nice, and I should like him.” You paused, expression softening. “But every time he kissed me, I just…”

You trailed off, lost in thought. Heeseung swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t sure why.

Yunjin made a gagging noise. “Okay, ew. Please don’t get all sentimental about kissing Beomgyu on my couch.”

You laughed, pushing her half-heartedly with your foot. “I’m just saying—it’s not clicking. You ever get that? Like, you try to like someone, but no matter how much you do, it just doesn’t fit?”

And the way you looked at Heeseung when you asked that—like you expected him to understand—made something in his chest tighten. Because yeah. He knew exactly what that felt like. He just… couldn’t say it.

So he swallowed, rolling his shoulders back, and forced a small smirk. “Damn,” he said, voice light. “Tough loss for Beomgyu.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter. “Yeah.” Then, a pause. “Guess I’m single again.”

Something in Heeseung’s chest lurched. But he just nodded, keeping his expression neutral, easy, unfazed. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t change everything.

A few weeks later, Heeseung showed up at your apartment. It was raining that day.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in that soft, half-hearted drizzle that made everything look just a little bit duller. The sky was gray, the streets were damp, and Heeseung had definitely stepped into at least two puddles on his way up to your place.

Which, in his opinion, was already way too much effort just to fix your stupid kitchen cabinet.

“Okay, I just wanna say,” he announced as soon as you let him in, dragging his slightly-wet socks across your floor, “I don’t know how the hell you managed to completely detach a cabinet door, but honestly? I’m kind of impressed.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside to let him in. “Are you gonna help me or are you gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna make fun of you.” He grinned, toeing off his shoes before making his way to your kitchen. “But I’ll fix it after.”

You followed behind him, crossing your arms as you watched him inspect the broken cabinet. It wasn’t like you had meant to break it. You had simply been existing in your own kitchen, minding your own business, when the handle somehow got caught on the sleeve of your hoodie—one tug too strong, and suddenly the door was in your hands instead of on its hinges.

“I literally don’t understand how this happened,” Heeseung muttered, crouching down to assess the damage.

“Okay, handyman,” you shot back. “Can you fix it or not?”

Heeseung snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, let me just—” He held out a hand. “Pass me my phone.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“My hands are kinda full,” he said, nodding towards the cabinet door that he was currently balancing on one knee. “Look up how to fix this real quick.”

You huffed but grabbed his phone from the counter, unlocking it without thinking as you leaned against the kitchen island. You didn’t love the idea of looking up a YouTube tutorial like some kind of DIY newbie, but considering that Heeseung was already physically here fixing your problem for you, you figured you could at least meet him halfway.

So, with one hand holding his phone, you typed "how to reattach cabinet door" into the search bar—

And then, your thumb froze. Because right there, at the top of the screen, was a notification. A message. From Chaewon. Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know who Chaewon was. Of course, you did. You weren’t stupid. Chaewon was his ex.

The one he never really talked about. The one who had, at one point, been a name you’d only heard in passing, just a piece of his past that you had no real reason to care about. Except… you did.

Because now, here she was. On his screen. Texting him. And suddenly, you felt fucking ridiculous. Because why were you even reacting like this? It wasn’t like he was your boyfriend. It wasn’t like he owed you an explanation. So, then… why did it feel like this?

You forced yourself to look away from the message, pressing the YouTube link on the screen as if nothing had happened. But something had. Because when Heeseung glanced at you, waiting for your next words, you just… couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your voice didn’t sound normal. “It says you need a screwdriver.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow at your abrupt shift in tone, but he didn’t question it. “Okay,” he said slowly, getting up to grab one from his bag.

You took the moment to shove his phone back onto the counter, clenching your jaw as you crossed your arms tighter over your chest. It was fine. You were fine.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the air, slightly muffled as he rummaged through his bag. “Can you hold this while I—”

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out too fast, too stiff.

And Heeseung noticed. He glanced at you, pausing with the screwdriver halfway in his grip. “You good?”

You forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Why?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head. “You just got all weird all of a sudden.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

You exhaled sharply, schooling your expression into something that wasn’t betrayal or insecurity or whatever dumb thing was currently buzzing inside your head. “I’m just tired.”

It wasn’t a total lie. Heeseung didn’t look fully convinced, but he didn’t push. He just hummed under his breath, turning back to the cabinet as he started working again.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was irrational. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The notification. The name. The way your stomach had twisted on instinct before you even had a chance to tell yourself it didn’t matter.

Because maybe… Maybe it did.

The next time you’re at Yunjin’s apartment, Heeseung isn’t there.

It’s not intentional, not entirely. Maybe there’s a small, petty part of you that’s relieved when Yunjin mentions he’s out, like the universe decided to grant you a break from the exhausting push and pull of whatever this thing is between you. But mostly, you’re just here because you always are.

There’s an old episode of some dating reality show playing in the background, and Yunjin barely glances at it as she paints her toenails a shade of red so deep it’s almost brown. You pick at the hem of your sleeve, casual, too casual, before finally asking, “Does Heeseung still see Chaewon?”

Yunjin snorts, like it’s the dumbest thing she’s heard all day. “God, I hope not.”

Something in your stomach untwists just slightly, but you don’t let the relief settle. You just raise an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What happened with them, anyway?”

Yunjin pauses, her brush hovering mid-air. She gives you a look. The kind that says she sees through you. The kind that makes your skin prickle with the discomfort of being known. But then she sighs, leans back against the couch, and says, “They burned out.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

Yunjin tilts her head. “You ever leave a candle burning too long?” She dips the brush back into the bottle, shaking her head. “They were good until they weren’t. And when they weren’t, it was obvious. Chaewon got tired of waiting for him to catch up.”

You frown. “Catch up?”

Yunjin shrugs. “She loved him first. And she wanted him to love her back just as fast, just as much. But Heeseung…” She sighs, blowing lightly on her nails. “Heeseung takes his time. He doesn’t fall in love all at once, he kind of… eases into it. Like the dumbass that he is.”

Your chest tightens.

Because you think about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. About the way he always notices when you’re cold before you even say anything. And then you think about the way he doesn’t say anything. About the way he’s always on the edge of something, always almost.

Yunjin is watching you. You can feel it. And you know, you just know, she’s about to say something that’s going to ruin you.

So you get up, stretch your arms above your head like you can shake the weight of this conversation off your skin. “Right. Well. That was fun. Thanks for the gossip.”

Yunjin smirks. “You’re so fucking obvious.” You ignore her, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. But before you can shove it in your mouth, she says, “Heeseung’s not stupid, you know. He just doesn’t like to move until he’s sure.”

You pause. And because you’re you, and because this is Heeseung, and because everything about this whole thing is a goddamn waiting game— You pretend you don’t hear her.

And then it’s 2:14 a.m. when your phone buzzes.

You’re half-asleep, curled up in bed, the glow of your screen slicing through the darkness. You squint at it, groggy, before reading the message.

heeseung: you awake? heeseung: also. do u want mcdonalds

You blink. Then again. You type out a response with fingers that still feel half-dead from sleep.

you: is that even a question heeseung: valid. be outside in 10

And just like that, you’re stepping into your slides, and slipping out the door like this is the most normal thing in the world. Because with Heeseung, it kind of is.

The streetlights cast long, tired shadows across the pavement, and the air is that weird mix of crisp and stale that only exists at this hour, like the city itself is pausing, caught between the last breath of night and the first inhale of morning.

Heeseung’s car rolls up exactly nine minutes later, music already playing low through the speakers. When you slide into the passenger seat, he barely even looks at you before reaching into the back and tossing you his hoodie.

“You’re gonna get cold,” he says simply.

You huff, but you put it on. It smells like him—faint detergent, something vaguely woody, and the unmistakable scent of McDonald’s fries from however many late-night runs have preceded this one.

Heeseung pulls out onto the street, the familiar hum of the engine settling between you. He’s got one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, and there’s a soft shadow of exhaustion under his eyes, but he still looks… at ease.

It’s quiet for a while. Comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel like it needs filling.

Then, as he turns onto the main road, he says, “You ever think about how weird time is?”

You glance at him. “That’s an insane way to start a conversation.”

“I’m serious,” he laughs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Like, right now. It’s 2:30 a.m. for us, but somewhere else, it’s a normal afternoon. Someone’s getting lunch, someone’s going to work. And here we are, about to eat McNuggets in a parking lot.”

You hum. “I feel like this is your way of convincing me that time isn’t real.”

He nods solemnly. “Nothing is real.”

“Except McNuggets.”

“Exactly.”

A beat passes, the soft rumble of the tires against the road the only sound for a moment. Then, quieter, more thoughtful, Heeseung asks, “Where do you think you’ll be in a year?”

The question catches you off guard. You tilt your head, thinking. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I mean, I have plans, but… life never really goes how you expect it to, does it?”

Heeseung exhales a small laugh. “No. It really doesn’t.”

You hesitate before adding, “Where do you think you’ll be?”

He takes a moment. His grip on the steering wheel tightens just slightly, like he’s holding onto the words before letting them go. “I don’t know either.” He pauses, then glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “I just hope I’m somewhere that still feels like home.”

You feel something shift. A small, almost imperceptible weight settling between the two of you.

And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the fact that your brain isn’t fully awake yet. Or maybe it’s just him—this version of Heeseung that only exists at 2:30 a.m., the one who speaks in half-truths and unspoken things. But you suddenly feel like you understand exactly what he means.

The McDonald’s drive-thru is basically empty when you pull in. The girl at the window looks like she hates her job, and Heeseung, being Heeseung, makes it his personal mission to get her to smile.

“Are McFlurries still a scam?” he asks solemnly.

The girl raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You mean, is the machine broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Obviously.”

Heeseung sighs. “I knew it. A tragedy, really.”

Her lips twitch—just barely—but he sees it. He shoots you a triumphant look as he pulls forward.

With the food secured, he parks in a near-empty lot. There’s something about eating fast food in a car past midnight that makes it taste ten times better—something about the way the city is so still, like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you and the glow of the dashboard lights.

For a while, you just eat in silence, the occasional rustle of a fry bag or the quiet click of a sauce container the only noise. Then Heeseung says, “If you could live in any movie, which one would it be?”

You think for a moment. “Probably something stupid and fun. Like… a rom-com where everything works out in the end.”

Heeseung snorts. “Yeah? You want to be the main character that badly?”

“Obviously.”

He grins, dipping a fry into his BBQ sauce. “You’d be the chaotic best friend, though.”

You throw a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth.

“What about you?” you ask, popping a nugget into your mouth.

Heeseung leans back against the seat, thinking. “I don’t know. Something small. Quiet. One of those movies where nothing really happens, but it still makes you feel something.”

You tilt your head. “Like a waiting room.”

Heeseung turns to you. “What?”

“A waiting room,” you say, like it’s obvious. “That’s what those movies feel like. Like something is about to happen, but you don’t know what, and maybe it’s okay if nothing does.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he smiles. And it’s not his usual grin, not the teasing, lopsided smirk. It’s something smaller, softer. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like a waiting room.”

Neither of you say anything after that. The city hums in the background, neon lights bleeding into the darkness, the last remnants of fries sitting forgotten between you.

And then, a party. Not the kind you remember from three years ago, not the one where you met a boy covered in green body paint who changed your life without even meaning to. But still, a party. The music is just as loud, the air just as thick with heat and laughter, the night just as full of things waiting to happen.

You’re not sure why you came. Yunjin had begged, of course, had stood in your doorway with her most dramatic expression, wailing about how you never do anything fun anymore. But even then, you could have said no. You could have curled up in your apartment, wrapped yourself in something soft and safe, ignored the way your stomach flipped when you thought, what if Heeseung is there?

But you didn’t.

And now, you’re here, standing in the middle of someone’s too-small living room, holding a lukewarm drink, feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. And then, you hear your name.

It cuts through the music, through the laughter, through the static in your brain. It pulls you toward the kitchen, toward the familiar lilt of a voice you know better than your own. And there he is. Heeseung.

Standing in front of the fridge, cracking open a beer, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans that hang just right. His hair is a little messy, his eyes a little bright, and when he sees you, he grins—that same lopsided, teasing, dangerous smile.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he says, raising his drink in a mock toast.

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of whatever’s in your cup. "Don’t make a big deal out of it."

Heeseung hums, leaning against the counter. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

But he’s looking at you like it is a big deal. Like maybe he’s been waiting for you all night. Like maybe he always is.

Hours pass, the party moves around you—people spilling in and out of rooms, music shifting from one song to the next—but you and Heeseung stay where you are, orbiting around each other.

At some point, someone suggests a game. Cards, or maybe something more ridiculous—something designed to make people confess things they wouldn’t say otherwise. You should say no. You should step away before you find yourself caught in something you can’t get out of.

But you don’t. You sit next to Heeseung on the floor, close enough that your knees touch. The game starts, questions fly, people laugh. And then—

Jake turns to you. "Alright, Y/N. Who was your first college crush?"

You blink. "What?"

The group whoops in unison. Jungwon throws an arm around your shoulder. "Come on, don’t be shy."

Your throat goes dry. Your eyes flicker to Heeseung, just for a second, but it’s enough. His smirk twitches—just barely, just enough to be noticeable—and suddenly, you know you have to get out of this.

You clear your throat, reaching for your drink. "I think I’ve blocked it out," you lie.

A chorus of boos erupts, but the game moves on. The moment passes. But beside you, Heeseung is watching you, his fingers tapping against his knee, like he’s putting something together. You pretend not to notice.

Later, when the party has blurred into something soft and distant, when most people are drunk or half-asleep, when the night has stretched itself out into something too fragile to hold forever, Heeseung finds you on the balcony.

You’re leaning against the railing, breathing in the cool air, staring out at the city lights. "You hiding from me?"

You don’t turn around. "You think everything’s about you, don’t you?"

He laughs—soft, amused, something warm threading through the sound. "It usually is."

You roll your eyes, but then he’s beside you, resting his forearms on the railing, close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the night air.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The music inside is muffled now, the party nothing more than background noise. The city stretches out before you, endless and alive, full of people who have no idea that this moment is happening.

And then, quietly, Heeseung asks, "You really don’t remember your first college crush?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around the railing. You exhale. "I remember."

A pause. "Yeah?"

You glance at him. He’s watching you, expression unreadable, something deep and knowing in his eyes. You swallow. "Yeah."

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, and for a second, you think—Is he going to ask? Does he already know? But he doesn’t.

He just nods, looking back at the skyline, and says, "Me too."

And somehow, that’s worse. Because you think—no, you know—that he’s not talking about some early college memory, some long-forgotten infatuation.

He’s talking about you.

And for the first time, you wonder if this thing between you—this waiting, this almost, this three years of something unspoken—has been more obvious than you thought. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one waiting.

One month later. The thing about time is that it moves whether you’re ready or not. It stretches, it folds, it carries you forward even when you feel like you’re standing still.

And ever since the party, things with Heeseung have been… different. Not in an obvious way. Not in the way that people would notice, not in the way that Yunjin would tease you about over breakfast. But in the small things.

In the way his eyes linger just a little too long. In the way your stomach flips when he says your name. In the way every conversation feels like it’s balancing on the edge of something you can’t name.

Because you and Heeseung have always been close, always been drawn together like something written into the universe itself. But now? Now, it feels different. Like someone turned up the volume on something you didn’t even realize was playing in the background.

And the worst part? Neither of you are talking about it.

Instead, you’re doing what you do best—pretending. Pretending that nothing is different, that things are still light and easy, that three years of something unspoken aren’t finally starting to spill over the edges.

Until one day, when you’re sitting on Yunjin’s couch, your phone rings. It’s your mother. You hesitate before answering, already bracing yourself for whatever she’s about to say.

And the moment you put your phone down, you groan, collapsing onto the couch, like the weight of the conversation is physically pressing down on you. Heeseung and Yunjin are both looking at you expectantly, their attention fully on you in a way that makes you regret opening your mouth at all. But it’s too late now, so you just exhale, pressing your fingers against your temples before muttering, "My mom called."

Yunjin snorts. "Yeah, we got that much. What did she want?"

You roll your eyes, but the annoyance in your chest is directed at yourself more than anything else. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Next weekend."

Heeseung, who had been absentmindedly rolling a bottle cap between his fingers, finally glances up, eyes curious. "You going?"

"Yeah." You sigh again. "Didn’t really have a choice. If I said no, she would’ve found a way to guilt-trip me into oblivion."

Yunjin grins knowingly. "Classic mom move."

You hum in agreement, then hesitate, picking at the hem of your sleeve. "And then she made it weird," you mutter.

Heeseung raises an eyebrow, shifting slightly on the couch so he’s facing you more fully. "How weird?"

You pause for a second, then groan, throwing your head back. "She brought up the fact that I’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything."

Yunjin cackles. She actually leans forward, hands on her knees, cackling. "Oh my God," she wheezes. "That’s so embarrassing for you."

You glare. "Thank you, Yunjin, for your endless support."

But Heeseung doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. He just tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression. "She said that?"

You nod, rubbing your temples. "Yeah. She was all, ‘You can bring someone, you know,’ and then just immediately went for the ‘You’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything,’ like I don’t already know that."

Yunjin wipes a fake tear from her eye, still far too entertained. "Damn. She really called you out like that."

"Okay," you deadpan, "I think we’ve established that this is humiliating for me. Can we move on?"

But Yunjin grins, her eyes practically glowing with mischief, and that’s when you know you should have never said anything at all. "Well," she says, stretching out the word, "if it bothers you that much… you could always bring Heeseung."

Silence.

You feel it immediately—the way the air shifts, the way your stomach twists, the way your breath catches for just a second too long. You don’t look at Heeseung. You can’t.

Instead, you scoff, shoving her shoulder. "Oh my God, shut up."

"I’m serious!" she laughs. "It makes sense, doesn’t it? You need a date. Heeseung’s around."

Heeseung is silent. And that—that’s what makes your chest tighten. Because Heeseung is never silent.

You finally force yourself to glance at him, just a flicker, just to see how he’s reacting to this. And when you do, you find him already looking at you—his expression unreadable, his fingers stilling where they had been absently playing with the bottle cap.

Something tightens in your throat. Because it’s one thing to laugh it off. It’s one thing to pretend this isn’t something charged, something delicate, something that feels like standing on the edge of something too big to name.

But Heeseung isn’t laughing.

When you open the door on the wedding day, Heeseung is already leaning against his car, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, looking entirely too good for someone who is supposed to be doing you a favor. His hair is neat but still has that slight, careless tousle to it, his sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms, and his black dress shirt is criminally well-fitted.

You try very hard not to notice any of that. But Heeseung is looking at you like you just stopped time.

It’s not obvious—he doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t let his jaw drop like some kind of movie cliché—but his fingers twitch slightly where they’re resting in his pockets, and his throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes move over you in a way that isn’t just admiration but something deeper, something heavier, something that makes your chest feel too tight.

You pretend not to notice that, either. Instead, you lift an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one foot. "You gonna open the door for me, or are you just gonna stand there?"

Heeseung blinks, snapping out of it. He clears his throat, pushing off the car, his usual smirk creeping back into place. "Right, yeah. My bad."

You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm anyway. The ride starts out easy. The hum of the road fills the space between you, the occasional comment about the directions or a song playing on the radio breaking the silence.

"You, uh," Heeseung starts, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "You sure your mom’s gonna be cool with me coming?"

You blink. "What? Yeah, of course. I already told her."

He raises an eyebrow. "You told her?"

"Yeah," you say, adjusting the hem of your dress. "I mean, I talk about you all the time, so it’s not like it’s weird or anything."

Silence. You don’t notice it at first, but when you glance over, Heeseung is staring straight ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before.

And the thing is—Heeseung is not someone who gets flustered easily. He doesn’t trip over his words, doesn’t get all weird when people talk about him. But now, he’s sitting there, completely silent, like his brain just blue-screened.

Because you talk about him all the time. To your mom. His ears burn at the thought.

Because it’s one thing to be close. It’s one thing to be your best friend, to be the person you go to for late-night McDonald’s runs and life-altering conversations on balconies. But it’s another thing entirely to know that he exists in your life even when he’s not there.

That when you’re on the phone with your mom, when you’re recounting your day, when you’re talking about the people who matter—he’s there. And it’s so stupid how much that does to him.

He coughs, forcing himself to sound normal. "Oh. Cool. Yeah. That’s cool."

You snort. "I told her you’re my friend, and that’s it."

Heeseung hums, tapping his fingers on the wheel again. "Yeah. Right."

But for some reason, the word friend doesn’t sit right in his mouth.

The wedding is beautiful. Not in the over-the-top, fairytale kind of way, but in the way that feels real. The ceremony is held outdoors, the late afternoon light draping everything in gold, the air carrying the soft hum of laughter and clinking glasses. There are flowers on every table, music drifting lazily through the air, and a warmth that lingers beneath the chatter of distant relatives catching up.

And you almost forget that you’re here with Heeseung. Almost. Except—you can feel him.

You can feel him next to you at the table, the warmth of his presence settling into your skin. You can feel the way his hand brushes against yours when he reaches for something, the way his eyes flicker toward you when he hears you laugh.

And the worst part is that he looks good as hell.

It’s almost unfair, the way he carries himself. The way his sleeves are still rolled up, the way his shirt is slightly undone at the collar, the way he leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, watching everything unfold like he belongs here.

And for the first time in a long time you don’t know where you stand with him.

Because this is Heeseung. The boy who sends you Shrek memes at 2 a.m. The boy who once argued with a barista about oat milk for a full five minutes. The boy who makes you laugh until you can’t breathe.

But right now? Right now, he’s something else, too. Something that makes your stomach flip. Something that makes you forget how to breathe.

The music shifts. It’s not immediate—not some grand, dramatic moment where the world slows down—but you feel it.

The moment the first notes of the song drift through the air, you feel it in your chest. Like something tightening. Like something pulling at a thread you don’t want to unravel. Because you know this song. Of course you know this song. And so does he.

You don’t even have to look at Heeseung to know he recognizes it too. That he knows exactly what’s playing, that he knows how much you love her, that he knows you’ve played this song before—in his car, in your apartment, in the quiet spaces between friendship and something else.

You know he knows. And yet, he still turns to you, his voice a low murmur beneath the hum of conversation. “Phoebe Bridgers,” he says.

You swallow. “Yeah.” Heeseung hums, watching you carefully. His fingers drum lightly against the table, slow and steady, in time with the beat of the song. Then, after a second—

"You should dance with me."

You blink. You blink again. Your stomach twists. “What?”

Heeseung shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything. “You love this song.”

Which—okay. That’s true. But this is not a song you dance to. This is a song you listen to alone, in your room, in the quiet, when it’s too late and you’re too restless and you’re thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about.

This is not a wedding song. And yet, Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like this is a dare, like he’s waiting for you to say no, to call him out, to pull away before it’s too late.

And yet, his hand is outstretched, waiting, patient, warm. And yet— You take it. You don’t think, you just do it, just let yourself be pulled. And Heeseung holds you like he’s afraid to press too hard.

One hand on your waist. The other clasping yours loosely, like he’s letting you decide how close to be. Like he’s still waiting for you to laugh and push him away and say, ‘This is so stupid’.

But you don’t. You just breathe. You just exist here, in this moment, with him.

If you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor I would sit there with my first-aid kit and bleed

Your throat tightens. Because God, this song.

Because you know every lyric by heart, because you know what it means, because there’s something about it that always makes you feel like you’re standing in the middle of something you’ll never quite have.

And now, here you are, dancing to it with him.

Heeseung exhales softly, tilting his head toward you. “You ever think about that?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

His fingers twitch slightly against your waist. “How music reminds you of people.”

Your stomach flips. Because of course you do. Of course, you think about it. Of course, this song, this moment, this whole damn night is going to be tied to him now, forever, no matter what happens after.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I think about it.”

Heeseung hums, like that makes sense. Like he already knew what you were going to say. Then—

"Does this song remind you of me?"

Your breath catches. The air between you thickens.

Because that shouldn’t be a question. Because he already knows the answer. Because you’re standing here with him, swaying to a song that makes your chest ache, and you know, you know he hears the lyrics just as clearly as you do.

I wanna be the broken love song that feeds your misery.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to sound normal. “Maybe.”

His lips twitch. “Maybe?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

Heeseung laughs, soft, breathless. And God, you hate him.

You hate the way he makes everything feel like a game, like he’s always hovering right at the edge of something and waiting for you to push him over. You hate that it’s working.

And when broken bodies are washed ashore—who am I to ask for more?

You shiver. Because this is the part of the song that gets to you every time. Because who are you to ask for more?

Who are you to ask for something that maybe, just maybe, was never meant to be yours? But then Heeseung, of all people, says “I think this song reminds me of you, too.”

Your heart stops. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you, and suddenly this doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

This doesn’t feel like something you can laugh off. Because Heeseung is serious.

Because his hand is still on your waist, his fingers still brushing against the fabric of your dress, his breath still warm against your cheek, and you don’t know how to go back from this. You don’t know if you want to.

Heeseung shifts slightly, his grip tightening for just a second. “You ever think about it?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

Heeseung hesitates, his eyes flickering over your face. His jaw tightens—just barely.

"Us."

Your stomach drops.

Because he says it so simply, like it’s nothing, like it’s a passing thought, like he hasn’t just destroyed your entire world in one syllable. Us. The word sits heavy in the air between you, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you didn’t hear.

Heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, doesn’t do anything to make this easier for you. He just keeps holding you, keeps swaying with you, keeps waiting—like he has all the time in the world.

You want to say something.

You want to throw your head back and laugh it off, tell him he’s being ridiculous, tell him to stop playing with you. You want to scoff and roll your eyes and pretend that the thought of you and Heeseung has never crossed your mind, that it hasn’t been haunting you for years, that it hasn’t been living under your skin since the first time he looked at you like you were something worth remembering.

But you can’t. Because this is Heeseung. Because he knows you too well, because he’d hear the lie in your voice, because there is nowhere left to hide when he’s looking at you like this.

So instead, you stall. You breathe in, slow and careful, and say, "What about us?"

It’s a cheap move. A pathetic attempt at deflection. And Heeseung knows it.

He exhales, the ghost of a laugh slipping past his lips, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist. "You know what I mean."

You glance down at your hands, the way your fingers are still laced together with his, the way your other hand rests so easily on his shoulder, like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before. And maybe you have.

Maybe you and Heeseung have always been dancing around each other like this. Maybe you’ve just never let yourself notice. The song keeps playing, keeps taunting you, keeps threading its meaning between your ribs, pulling you closer and closer to something you don’t know how to name.

I wanna make you drive all night just because I said, maybe you should come over

You let out a slow breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. "We’re friends, Heeseung."

He hums. "Yeah. We are."

But he doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t move away, doesn’t drop his hand from your waist, doesn’t step back into the safe distance you’re used to. He stays. And that’s the part that gets you.

Because if he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t be holding you like this. If he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place.

You glance up at him again, searching, waiting for him to say something else, to give you an out, to change the subject, to laugh and let it go. But he doesn’t. He just watches you. And suddenly, you feel exposed in a way you never have before.

Like every late-night conversation, every half-smile, every almost has been leading here, to this moment, to this song, to this feeling that you don’t know how to escape. You force yourself to swallow.

"Why are you asking me this?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, considering you, considering his words.

"Because I think about it, too."

Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers tighten against his shoulder. Your heart slams against your ribs.

You feel like the whole world has shrunk down to just this. To the space between your bodies, to the way he’s looking at you, to the fact that he thinks about it, too.

Heeseung’s fingers twitch slightly against yours, but he doesn’t let go. He’s watching you with this careful intensity, like he’s waiting for something, like he’s giving you the chance to decide what happens next.

And that’s the problem.

Because you don’t know what happens next.

Because you’ve spent years existing in this strange, untouchable place with him, in this in-between, in this waiting room of a relationship that never moves forward but never lets you leave either.

And now, suddenly, here you are. Standing on the edge of something irreversible.

She'll be the best you ever had if you let her

Your heart stumbles. Because this song knows too much.

Because this song feels too much like the two of you, like something ripped from your ribs and put into lyrics, like a truth you weren’t ready to confront. And maybe—just maybe—Heeseung feels it, too.

Because he leans in. Just a little. Just enough.

Not enough to cross the line, not enough to destroy the thing you’ve built, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, enough that the scent of him—clean soap, something faintly woodsy, something entirely him—wraps around you.

Enough that you could close the distance if you wanted to. And God, you do.

But you don’t. Because you’re afraid. Because you don’t know what happens when you let this become real.

Because Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like he could ruin you if he wanted to, like he’s giving you the chance to ruin him first.

I know it's for the better

You exhale, too shaky, too uneven. And Heeseung notices.

His gaze flickers, barely, to your lips, to the space between you, to the way you haven’t moved away from him yet. And then his jaw clenches.

Like he’s just realized how close you are. Like he’s just realized this is about to happen if neither of you stop it. And that’s the thing, neither of you stop it.

Not immediately. Not when his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. Not when your grip on his shoulder trembles just a little. Not when the air between you stretches so thin it might snap in half.

Not until you hear, Know it’s for the better…

The song starts to fade. The moment fractures. And just like that, you both pull away.

Not much. Just an inch, a breath, a single second too late. But it’s enough.

Enough for reality to settle back in. Enough for the noise of the wedding to come rushing back, for the chatter and laughter and clinking glasses to remind you where you are, who you are, what you almost did.

And Heeseung, he knows it, too. You see it in the way his throat bobs, in the way he blinks hard, in the way he forces himself to take a step back, to drop his hand from your waist, to roll his shoulders like he can shake off whatever just happened between you.

The song ends. And neither of you say a word.

And three months later, silence.

At first, it’s subtle—just a missed text here, a conversation that doesn’t last as long as it used to, an inside joke that no longer lands the way it should. But then it becomes something else. Something colder. Something that feels less like a pause and more like a choice.

And that’s what happened to you and Heeseung.

You didn’t stop talking completely. That would have been too obvious, too final, too much like admitting that something had shifted beyond repair. You still sent the occasional meme, still ran into each other at Yunjin’s, still had conversations that skimmed the surface of what they used to be.

But it was different. The late-night McDonald’s runs stopped. The effortless teasing felt strained. The ease of being around each other—the one thing you never questioned—was suddenly gone.

Neither of you did anything about it. You let it happen. Because it was easier that way.

Because acknowledging it meant admitting that something had changed, that you had gotten too close, that something had almost happened that night at the wedding. And you weren’t ready to admit that.

You weren’t ready to ask if Heeseung had almost kissed you, or if you had almost kissed him, or if you had both just been caught in some stupid, fleeting moment that meant nothing at all. So, you didn’t.

And now, three months later, all that’s left is silence.

The rain comes down in sheets, heavy and relentless, drumming against the windows of your apartment. You sit curled up on your couch, blanket wrapped around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. The storm had rolled in an hour ago, sudden and unforgiving, and now the whole city feels swallowed by it, the streetlights barely visible through the downpour.

Then, there’s a knock at your door. You weren’t expecting anyone. It’s too late, too stormy, too much of a nothing kind of night for visitors.

But something in you knows—before you even open the door, before you even take that first breath—that it’s him.

And it is. It’s Heeseung.

Standing in your doorway, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing unevenly like he just ran here.

You freeze. "Heeseung?"

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, desperate, wild in a way you’ve never seen before. His clothes are damp, sticking to his frame, his hands clenched at his sides. But it’s his expression that gets you.

Like something is breaking inside of him. Like something has already broken.

“I can’t—” His voice catches, hoarse and raw, and then he shakes his head, like words are failing him, like they’re too small for what he’s trying to say.

Your heart is pounding. “Heeseung, what are you—”

"I can’t stop thinking about you."

The words crash into you like a wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare.

Heeseung swallows hard, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he’s trying to find a way to make you understand.

"I’ve tried," he continues, voice shaking. "I really, really tried. But you’re always there. You’re in every song I hear, in every dumb inside joke, in every single thing that happens to me. I see something stupid and my first thought is always, ‘Y/N would think that’s hilarious.’ I go to text you and then I stop because I don’t know if I’m supposed to anymore. I—"

He lets out a sharp, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “I thought if I just gave it time, it would go away. I thought I could just—move past it. But I still feel like I’m standing in that damn Halloween party with you, waiting for something to happen.”

Your throat is tight. “Heeseung—”

“I miss you,” he interrupts, pushing forward, stepping into your space like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door on him if he doesn’t. "I miss you so much it’s making me lose my goddamn mind."

Your pulse is roaring in your ears. You should say something. You should do something. But you can’t. You just stand there, staring at him, your body frozen in place. And Heeseung just keeps talking.

"I don’t know how to be your friend anymore," he admits, wrecked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to sit next to you and act like I don’t want more. I don’t know how to look at you and pretend that you’re not the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I think about before I fall asleep. I don’t know how to listen to that fucking song without remembering the way you looked at me that night."

The air is too thick. Your vision is blurring.

Heeseung breathes out a shaky, desperate laugh, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "And the worst part?" He meets your eyes, and it destroys you. "I don’t think I want to stop thinking about you."

And that’s it.

That’s what breaks you. That’s what makes you move.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.

You step forward, grab the front of his stupid wet shirt, and kiss him.

The storm rages outside. And for the first time in three years, neither of you pull away.

The moment your lips crash into his, Heeseung stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but then he’s pulling you closer, like he’s been waiting for this forever.

His hands cup your face, fingers threading into your hair, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. And you grip the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, like if you let go, the moment might shatter around you.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, like he’s relieved, like this is something he’s needed more than breathing itself. He tilts his head, deepening it, and you melt into him, the heat of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.

It’s surreal, familiar and foreign all at once, like stepping into a dream you’ve had before but never been able to hold onto. Because this is Heeseung. The boy who has always been by your side, the boy who has spent years making you laugh until your stomach hurts, the boy who has always been a constant in your life.

But now, he’s something else too. Now, he’s the only thing you can feel. And that’s the strangest part, how utterly consuming this is. Because your brain is struggling to keep up, still caught in the absurdity of it—Heeseung is kissing me, I’m kissing Heeseung, this is happening, this is happening.

And then he moves forward, stepping into the apartment fully, finally, his hands still tangled in your hair, still refusing to let you go. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound almost lost beneath the roar of the storm outside.

Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. His lips find yours again, his hands skimming over your waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s trying to make up for all the time he spent pretending he didn’t want this. And you can’t breathe. Because this isn’t like any kiss you’ve ever had before.

You’ve kissed people you liked. You’ve kissed people you thought you could love. But you have never, never felt this. This heat, this ache, this impossible, indescribable pull. Like your entire life has been leading up to this moment.

Like every other kiss you’ve had before this was just a poor imitation of what it was supposed to feel like. And that’s terrifying. Because how do you go back after this? How do you pretend this doesn’t mean something?

Heeseung exhales against your lips, his breath uneven, his fingers tightening just slightly against your waist. Like he’s thinking the same thing, like he’s struggling just as much as you are to make sense of this.

You should stop. You should pull away, take a breath, process. But you can’t.

Because he tilts his head, kisses you deeper, and suddenly, you’re walking backward without realizing it, your body moving on instinct, your hands clutching at his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you steady. Heeseung follows, one hand sliding down to rest against the small of your back, guiding you without thinking, without hesitation.

Your legs hit the couch. You stumble slightly, your balance faltering for the first time, and Heeseung, on pure reflex, catches you. His hands tighten instantly, pulling you against him, steadying you before you can fall.

But the movement leaves zero space between you. You can feel everything, his chest rising and falling against yours, the heat radiating off of him, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they’re curled into the fabric of your shirt.

His breath brushes against your lips, his nose bumping against yours as you both hover, just for a moment, just long enough to realize how close you are, just long enough to make it worse.

Before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you kiss him again. This time, it’s slower. This time, it’s deeper. This time, it’s not about the rush, the adrenaline, the storm raging outside. This time, it’s about everything else.

About the way his hands move carefully now, like he’s trying to remember every single detail, about the way he tilts his head slightly to fit his mouth against yours like he’s done this a thousand times in his head, about the way he lets out a soft, wrecked sound when you slide your fingers up into his still-damp hair. And you’re drowning in him.

You fall back onto the couch, pulling him with you, and he follows without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand on the cushion beside you, the other still gripping your waist, his fingers trembling just slightly against your skin.

His lips leave yours only for a second, just long enough for him to breathe, just long enough for his eyes to flicker over your face, like he’s trying to memorize you at this moment.

And then, so softly you almost don’t hear it—

“Tell me you want this.”

Your breath catches. Because God, you do. You do. You always have. So you don’t say anything. You just pull him down and kiss him again.

The weight of him settles over you, his body pressed against yours, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once—on your waist, your ribs, twitching like he doesn’t know where to hold you first, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you long enough to decide.

It's overwhelming. His warmth, his scent, the soft, unsteady breaths he exhales between kisses, the way his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt just slightly, just enough to brush against bare skin. It’s careful. Hesitant. Like he’s testing something fragile.

Heeseung groans softly, his grip tightening, his lips parting against yours in a way that sends a full-body shiver down your spine. His hands move up your sides, down to your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes like he wants to commit this exact moment to memory. You arch just slightly, chasing his warmth, and the movement makes Heeseung suck in a sharp breath, his forehead pressing briefly against yours.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You laugh, breathless, hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder. “That’s dramatic.”

His lips graze yours again, barely there, just enough to drive you insane. “You have no idea.”

And you could stay here forever—wrapped up in him, in his weight, in the way his lips brush over your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.

He shifts just slightly, pressing more of his weight into you, his thigh slipping between yours, and your breath catches. Heeseung notices immediately. You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his grip on your waist tightens, in the way he exhales shakily against your cheek.

You don’t move. He doesn’t move. The air changes. Slows. Thickens. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore. Suddenly, it’s so much more than that. It’s every feeling you’ve been ignoring, every second of the past three years, every single moment leading up to this one catching up to you all at once.

And Heeseung feels it too. Because he pulls back, just a little, just enough to look at you properly, his expression wrecked. His fingers brush against your cheek, light, careful, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. Like he’s scared of what happens if you don’t.

You stare up at him, breathless, your pulse pounding in your ears, and— God, he’s beautiful.

His hair is still damp from the rain, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look softer. His lips are kiss-bruised, parted slightly as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

You exhale slowly, one hand sliding down his chest, feeling the way his heart slams against his ribs, and he shudders. You know what this means. You know there’s no going back after this. So you whisper—soft, shaky, everything all at once—

"Heeseung."

And that’s all it takes.

Heeseung exhales—a shaky, uneven breath, like he’s barely holding himself together. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your waist, his body still hovering over yours. Then, softly, barely above a whisper—

"Say my name again."

Your stomach flips. You don’t, not at first. Because you feel lightheaded, because this is Heeseung, because what the hell is happening right now?

But Heeseung isn’t impatient. He doesn’t push. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face—your lips, your eyes, the way your breath catches in your throat. And then, carefully, deliberately, he grabs your wrist.

Your breath hitches as he lifts your hand, as he guides it slowly, until your palm is pressed flat against his chest. You can feel it. His heartbeat. It’s slamming against his ribs, too fast, too unsteady, completely out of control.

You stare at your hand, at where it rests over his racing pulse, at the way his skin burns beneath your touch. Heeseung swallows hard.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice low, rough, wrecked.

And you do, because it’s all you can feel, because it’s like his entire body is responding to you, and you nod, your fingers twitching slightly against his shirt.

Heeseung lets out a breath like he’s relieved, like he needed you to know this, to feel this, to understand what you do to him. Then, slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, he leans down, brushing his lips against the curve of your jaw. You suck in a breath, your eyes fluttering shut as he moves lower, pressing the softest, slowest kiss to the side of your neck. Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your pulse hammering beneath your skin, and he feels it.

“Heeseung,” you breathe, and it’s embarrassing how it comes out, a little too soft, a little too needy, like you’re already losing yourself in him.

He shudders, letting out a sharp breath. “Fuck—”

Then, his teeth graze your pulse point, and you gasp, back arching instinctively into him. Your hips shift beneath his, your hands moving without thinking, fingers grasping at the hem of his hoodie, your skin itching for more of him, more warmth, more of everything.

Heeseung lets you. He lets you push the fabric up, lets you brush your fingers over the bare skin of his stomach, lets you feel the way his muscles tense under your touch. He exhales a groan, head dropping to your shoulder like you’ve just taken the breath right out of him.

He murmurs your name, voice strangled, his fingers digging into your waist as if you’ve completely unraveled him. You suck in a breath, your hands still fisting his hoodie.

“I want to hear you,” he admits, so quietly, like he almost wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “I want to—”

He cuts himself off with another soft groan as you push the hoodie all the way up, your fingers skimming over his bare chest before you finally tug it over his head. It hits the floor with a soft thud, but you barely register it.

Because Heeseung is above you, half-naked, breathing heavy, flushed, and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that exists. You don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just stare up at him, breathless, waiting. And then, finally, you whisper—

"Heeseung, tell me what you want."

Heeseung exhales sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his fingers still pressing into your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, steady himself, like he’s trying not to lose his mind completely.

His hand slides up, fingertips grazing your ribs, slow and deliberate, and you shudder beneath him. His thumb brushes the fabric of your shirt, his touch gentle but knowing, and he meets your eyes, and God, he looks ruined.

"I want—" He starts, but then he laughs breathlessly, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself, like this is too much, like you are too much. His hands are still moving, still exploring, still teasing at the fabric of your shirt, still making your body burn in ways you’ve never felt before. "I want all of you."

Your stomach flips. Because he’s not even touching you properly, and yet it’s the way he says it, the weight of his voice, the truth in it, that makes your pulse stutter.

And then, before you can respond, before you can tease him for how wrecked he sounds, his hands move, slow and deliberate. Fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, knuckles skimming over your stomach, over your ribs, over every single inch of skin he reveals as he goes.

Your breath stutters, your body arching up into his touch. His jaw clenches, his lips part, and then he’s leaning down, pressing his mouth to your collarbone, trailing featherlight, open-mouthed kisses along your skin as he slowly tugs your shirt over your head.

And then, finally, your shirt joins his hoodie on the floor. And suddenly, you’re both bare and breathless, staring at each other like you don’t know what to do next, even though you both know exactly what’s about to happen.

"Heeseung," you whisper, and his eyes flicker, dark, burning, like your voice alone is enough to unravel him.

"You’re not making this easy," he murmurs, his fingers skimming up your sides, his thumb brushing along your ribs, his body pressing down just slightly, just enough to feel how perfectly he fits against you.

Your breath catches. "Good."

And that ruins him. Heeseung groans, low and deep, and then he’s leaning down again, lips trailing along your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone, soft, open-mouthed kisses, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every single second. His voice is strained, thick with something raw, something undeniable.

"You feel so good."

You whimper at his words, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Heeseung reacts immediately, his hips pressing down, his body slotting perfectly against yours, his breath catching as he feels you, all of you, right there beneath him.

"Shit," he mutters, his head dropping to your shoulder, his hands gripping your waist like he needs something to hold onto. You’re both breathless now, bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between you, every single movement sending heat crashing through your veins. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this."

Your heart stumbles. Because neither of you were supposed to say it. Neither of you were supposed to acknowledge it. But now—it’s out there. And there’s no taking it back.

And then Heeseung looks at you, really looks at you. His eyes, dark and hooded with something deeper than just desire, trace every inch of your face, your parted lips, the flush spreading down your neck, the way your chest rises and falls, rapid and uneven beneath him.

“You’re…” He swallows hard, his voice thick with something close to reverence. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

His hands move lower, squeezing your thighs before dragging up again, pushing your legs further apart beneath him. Heeseung exhales sharply, his pupils blown wide as he takes in the way you look beneath him, flushed, needy, completely and utterly his for the taking.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, thick with barely restrained need. “You’re perfect.”

His mouth finds your collarbone, lips hot and insistent as he moves lower, tasting, worshiping. His tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly before he sucks, leaving a mark. His fingers dig into your skin as he rolls his hips down against yours, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips. He watches, fascinated, as your body reacts to his, as your fingers clutch at his arms, as your lips part with another breathy whimper that shoots straight through his bloodstream.

“You like that?” he murmurs, dragging his lips up to your ear, his voice nothing but a low rasp. “Like feeling me this close?” You nod, but it’s not enough. Heeseung needs to hear you say it. “Tell me,” he demands, his fingers tightening just enough to make you squirm.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath.

Heeseung smirks against your skin, the sound of your desperation fueling the heat building between you. “Good.” His lips trail back down, kissing, tasting, exploring every inch of you. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Heeseung hovers over you, his breath warm against your skin as his hands trail lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. His fingers toy with the fabric at your hips, teasing. His voice, when he speaks, is deep and laced with restraint.

“Can I take these off?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the sight of him like this—his lips swollen, his gaze dark with barely contained desire, sends a shiver down your spine. Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly as you whisper, “Yes.”

And the second the word leaves your lips, Heeseung exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back this whole time. His hands move with deliberate slowness, sliding under the waistband, his fingers warm and firm against your hips as he starts to pull your pants down.

His hands guide your pants lower until they slip past your thighs, pooling somewhere near your ankles, and he takes his time, his lips pressing slow, reverent kisses along the soft skin of your lower belly, just above the edge of your underwear.

He groans against your skin, his voice husky. “You have no idea how good you look right now.”

His hands splay over your thighs, his lips follow the same path, pressing kisses, biting gently, dragging his tongue across the warmth of your skin as he moves lower. You let out a shaky breath as he spreads your legs just a little more, his fingers gripping, massaging, his lips marking every inch of your inner thighs as he inches closer to where you need him most.

Heeseung hums against your skin, his breath hot, teasing. “So soft,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with admiration, with hunger. His hands squeeze your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make you arch slightly. “So perfect.”

His lips brush dangerously close to the edge of your underwear, his nose nuzzling against the sensitive skin just beside it, inhaling deeply like he wants to drown in you. His grip tightens. His lips part, and he looks up at you.

The sight of him between your legs, hair messy, lips swollen, his dark eyes filled with something you can’t quite name—it’s almost too much.

His voice is thick, teasing but affectionate. “You’re shaking,” he notes, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh in slow, soothing circles.

Your breath catches. “Because of you.”

Heeseung groans softly, his hands gripping tighter, his lips trailing higher again, back to your hip, back to your stomach, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin there. “You have no idea how much I love hearing that,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, he starts to move up. His fingers slide up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek, like he needs to feel every part of you, like he’s grounding himself in your presence. He exhales sharply, his forehead resting against yours for the briefest second, like he’s gathering himself, like he’s trying to hold back.

“I need to taste you,” he murmurs, his voice nothing but a raw, desperate rasp. “Please.”

Your breath stutters, your fingers gripping onto his arms, feeling the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but the truth is, you want this just as much.

“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs.

Your pulse is a pounding rhythm against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with heat, but somehow, you manage to find your voice.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening for just a second before he’s moving again, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His hands slide back down your body, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you.

And then he’s sinking back down between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands parting your legs with a reverence that makes your head spin.

Heeseung grips the hem of your underwear between his fingers, his breathing ragged, his hands slightly trembling as he looks up at you. His eyes search yours, dark and full of something raw. “Can I?” His voice is hushed, reverent, like a prayer whispered into the silence.

Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as you nod. “Yes,” you murmur.

Heeseung exhales, almost like he’s relieved, like he was afraid you’d stop him. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he slides the fabric down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin as he does, his touch both featherlight and electric.

And then he sees you. His breath catches in his throat, his hands tightening slightly around your thighs as he takes you in. His gaze, hooded and heavy with admiration, rakes over you like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice almost disbelieving.

The way he’s looking at your body, so intense, so completely captivated, sends a flush of heat racing up your spine. Your instincts kick in, your legs twitching slightly as the urge to close them overtakes you. But Heeseung doesn’t let you.

His hands move quickly, firm but gentle as he grips your thighs, keeping you open for him. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your breath hitches, your whole body thrumming under his touch. Heeseung leans in, lips ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath hot against your already burning skin. He looks up at you again, his eyes locking onto yours, and what he says next sends a sharp pulse of anticipation straight through your core.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promises, his voice low, edged with something sinful. “So good that you’ll never forget me.”

And then he dips down. The first press of his mouth against your clit is enough to steal the air from your lungs. Warm, wet, hungry—Heeseung doesn’t just touch, he devours. His tongue moves slow at first, tasting you, savoring every single reaction you give him.

You gasp, arching against him, your body already trembling from the sheer intensity of his touch. Heeseung groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, sending shockwaves up your spine. His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he keeps you exactly where he wants you.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your heat. “Just like I knew you would.”

Your moans come freely now, breathy, desperate, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as Heeseung works you open with his mouth. He hums against you, pleased, lost in you, whispering praise between every stroke of his tongue. “So good for me.” Kiss. “So fucking perfect.” Lick. “You’re mine.” Suck.

And when you whimper his name, broken and pleading, Heeseung only grips your thighs tighter and pulls you even closer, determined to ruin you completely.

Heeseung groans against you, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine as he keeps his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking, licking, savoring you like he’s starving. Then, slowly, he moves one hand between your legs, his fingers tracing a teasing path through your slick folds. You shudder, your hips instinctively bucking at the sensation, and Heeseung chuckles, a low, rough sound against your skin.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before glancing up at you through dark lashes. “So fucking perfect.”

And then he presses a finger inside you. The stretch is slow, deliberate, his touch both gentle and utterly devastating as he sinks into your heat. You gasp sharply, your walls fluttering around him, and Heeseung groans, low and guttural.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching the way you take him in. His finger curls inside you, testing, feeling. “You’re so tight, baby.”

The words send another wave of heat crashing through you, your body tightening at the sheer hunger in his voice. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he eases his finger in deeper as he continues working you open, his tongue never once leaving your clit. Your back arches, your fingers tangling in his hair, and Heeseung groans again, the sound muffled as he devours you, the heat of his mouth sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“Heeseung—” His name slips from your lips, breathless, desperate.

Heeseung growls against you, deep and possessive, and you swear you can feel the sound reverberate through your entire body. His grip tightens, his pace quickens, his finger thrusting deeper, curling, coaxing pleasure out of you with every calculated stroke.

And then he adds a second finger. Your body tenses, the stretch just enough to make you whimper, and Heeseung groans at the way you clench around him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praises, his voice thick, raspy, dripping with admiration. “So fucking perfect for me.”

His lips wrap around your clit again, sucking hard, and your body seizes, heat curling so tight inside you that you can’t hold back any longer. Heeseung feels it, and he sucks harder, pumps his fingers deeper, his other hand pressing down on your stomach to keep you still as your moans turn into cries, your body trembling beneath him.

“Cum for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me feel it.”

And you do. The pleasure slams into you all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your body locks up, your thighs trembling around his head. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing every last drop of pleasure from you as you fall apart beneath him.

Your body shudders, aftershocks rippling through you, and Heeseung finally slows, his touch turning soft, reverent, as he presses one last lingering kiss to your sensitive clit before pulling back.

He looks up at you then, his lips glistening, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged. And then he smirks, his voice low and utterly wrecked.

“Told you I’d make you feel good.”

You smile softly, but before you can even reach for him, he moves, fast, precise. A startled gasp escapes your lips as he manhandles you, lifting you effortlessly off the couch, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that sends a shiver through your entire body. His hold on you is strong, unwavering, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s afraid to let go.

You cling to him, your arms locking around his shoulders as he carries you with ease, moving through the dimly lit apartment. Your lips find his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin, inhaling his scent. The closeness, the heat between your bodies, makes you whimper softly against his throat.

And Heeseung groans. A low, deep sound that rumbles in his chest as he grips you tighter, his pace quickening like he’s growing just as desperate as you are.

Because this isn’t just anyone. This is Heeseung.

The boy who has been stitched into your life for years, who has laughed with you, argued with you, known you in ways no one else has. This is the person you love most in the world—and you’re finally having him like this for the first time. The thought makes you cling to him even harder, your lips trailing messily along his jaw, your fingers gripping at his shoulders, needing more, needing all of him.

When Heeseung reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He kneels onto the bed with you still wrapped around him, letting your back sink into the soft mattress as he gently lays you down, his body hovering over yours.

His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling as he looks down at you, his gaze deep, searching. His Bambi-like eyes, so wide, so full of something tender, something real, hold you in place more than his body ever could.

His hands, still gripping your thighs, slowly loosen, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your skin. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s realizing, holy shit, this is happening.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his belt. The soft sound of the buckle unfastening fills the space between you, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as he pushes his pants down, revealing his bare skin, the strong lines of his toned body, every inch of him that you’ve never seen before but already crave more than anything.

You exhale sharply, your eyes dragging over him, admiring the way the soft glow of your bedroom light casts shadows over his sculpted stomach, the definition in his arms, the sharp cut of his hips. He’s breathtaking. And every second that passes, the ache inside you grows, the need twisting tighter and tighter.

You swallow hard, your voice soft but certain when you finally whisper, “I didn’t know I needed you this much until now.”

Heeseung stills. For a moment, his breath catches, his fingers twitching where they rest against your skin. The flush that spreads across his cheeks, blooming down his neck, his lips part slightly, his eyes flickering between yours, something breaking, something giving way inside him.

Then he looks down at you again. And this time, his gaze is molten. Dark, intense, filled with something raw and unfiltered as he leans down, his lips hovering just above yours.

“I think,” he whispers, his voice low, breathless, “I’ve always needed you like this.”

And then he kisses you. Deep, slow, pouring everything into it, every ounce of longing, every unsaid word, every moment spent waiting for this. His hands roam, tracing the curves of your body, feeling, memorizing.

The moment you feel him, thick and hard against your aching core, you let out a soft, needy moan against his lips. Heeseung still has his underwear on, but the heat of him, the way his hips press down, grinding slowly against you, makes your body arch instinctively, chasing the friction.

Heeseung groans into the kiss, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your lips. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, before he soothes the sting with a slow, lingering kiss.

Your hands wander, trailing down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the firm ridges of his toned stomach, lower, until your fingers reach the waistband of his underwear.

Your breathing is ragged, your body thrumming with anticipation as you whisper, “Please, take this off.”

Heeseung curses under his breath, his body tensing above you. He doesn’t want to tease you, doesn’t want to drag this out. He wants you just as much, he needs you just as badly. Without hesitation, he pushes his underwear down, freeing himself completely. The air between you thickens, the weight of the moment settling in as his bare body hovers over yours, his skin flushed, his muscles taut with restraint.

You lean in, hands splaying across his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. Your fingers trace every inch of him, his collarbones, the defined lines of his stomach, the dip of his lower abdomen, moving lower. But before you can go further, Heeseung catches your wrist. His grip is firm but gentle, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark and searching as he looks at you.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I need to ask you…” He swallows hard, his thumb brushing slow circles against your wrist, like he’s grounding himself in your touch. “Are you totally sure?”

Your chest tightens at the rawness in his voice. His expression—so open, so vulnerable—makes your heart clench.

“Because once this happens,” he continues, his forehead nearly touching yours, “I’m not ever letting you go.”

And there it is. The unspoken truth, finally laid bare between you. This isn’t just a night of pleasure. This isn’t just a long-overdue release. This is everything.

Your lips part, your throat tightening with emotion, and for a second, you can only stare at him, overwhelmed by how much he means to you, how deeply you feel this. Then you whisper, with more certainty than you’ve ever had about anything in your life:

“I’ve never been so sure about something before.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Heeseung. His entire body tenses for a beat, then he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, like he’s just now letting himself believe this is real.

And then he kisses you. It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s hungry, possessive, filled with all the pent-up emotions neither of you ever dared to voice until now.

His hands slide up your arms, capturing your wrists, pinning them above your head as he presses you deeper into the mattress. His body presses against yours, skin to skin, warmth melting into warmth.

And then you feel it, the tip of his cock, hot and heavy, pressing against your entrance, so achingly close. Heeseung breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. He looks down between you, his jaw clenched, his grip tightening just slightly on your wrists as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all his life.

His voice is nothing but a hushed rasp when he says: “Tell me if it hurts.”

Heeseung lets go of your wrists, his hands sliding down your body with a deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin beneath his palms. His fingers find your hips, gripping them gently before one hand moves lower, wrapping around the base of his cock.

He watches you carefully, his gaze dark, hungry, yet filled with something soft, something almost reverent, as he presses the tip against your entrance. He doesn’t push in just yet. Instead, he rolls his hips slightly, dragging himself against your slick folds, teasing, his length brushing against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation sends a shiver through you, a breathless whimper escaping your lips as your fingers dig into his biceps, your body tensing in anticipation.

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening around himself as he watches the way your body reacts to him. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re so wet… so fucking perfect for me.”

Your nails sink deeper into his skin as he finally begins to press inside, the stretch slow and steady, filling you inch by inch. The feeling is overwhelming, him, thick and hot, splitting you open so exquisitely that all you can do is moan softly against his shoulder, your body trembling beneath him.

Heeseung curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck as he stills, letting you adjust. His hands slide up your sides, fingers grazing over your ribs, your waist, gripping you firmly like he’s afraid to let go.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “So fucking good, baby.”

His words send another rush of heat straight through your core, and you can’t help the way your hips shift slightly, taking him even deeper. Heeseung groans at the feeling, his lips parting against your skin.

He lifts his head, searching your face, his eyes filled with both need and restraint. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing softly over your hip. “Can I move?”

You nod quickly, breathless, your fingers tracing over the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, needing him closer. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Heeseung exhales sharply, his grip tightening on your hips as he begins to move, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts. Your breath stutters, a moan slipping from your lips, and Heeseung loses it.

His movements quicken, his hips snapping against yours, his grip turning bruising as he holds you in place, thrusting deeper, harder. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving, and with every stroke, he sinks further into you, like he’s trying to become a part of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice rough against your skin. “You’re taking me so fucking well. So perfect for me.”

His lips find your jawline, tracing a path down your neck, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin before he sucks, leaving a mark, claiming you in every way possible. Your moans grow louder, your body arching against him, and Heeseung groans, loving the way you respond to him, the way you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His lips travel lower, over your collarbone, down to the valley between your breasts. He kisses, licks, nips, worshiping every inch of you as he keeps thrusting into you, each movement deep and unrelenting.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked, possessive. “Only mine.”

His grip on your hips tightens as he pounds into you, his pace growing desperate, wild, his body completely losing control in you. And all the while, he praises you. “Tighter than I ever imagined.” Thrust “So fucking beautiful.” Kiss “You feel like heaven, baby.” Groan.

His words, his touch, his everything push you closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure coils tightly inside you, ready to snap. And Heeseung feels it. He knows you’re close. And he’s not stopping until he sends you over the edge.

Your body trembles beneath him, pleasure curling tight inside you, hot and overwhelming. Your fingers cling desperately to his skin, your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to ground yourself against the way he moves, deep, unrelenting, perfect.

“Heeseung—” Your voice is breathless, wrecked. Your nails dig into his back as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. “God, you feel so good.”

Heeseung groans at your words, his hips stuttering for just a second before he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a good girl for me,” he rasps, voice dripping with praise, with something darker, something possessive.

And that’s when you snap. The coil inside you tightens dangerously, winding so tight you know you’re seconds from breaking. But you don’t want to break, not yet.

So, with the last shred of control you have left, you grab Heeseung by the side of his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair, holding him in place. “Let me ride you,” you plead, your voice thick with desperation. “Please.”

Heeseung growls. A deep, guttural sound that sends a shiver through your entire body. His fingers dig into your hips, his thrusts faltering for a moment as your request sinks in. Then, he moves. In one smooth motion, Heeseung shifts, rolling over and pulling you with him. The world tilts, and suddenly, you’re on top, straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you.

A sharp, choked moan leaves your lips as you feel him fully, the angle changing, the sensation making your entire body tremble.

“Fuck,” Heeseung groans beneath you, his hands flying to your waist, holding you steady as his eyes drag over your body, your heaving chest, the flush painting your skin, the way you’re clenching around him, barely able to contain yourself.

His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his entire expression wrecked with need. “You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick, reverent.

His hands move, Heeseung slides them up your torso, fingers splaying across your ribs before catching your breasts in both hands, squeezing, worshiping. His thumbs flick over your nipples, and the sensation sends another jolt of pleasure straight through you, making you whimper.

“You’re so delicious,” he groans, his thumbs circling your hardened peaks, his hips rolling up slightly into you, making you gasp.

Your head tilts back, your hands bracing against his chest, your body arching into his touch. The heat between you is unbearable, your body already on the edge, but you refuse to let this end too soon.

You start to move, slowly at first, rolling your hips in a deliberate, teasing rhythm, feeling every inch of him stretch and fill you completely. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, pleasure pooling deep in your stomach as you watch Heeseung’s reaction.

Heeseung groans, his grip on your thighs tightening, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to ground himself, trying not to lose control too soon. His head tilts back for a moment, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths as he tries to contain himself.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenching as his eyes squeeze shut, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. His hands flex on your thighs, squeezing, like he’s trying to hold back, like the feeling of you around him is too much.

But then he opens his eyes, and the second his gaze locks onto you, dark and hooded with raw, unfiltered hunger, your whole body burns. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, sweat glistening along his collarbones as he watches you move above him, taking him so perfectly, so effortlessly.

“You’re fucking unreal,” he groans, his voice rough, biting down his lips, barely above a whisper. “Just like that, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, making you clench tighter around him. Heeseung feels it, and his breath hitches, his fingers twitching against your skin.

One of his hands moves from your thigh, sliding up your body, tracing along your stomach, your ribs, before finding the back of your neck. He grips you there, firm but gentle, and pulls you down until your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his.

His other hand stays on your thigh, stroking, soothing, before he snaps. A deep growl rumbles in his chest, and he picks up the pace, his hips rolling up to meet yours, his hands guiding your movements. The pleasure intensifies, your thighs burning with the effort, but Heeseung doesn’t let you slow down.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping hard, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he takes control. And then he slams into you. A sharp, broken moan escapes your lips as he thrusts up, driving deeper, harder, filling you so completely that you swear you might lose your mind.

“That’s it,” he groans, his grip unrelenting as he pounds into you, chasing the feeling of you wrapped so perfectly around him. “Take it, baby. Take all of me.”

His voice, deep, rough, dripping with praise, sends you spiraling, pleasure building, your body trembling under his relentless pace. His mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your skin between ragged breaths. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your sweat, and then his teeth graze your pulse point, his lips closing around it as he sucks.

Your fingers claw at his shoulders, your body arching against his, your moans coming faster, higher, completely overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you.

Heeseung doesn’t slow down. His thrusts stay deep, hard, relentless, his grip unyielding as he drives into you, chasing the pleasure building between you both. His hands remain at the back of your neck, keeping you close, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his breath hot against your skin.

He groans, voice wrecked, rough. “Fuck—baby, you feel so good. So fucking perfect.”

His words send another wave of pleasure crashing through you, making your thighs tighten around his hips. You’re close, you can feel yourself unraveling, your body tightening as the coil inside you threatens to snap. And Heeseung knows. He feels it.

His fingers tighten against your skin, his movements growing desperate, erratic, as his own release begins creeping up on him. His forehead presses against yours, his breath uneven, his voice nothing but a strained rasp.

“Cum for me again, baby,” he pleads, his words like fire against your skin. “Let it go.”

The command, the way his voice drips with authority and adoration, is what finally undoes you. A sharp, broken moan rips from your throat as your body tenses, pleasure surging through you like wildfire. Your walls clench around him, pulsing, milking him, and Heeseung loses it.

A deep, guttural groan escapes his lips as he thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep, his entire body shuddering as he lets go, his release spilling into you. The pleasure crashes over both of you at once, your moans mixing together, filling the room, raw and unrestrained.

And then, stillness.

Your body, still trembling, collapses against his chest, your forehead pressing into the slick heat of his skin. Your breaths are ragged, uneven, matching his as he tries to catch his pace, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

Neither of you speak for a long moment, the silence filled only with the sounds of your slowing breaths, your racing heartbeats.

Heeseung moves his hands, still firm but now gentle, slide down to your lower back, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles against your damp skin. His touch is tender, reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he can’t believe this moment is real.

His lips brush against your hair, barely a whisper of a kiss, before he exhales shakily. And then, he murmurs—soft, breathless, like a vow.

“I’m never letting you go.”

Your chest tightens at the raw emotion in his voice. His arms wrap tighter around you, holding you impossibly close, his hands never stopping their slow caresses against your back. His lips press against the top of your head, again and again, each kiss softer than the last.

“Never,” he whispers. “Never, never, never…”

His words sink into your skin, into your bones, into you. And as you melt further into his embrace, letting the warmth of him envelop you completely, you realize: You never want him to let go.

You slowly lift your head, your breath still uneven, your body still thrumming with the remnants of pleasure.

You meet his eyes, his Bambi-like, doe eyes, wide and full of something so deep, so undeniable, it makes your chest tighten. They glimmer under the dim light of your bedroom, reflecting every unspoken word, every silent confession hanging thick in the space between you.

You let out a breathy, almost disbelieving smile, your gaze sweeping over his face, his flushed cheeks, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, the soft sheen of sweat on his skin. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Heeseung mirrors your smile, soft and hazy, his expression filled with something tender, something so Heeseung that it makes warmth flood your entire body. His hands find your face, large and warm, his knuckles grazing your cheeks in slow, delicate strokes, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

You lean into his touch, nuzzling against his palm, and the way he exhales, soft, shaky, like he’s feeling everything too, sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, barely above a whisper, you say, “I…”

And suddenly, you stop yourself.

Because the weight of what you were about to say hits you all at once.

Your lips part slightly, your throat tightening. The words are right there, sitting heavy on your tongue, aching to spill out. But there’s fear too, fear of what this means, fear of how much this changes everything.

Heeseung notices. His fingers pause against your cheek, his brows twitching just slightly, his gaze flickering between your eyes like he’s searching, trying to read you.

But then, he smiles. Soft, knowing, patient. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his touch featherlight, his voice a quiet murmur in the space between you.

“I know,” he whispers.

Your breath catches. Because you believe him.

Heeseung has always known you better than anyone, always understood you in ways that no one else could. And right now, in this moment, with the way he’s holding you, looking at you, you realize you don’t have to say it.

Because he already knows.

Heeseung leans in, his nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering just above yours, waiting, giving you the choice. And when you press your lips to his in the softest, most deliberate kiss, you’re telling him everything you couldn’t say in words.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you closer, pressing you against his warmth, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

And when you finally pull away, when you rest your forehead against his and breathe him in, you realize: You were never afraid of loving Heeseung.

You were afraid of admitting that you always have.

But now, with his arms around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his heartbeat syncing with yours, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

Because he’s never letting you go.

And neither are you.

That’s why he stays at your house the next day. And the day after that. And for the few days that follow, until time becomes a blur and neither of you think to question it.

Because how could he leave, how could either of you go back to a world where you weren’t tangled up in each other like this?

The first morning, you wake up wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, your head tucked against his chest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing soft, lazy circles against your back. Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you want to.

His lips press into your hair, a silent good morning, and you melt into him because it feels natural, because this is Heeseung, your best friend, the boy who has always been a constant, and yet, now, everything is different.

And it’s better. He doesn’t leave. You don’t ask him to.

Instead, you spend the morning like you have a thousand times before: lounging on the couch, talking about nothing, watching movies you’ve seen a hundred times. Except now, there’s a new rhythm, an unspoken understanding.

His fingers brush yours absentmindedly. His arm finds its way around your waist without hesitation. His lips press against your temple between conversations like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because maybe, it is.

The second night, he kisses you in the kitchen while you’re making dinner, stealing a taste of the sauce on your lips, grinning when you roll your eyes. The third night, you fall asleep with your fingers intertwined, his breath warm against your neck, his hand resting over your heart like he’s afraid you might slip away in the night. By the fourth day, he’s using your shampoo, leaving his clothes in your drawers, stealing your socks because he swears they’re more comfortable than his own.

By the fifth, you don’t even realize he never went home. Because this is home now. Not the walls. Not the bed. But this. Him. You. Together.

One night, a week after everything changed, you find yourselves in your living room, curled up against each other, laughter spilling into the quiet air.

It feels surreal, how easy this is, how natural. And yet, when you look at him, really look at him, you realize this was never sudden at all. This wasn’t a moment. This was a lifetime in the making.

It was in the late-night phone calls when you both should’ve been asleep. It was in the way he always kept your favorite snacks in his kitchen without thinking. It was in the stolen glances, the inside jokes, the nights spent shoulder to shoulder, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of something more. It was in every single thing before this.

And now that the truth is out in the open, now that you know, you don’t ever want to live in a world where you don’t wake up next to Heeseung. And it doesn’t feel real.

Not because you don’t want it to be—but because it still catches you off guard. The quiet way Heeseung reaches for your hand without thinking. The way his presence in your space isn’t something fleeting, but something constant. Something permanent.

It’s been two weeks since everything changed, and somehow, the world didn’t shift to match it. The sun still rises the same way. Your friends still send memes in the group chat. Life moves on, but now, there’s this.

This is Heeseung pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder when he wakes up before you. This is him playing with your fingers absentmindedly when you’re watching something together. This is the way he still teases you the same, still makes fun of you the same, but now he kisses you after like he can’t help it.

Yunjin is the only one who knows.

She had her suspicions, she always had her suspicions, but it became painfully obvious the moment you showed up at her place wearing a hoodie that was at least two sizes too big, one she distinctly remembered seeing Heeseung wear last week.

Which is why, at her birthday party, there’s this lingering tension in the air. It’s subtle, the way you and Heeseung hesitate just slightly when you’re around the others, the way you don’t know if you’re supposed to act like you always have or like something’s changed.

Because something has changed. But the world doesn’t know yet.

You and Heeseung sit at the dining table, pretending everything is normal, pretending that you’re not constantly aware of the warmth of his body next to yours, the way his knee brushes yours every time he shifts.

And then, under the table, he takes your hand. It’s subtle, careful, the warmth of his palm slipping against yours, his fingers threading through yours in a way that makes your stomach flip. Heeseung doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge it, just holds your hand beneath the table, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Finally,” Sunghoon mutters, watching Heeseung with a knowing smirk.

Heeseung freezes. You both turn to see Sunghoon leaning against the chair next to him, arms crossed, eyes flickering down to where your hands are intertwined beneath the table.

“I was wondering when you were gonna stop being a coward,” Sunghoon teases, nudging Heeseung’s foot under the table. “Took you long enough, man.”

Heeseung groans, dropping his head back against the chair. “Jesus, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon just grins, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Nah, I’m happy for you guys. But also, I knew you two had something going on.” He points a lazy finger at you. “Your whole ‘we’re just friends’ thing was so fake.”

The table erupts in laughter, and you sigh, shaking your head. But then, Heeseung squeezes your hand, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Soft. Quiet. Certain. And you realize, this feels right. Being here. Being together. Being this.

The night winds down. People leave. And you end up in Heeseung’s car, the windows slightly fogged from the cold air outside. The soft strum of Waiting Room fills the quiet, the melancholic chords settling deep into your chest.

You watch Heeseung, his hands gripping the wheel loosely, his face relaxed, bathed in the glow of the streetlights.

“Wanna go to McDonald’s?”

You blink. “What?”

Heeseung smirks, eyes flickering to you before turning back to the road. “You heard me.”

A beat of silence. You laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

You order fries and ice cream and talk about the dumbest things. about how Niki's new girlfriend is the worst, about how Jay got too drunk, about how Jake still doesn’t know how to properly pour a drink.

But somewhere between the laughter, somewhere between the way Heeseung licks salt off his fingers and tosses fries into your mouth, somewhere between the way you lean against his shoulder in the drive-thru line.

Heeseung sighs. And then—

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You still. Your fingers tighten slightly around your drink, your breath catching at the quiet, vulnerable way he says it. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you, soft, so soft, his gaze deep, searching.

Your chest tightens. “Heeseung…”

He smiles, a little shy, a little unsure. Then, he reaches out, sliding his fingers over yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I just—” He swallows, then exhales. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Your breath catches. And in that moment, in the soft hum of the radio, in the glow of the streetlights, in the taste of salt and ice cream and the warmth of Heeseung’s fingers against yours, you know.

“I thought maybe it would go away,” he continues, his lips quirking slightly, like he’s laughing at himself. “Like—it’s just Y/N, right? My best friend.”

You hold your breath, watching him, the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, making his eyes look even softer, warmer.

“But then,” Heeseung shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d do something stupid, like wear my hoodie and refuse to give it back, or make me watch Shrek 2 for the tenth time, or grab my hand in a crowded room like it was nothing.” He swallows, his voice dropping to something even softer. “And I’d realize—I was never going to stop feeling this way.”

Your chest tightens. Because it’s always been like this, hasn’t it? The quiet kind of love. The kind that slips into the cracks of everyday moments, unnoticed until one day, it’s too big to ignore.

You feel the words sitting heavy in your throat, pressing against your ribs, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely a whisper.

“Heeseung.” He looks at you, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s bracing himself. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, then squeeze his hand. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time, too.”

The tension in his shoulders dissolves instantly. His lips part, his eyes searching yours like he wants to make sure he really heard you right.

And then, he smiles. Not the teasing kind, not the smirk he throws at you when he’s making fun of you, but something real. Something deep. The kind of smile that says, I know. I knew before you even said it.

You shift closer, your forehead brushing against his, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours. “I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it,” you murmur. “But I do now.”

Heeseung hums, tilting his head slightly. “You sure?”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Good.” He squeezes your hand, his nose nudging against yours. “Because I would’ve had to spend another three years waiting for you to catch up, and I don’t think I could survive that.”

You groan, shoving his shoulder lightly, and he chuckles, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you in, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

And just like that, it’s easy again. The way you tease each other, the way you fit against him, the way you fall back into the rhythm of your friendship except now there’s no pretending.

Now it’s all out in the open. And it’s better.

As Heeseung drives you home, the song still playing softly in the background, your mind drifts back. To three years ago. To that stupid Halloween party where you met, you in your skeleton costume, him in that ridiculous Ninja Turtle onesie.

To the late nights spent working on that Shrek project, arguing about PowerPoint transitions like it was life or death, only to laugh until your sides hurt. To the wedding where he spun you around on the dance floor, looking at you like he already knew, like he was just waiting for you to catch up. To every car ride, every inside joke, every time you almost realized what he meant to you.

Your fingers tighten around his, and Heeseung glances at you, his eyes flickering between you and the road.

“What?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too. “Nothing.”

Because you understand now. Because Waiting Room plays softly in the background, and the lyrics echo in your chest—know it’s for the better.

You do. You know now that keeping Heeseung in your life like this, is the best thing you’ll ever do.

And when Heeseung looks at you, his grip on your hand tightening like he knows too, you realize.

For you, it was worth waiting.

my masterlist 🧦 ☆★ // previous fic

author's note: hey guys! this is my first long fic about heeseung, the first one i've ever written, and i hope you liked it! i know 21k+ words is a lot, but i had so much fun writing it. thank you for reading! <3

#enhypen au #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x female reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen fic #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #heeseung smut #heeseung x reader #heeseung au #lee heeseung #enhypen heeseung #heeseung x you #lee heeseung x reader #heeseung x yn #heeseung imagines #heeseung fluff

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jkwrites-m · 16 days ago

Text

Welcome Home

Pairing: Jungkook x female reader

Genre: established relationship, fluff, smut

Word Count: 6.4k

Summary: He’s finally home. And Y/N is ready to love him for the rest of forever.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, cursing, kissing, emotional vulnerability, light confessions, multiple smut scenes, separation, military, crying, light anxiety, explicit: praise, fingering, body worship, breast play, oral (f. receiving), slight handjob, unprotected sex (this is fiction!),

A/N: in honor of our boys coming back 🫡 (& another time ending & crying from everyone’s lovely comments), here’s a lil something since I stayed up all night to write bc what’s sleep? 🫶 (i originally planned like 3k words but i got kinda carried away 🤭)

♡ MASTERLIST

═══════

The clock ticked louder than it ever had before.

I’d vacuumed the living room twice. Rearranged the throw pillows six times. Lit two candles- one because it smelled like vanilla and safety, and the other because it was his favorite and smelled like expensive cologne and pine trees. My heart had been hammering against my ribs for the past hour, and now it had officially moved to my throat.

I was pacing.

Still in his oversized gray hoodie. Still barefoot. Still wearing the stupid socks with the tiny bunnies on them because they were his favorite and made him smile when he caught me dancing in them, and god, I just wanted him to smile again.

Eighteen months.

A year and a half of letters and FaceTime and countdowns and aching. The kind of ache that settled into your bones and made even the softest days feel sharp. And now, at last, it was over.

He was coming home.

Jeon Jungkook- my boyfriend, my best friend, my whole fucking world- was minutes away from walking through our door.

I felt like I was going to throw up. Or cry. Or both.

Probably both.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and winced. I looked soft, nervous, flushed. Eyes too bright, mouth slightly open like I was afraid to breathe.

The couch still had the dent from the last time he sat there, all those months ago, legs spread, hair a mess, tugging me onto his lap while pretending we had five more minutes. The plants had survived, shockingly. His bunny mug was still in the cabinet, a little dusty but sacred. His dog tags were tucked in the top drawer of my nightstand, hidden like a secret I never wanted to forget.

My phone buzzed.

Jungkook: On my way up now 💜

My lungs forgot how to work.

I backed up until I was pressed against the front door, fingers curled around the hem of his hoodie, grounding myself in the scent that still lingered no matter how long it had been washed.

A minute passed.

And then, I heard it.

The sound of keys.

The soft jingle of metal against metal.

The world stopped spinning.

The doorknob turned slowly, like a movie playing in slow motion. The click of the lock releasing. A pause. A shift in the air.

And then- he was there.

He stood there for a second like he wasn’t sure if this was real.

His uniform was neat but creased from travel. The duffel bag slipped off his shoulder and thudded to the floor, forgotten. His hair was shorter than when I last saw him, neatly buzzed on the sides, grown just enough on top to let a few strands curl slightly across his forehead. His eyes- those stupid, beautiful brown eyes met mine, and they were glassy.

My mouth opened, but no words came out. I just stared, like blinking might make him disappear.

He said nothing at first. Just looked at me like I was a miracle.

And then he smiled.

That lazy, crooked, I-love-you-so-much-I-can’t-stand-it smile.

“Hi,” he said softly, voice rough and low.

I didn’t remember crossing the room. I just knew I was in his arms.

I slammed into him with enough force that he stumbled back a step, and his arms snapped around me like steel. His breath hitched. My fingers dug into his back, holding him as close as possible, trying to pull him into me.

“Shit,” he whispered against my hair. “You’re real. You’re really here.”

“You’re here,” I breathed, shaking. “You’re actually here.”

And then we kissed.

Hard. Fast. Desperate.

He tasted like spearmint gum and tears and every single day I’d waited for him. Our mouths clashed, messy and urgent, and I whimpered when he cupped my face with both hands, thumbs stroking the apples of my cheeks like I might fade if he didn’t touch every inch of me.

When we finally broke apart, he pressed his forehead to mine, his voice cracking.

“I kept dreaming about this.”

I laughed through a sob. “I kept your mug on the top shelf. It’s dusty as hell, but it’s yours.”

He laughed, breathless, hugging me tighter. “That stupid bunny one?”

“Of course.”

He looked at me like I was made of stars. “God, I missed you.”

I swallowed hard. “I missed you so bad, Jungkook. It physically hurt.”

His nose brushed mine. “Don’t cry yet. You promised not to cry.”

I wiped at my cheeks, sniffling. “You promised not to make me cry in the first five minutes.”

“And yet here we are,” he said with a grin, stepping inside fully and kicking the door closed behind him.

The moment it clicked shut, something shifted.

The weight of the past eighteen months lifted just enough for us to breathe.

He bent down, gently picking up his duffel bag with one hand and keeping the other firmly around my waist, like letting go wasn’t an option. I guided him toward the living room, heart still pounding in my ears, his presence so overwhelming it felt like light filling up every corner of a long-empty room.

═══════

We sat on the couch in the same spot we always claimed.

He let out a long sigh and leaned back, pulling me onto his lap without hesitation. I curled into him like I’d never left, straddling his thighs, arms wrapped around his neck. His hands settled on my hips, thumbs rubbing slow, calming circles.

“Still fits,” he murmured, looking down at the way I curled into him.

“What, me?” I teased.

He smirked. “You. The hoodie. The weight of you in my arms. All of it.”

I flushed, brushing my fingers across his cheek. “You look… God, I forgot how good you look up close.”

“Yeah?” he said, eyebrows raised, cocky grin pulling at his lips.

I nodded, biting my lip. “Like you’re gonna kiss me stupid again.”

He didn’t answer with words. He leaned in and did exactly that.

His lips were warm and familiar.

The kind of kiss that melted through skin and settled in the marrow.

I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t think I could stop. His mouth moved against mine like he was relearning every curve, every sigh, every tiny sound I made when he tilted his head just a little bit more. His fingers pressed against the small of my back, pulling me closer until there was nothing left between us but heat and years of pent-up wanting.

When we finally broke for air, he was smiling.

That soft, smug, gorgeous smile I hadn’t seen in person in far too long.

“You’re seriously trying to kill me,” I murmured, brushing my thumb along his bottom lip.

His eyes sparkled. “You think I flew across the country, got discharged, and came home just to not kiss you stupid?”

I snorted, burying my face in his neck. “You smell like detergent and danger.”

“Danger?” he repeated with a laugh. “Baby, I’m tame now. Government-issued. Fully trained in discipline.”

I pulled back just enough to raise a brow. “Yeah? That right?”

He nodded solemnly. “Mmhm. Highly decorated. Wildness fully contained.”

I rolled my hips just slightly in his lap- barely there, just enough to see if he’d crack.

He did.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hands tightening on my hips. “Okay- maybe not that contained.”

“That’s what I thought,” I whispered, lips brushing against the corner of his jaw.

His head tilted back, exposing his throat, and I kissed the smooth skin there, letting my teeth graze just enough to make him shiver.

“Eighteen months,” he whispered. “Do you know how many times I imagined this exact moment?”

“How many?”

“Too many to count. Always you. Always this hoodie. Always the way you look when you’re about to get what you want.”

I grinned. “What makes you think I’m about to get what I want?”

His hands slid under the hem of the hoodie, fingers grazing my bare thighs.

“Because I’m about to give you everything.”

═══════

He stood with me in his arms like I weighed nothing, one arm hooked under my legs, the other around my back. I squealed, laughing into his shoulder as he carried me down the hallway like some lovesick soldier in a romantic drama.

“I can walk, you know,” I teased.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he said, voice low. “Let me carry you for a bit.”

I bit my lip, heart stuttering.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his foot and set me down gently on the mattress. For a moment, we just looked at each other. No words. No teasing.

Just us.

His eyes roamed my face like it was holy. Like he was mapping me out again. He slid his hand up my leg slowly, reverently, pausing at the edge of the hoodie.

“Still mine?” he asked, voice rough.

“Always,” I whispered.

His mouth crashed into mine again.

But this time, it was slower. Deeper. We kissed like we had time. Like we had forever.

And as his hands started tugging fabric, and mine fumbled with the buttons of his uniform, I felt it- that tiny pulse of something perfect. Something sacred.

He kissed down the column of my neck like it was the only way he remembered how to breathe.

Slow, lingering, lips dragging along my pulse point, a warm exhale every time his mouth hovered just above skin. My fingers were in his hair before I realized it, tugging slightly, needing to anchor myself in something because I felt like I was floating.

The hoodie was still on me.

I think he liked it that way for a minute- his oversized clothing wrapped around my body, bare legs curled in the sheets beneath me, looking up at him like he hung the damn stars.

“Kook,” I whispered, fingers brushing his jaw.

He looked up, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Take it off,” I said, voice smaller than I meant it to be. “Please.”

His expression softened.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t tug or yank or act like he’d been waiting eighteen months just to get me naked- even if we both knew that was true. Instead, he knelt on the bed, hands sliding slowly up my thighs and under the hoodie, pushing the fabric up inch by inch.

I raised my arms for him.

He peeled it off gently, reverently like unwrapping something precious.

I was bare underneath. Nothing but skin and nerves.

He let out a slow, shaky breath. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

My skin flushed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

His eyes drank me in like he was trying to memorize everything- the curve of my waist, the swell of my chest, the way I was already squirming under his gaze.

“You look like a dream,” he said, voice hoarse.

“And you look like mine,” I whispered back.

He leaned down, lips brushing the skin between my breasts, and I arched up into him on instinct.

Everything felt amplified. My body was hyper-aware of him. The way his fingertips skated along my hips, how he kissed across my ribs, how he made sure to linger in every spot that made me twitch or sigh or clutch the sheets.

“Still okay?” he asked, lips hovering above my belly.

“God, yes.”

“I want to go slow,” he murmured. “I don’t want to miss a single second.”

I reached for him, tugged gently on his shirt. “Then take this off and let me look at you.”

He sat up and pulled the dark green uniform shirt over his head, revealing tanned skin and inked muscle. My mouth dried instantly.

“You’ve been working out,” I said, biting my lip.

He smirked. “Had to keep busy.”

“Well, it paid off.”

I ran my hands down his chest, loving the way he shivered under my touch.

He lowered himself onto me, skin to skin now, heat meeting heat, and kissed me like he meant to make up for every night we’d lost.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he whispered, voice barely holding together.

“I do,” I breathed. “Because I felt it too.”

His hand slipped between us, and I gasped.

The real beginning was here.

And I was ready.

═══════

His fingers moved slowly- deliberate, trembling slightly, like the gravity of touching me again after so long was still settling in.

I opened for him instinctively, breath catching as he slid two fingers along my folds, testing, teasing, learning me all over again. His forehead pressed to mine, eyes never leaving mine, watching every twitch of my mouth as I whimpered under his touch.

The air between us was thick with anticipation, heavy with the weight of eighteen months apart.

“You’re soaked,” he breathed, his voice rough and low, as if the words were torn from him against his will.

“You’re late,” I whispered, a teasing edge to my tone, though my heart was pounding in my chest. I couldn’t help but smile, even as my body arched into his touch, craving more.

He let out a strangled laugh and kissed me again, lips claiming, hand steady as he slipped one finger inside me, and I gasped so loud he groaned, his breath hot against my skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, kissing down my throat. “I forgot how tight- how perfect- ”

“Don’t you dare stop,” I breathed, nails digging into his shoulder, holding him close. I needed him, needed this, after so long apart.

He didn’t.

A second finger joined the first, slower now, deliberate, as if he were mapping every inch of me. My hips bucked up into his hand without shame, without hesitation.

I wanted all of him. Now.

My hands fumbled at his waistband, and he didn’t stop me. In fact, he shifted just enough to help, pushing the last of his clothing off, bare now, hot and flushed and hard as hell. My mouth actually dropped open.

I looked down.

“Oh.”

His smirk was wicked, playful, the same one that had always made my heart skip a beat. “Something you missed?”

I bit my lip. “So much.”

And then I was on my back again, legs wrapped around his waist, his body hovering above mine like a question- waiting for the answer we both already knew. I could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, and my answer was already written in the way my body arched toward his.

“Still sure?” he whispered, forehead pressed to mine.

“Don’t make me beg,” I said softly, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside me.

His hips rolled forward.

We both gasped.

It was a stretch- the good kind. The perfect kind. Like being filled up with something that felt like love and breath and the sun all at once. He sank in slowly, carefully, kissing me through every inch, groaning against my mouth when he bottomed out.

We didn’t move at first.

Just stared at each other like the world had ended and we were all that was left. His eyes searched mine, full of questions and answers, of everything we hadn’t said in the months apart.

Then he started to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Deep.

Every thrust was measured, like he wasn’t just fucking me- he was remembering me. I clung to him, my legs wrapped tight around his waist, my hands digging into his back, mouth open with moans I couldn’t control. My breath stuttered in time with his hips, and I felt every inch of him, every memory, every moment we’d missed.

“God, I missed you,” he groaned.

“I never stopped wanting you,” I cried out, my voice breaking as tears welled in my eyes.

He kissed away the tears as they came- not rushed, not frantic. Just present. Every part of him was right there. No space left between us. No apologies. Just forgiveness and softness and heat and-

My orgasm hit me like a wave.

It stole my breath and made me cry out, body tightening around him in a way that made him curse beautifully into my neck. He didn’t stop moving. He kept going- rougher now, chasing his own high as he buried his face in my chest.

“I’m close,” he panted, his voice a raw whisper. “Fuck- I’m- ”

“Cum,” I whispered. “Come home to me.”

That did it.

He spilled into me with a guttural moan, shaking, holding me so tight I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Sticky. Sweaty. Tired. Home.

═══════

Later, he curled into me, head resting on my chest like it was the only pillow that ever made sense. One leg hooked over mine. One arm around my waist. He held me like I was the last tether holding him to earth- like if he let go, the world would tip again.

I couldn’t stop touching him.

My fingers carded through his hair, slow and steady. It was softer than I remembered. Freshly washed, warm from sweat, the ends damp and curling from the heat between us. I pressed a kiss to the crown of his head and inhaled deeply, committing the moment to memory.

He didn’t speak. But I knew he wasn’t asleep.

His breath hitched every time I stroked behind his ear. His thumb brushed back and forth across the skin just above my hip bone, like he was counting seconds.

He was still here. Still present. Still grounding himself.

Every so often, he’d let out a long breath, not quite a sigh, more like a release. As if with each exhale, a little more of the weight he’d carried for eighteen months finally bled out of him.

“I love you,” I whispered, not even meaning to say it aloud.

But he hummed in response, soft and quiet, like his soul already knew.

And still, I held him.

I let my fingers explore gently. Tracing the curve of his shoulder, the line of his spine, the new ridges and hardness in his body that hadn’t been there before. He’d grown stronger. Quieter. Older, somehow. But this- the way he clung to me like I was his anchor, hadn’t changed at all.

Finally, his breathing began to slow.

His grip loosened, not in fear, but in peace. His face softened, lips parting slightly as sleep took him. I kissed his temple, felt the tiny twitch of his lashes against my chest.

I waited until he was fully still. Until the apartment around us felt like a cocoon, and the air between us had settled into something sacred.

Then I leaned in close. My lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath warming his skin.

“Welcome home,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

But the smile that tugged at his lips in sleep was enough.

═══════

When I woke up, the room was blue.

That soft, pre-dawn blue where everything looks like a painting. The blinds were tilted just enough for the city lights to bleed through, casting long shadows across the sheets tangled around our bodies. I hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

Jungkook was still draped over me, cheek pressed to my chest, breathing slow and even. His arm was slung lazily over my waist, fingers curled into the fabric of the sheet like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.

I could barely breathe, but not because of the weight.

Because of the peace.

I lay there, unmoving, eyes tracing the slope of his bare shoulder, the tiny freckles on his back, the edge of the tattoo that peeked out from beneath the covers. God, I missed those freckles. I missed the way he slept- completely uninhibited, one leg flung out, lips parted slightly like he’d been dreaming something soft.

He made this tiny sound when I brushed a hand down his spine. A low, sleepy murmur, almost like a cat stretching into touch. I smiled.

“I missed that noise,” I whispered, not really intending for him to hear.

But he shifted slightly, his voice thick and rough from sleep. “Missed you whispering in bed.”

My breath caught. I looked down, and sure enough, his eyes were barely open.

His lips were pulled into a sleepy, lopsided smile.

“Good morning,” I said, brushing the hair from his forehead.

“Best one I’ve had in eighteen months.”

I felt my throat close a little. “You remember how to flirt, I see.”

“Hard to forget when you were in my dreams every damn night.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow and hovered above me, the sheet slipping slightly to reveal his chest. He leaned down and kissed my bare shoulder. Then my collarbone. Then the corner of my mouth.

“You smell the same,” he whispered.

“So do you.”

He smiled. “Must be fate.”

I laughed, pushing at his chest until he collapsed beside me with a groan, arm pulling me with him. I curled into his side, my hand resting over his heart.

“You okay?” he asked after a beat. “Really okay?”

I nodded against him. “I didn’t realize how not-okay I was until I could touch you again.”

He swallowed hard. “Same.”

We lay in silence for a moment, just listening to each other breathe. There was something sacred about the quiet. Something that didn’t need to be filled. Just held.

“I was scared,” he said quietly, voice so low I almost missed it.

My heart paused.

He was staring at the ceiling now, one arm still around me, his fingers drumming slowly against my hip. It was a nervous rhythm, soft and off-tempo. Like he was fighting the words.

“What were you scared of?” I asked, nuzzling closer, my nose brushing his jaw.

He hesitated, then turned to face me fully.

“That you’d move on,” he said. “That you’d realize you didn’t want to wait anymore. That someone else would come along and actually be there for you.”

I blinked at him.

“Jungkook.”

He looked down. “I know it’s dumb. You always reassured me. But every time I saw your face through a screen instead of in front of me, it hit me all over again. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t hold you when you cried. I couldn’t kiss you when you had a bad day. I couldn’t even send you a real fucking gift without jumping through a dozen approval hoops.”

“You sent me letters,” I whispered, voice thick.

“I wanted to send me. Not scraps of me. All of me.”

I cupped his face gently. His eyes were glassy again, lashes heavy with emotion.

“I never wanted anyone else,” I told him. “Not even for a second.”

He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t stay because I’m a good girlfriend,” I continued. “I stayed because you’re my person. You’re the one I see when I think of forever. There’s no timeline that could ever make me forget that.”

He leaned forward and kissed me- slow, deep, thankful. He kissed me like I’d just saved his life.

“I love you so much,” he whispered against my lips.

“I love you more.”

“Impossible.”

We fell back against the pillows, foreheads touching, breath shared. The silence between us wasn’t silence anymore. It was full. Of everything we’d said. And everything we didn’t need to.

After a few minutes, I rested my chin on his chest.

“I had my own fears,” I admitted.

He looked down at me. “Yeah?”

I nodded slowly. “That when you came back, you’d be… different. That maybe the version of you I remembered wouldn’t exist anymore. That I wouldn’t know how to fit next to you again.”

He traced a finger along my back. “Did it feel like that?”

“No,” I said. “It felt like breathing again.”

He pulled me tighter against him. “Then let’s never stop.”

My heart fluttered.

He kissed my forehead and whispered, “We can stay here all day, you know. Screw the outside world. No alarms. No phone calls. Just you, me, and this bed.”

“You’re speaking my language,” I murmured.

“I’ve always been fluent in you.”

I giggled, hiding my face against his chest. “That was so cheesy.”

He grinned. “I’ve been saving that line for weeks.”

═══════

Time slowed in the haze of post-reunion softness.

I couldn’t tell how long we’d been wrapped up in each other like that. Minutes? Hours? I didn’t care. The world outside our bedroom didn’t exist. It’s just the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional car below our window, and the steady thrum of Jungkook’s heartbeat beneath my cheek.

“I missed this,” I mumbled, eyes still closed.

He stroked my back gently. “What, cuddling naked in bed while I sweat like a furnace?”

I snorted. “No. Well, yes. But also this. Just being dumb and half-asleep and saying things like ‘I missed this.’”

His chest rumbled under me with quiet laughter. “I missed you being dumb and half-asleep.”

“Charming.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

We stayed there, giggling softly, like we were trying not to wake the memory of everything we’d been through. I traced lazy shapes on his chest, spelling out nonsense, occasionally drawing a heart or writing his name with my fingertip.

He hummed. “Whatcha writing?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Is it dirty?”

I grinned up at him. “What if it is?”

He leaned down, nudging my nose with his. “Then I’m obviously obligated to investigate.”

His mouth found mine again. Slow, sleepy, and deliciously unhurried. He kissed me like there was no rush. Like we had all the time in the world.

And for the first time in a long time, we did.

When we pulled apart, he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You wanna know what I missed the most?”

I nodded.

He smiled. “The way you look at me when you’re not saying anything. Just… like that. Like you already know I’m yours.”

I felt my eyes sting.

“And you are,” I whispered. “You always were.”

═══════

Eventually, our stomachs growled loud enough to interrupt the moment.

He groaned. “Okay. I love you, but I also love food.”

“You can have both,” I said. “You have me and leftover ramen in the fridge.”

He lit up like a little kid. “You kept the leftovers?”

I smirked. “I keep everything.”

He reached for his boxers, but I yanked him back by the waistband and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “I’m serious, though. Today’s just for us.”

“No calls. No errands. No makeup or clothes unless absolutely necessary.”

He saluted. “Roger that. I am officially yours for the day.”

“You’re mine every day.”

He kissed the tip of my nose. “Damn right I am.”

═══════

Jungkook made breakfast shirtless, and I decided I was never letting him leave the apartment again.

He wore nothing but those gray sweatpants and a sleepy grin, hair messy from bed, dog tags clinking softly as he moved around the kitchen like it was still his. Like no time had passed. Like his body didn’t just come home from the weight of eighteen months of structure and silence.

I sat on the counter in one of his old t-shirts (the black one with the tiny bleach stain near the hem) and watched him whisk eggs like it was the most mesmerizing thing in the world.

“I forgot how loud you are in the kitchen,” I teased, swinging my legs.

“I forgot how nosy you are,” he shot back with a grin, glancing over his shoulder.

I smiled, sipping my coffee. “Is it weird that this feels normal already?”

“Not weird. Perfect.”

He poured the eggs into the skillet and crossed the kitchen to stand between my legs. His hands rested on my thighs, his head dropping to my shoulder.

“I used to imagine this exact moment,” he said softly. “Waking up with you. Cooking for you. Holding you in a room that didn’t echo.”

My fingers threaded through his hair. “We’re here now.”

“I know.” His lips brushed my neck. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

═══════

We ate together at the counter. Laughing over slightly burnt toast, fighting over who got more juice, giggling when he leaned over just to kiss the corner of my mouth.

Every moment felt precious. Every touch mattered.

After breakfast, we curled up on the couch- me wrapped in a blanket, him lying between my legs, head on my chest like before. Our show played in the background, but we didn’t pay attention. We were too caught up in each other.

“I kept watching this without you,” I admitted.

He gasped dramatically. “You betrayed me.”

“I had to do something to feel close to you.”

He smiled, looking up at me. “You could’ve just written ‘Jungkook is sexy’ on all the mirrors.”

I snorted. “You assume I didn’t?”

He burst out laughing, hand sliding under the blanket to squeeze my knee. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We stayed that way until the sunlight shifted, the afternoon creeping across the walls. And still, neither of us moved.

He sighed deeply, hand stroking my hip under the blanket. “You know the hardest part?”

I tilted my head.

“It wasn’t the schedule. Or the drills. Or the cold nights. It was sleeping without you. Going to bed and waking up without you.”

I bent down and kissed his temple. “Well, you’re never doing that again.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ll hold you to that.”

═══════

Night fell slow and soft over the apartment, wrapping everything in gold. The city hummed outside the window, but inside, it was just us. Tangled limbs. Quiet breaths. Familiar touches.

We lay curled around each other in bed, the comforter kicked halfway down, skin against skin. I was spooned against his chest, his arm tucked tight around my waist, nose pressed to the back of my neck. I could feel him breathing me in.

And then his hand started moving.

Not hurried. Not rough. Just soft, slow strokes across my stomach. Fingertips tracing idle patterns, brushing under the hem of the shirt I’d borrowed from him again.

“Kook,” I whispered, breath catching.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just nuzzled closer, pressed a warm kiss just below my ear.

“I can’t stop touching you,” he murmured, voice heavy with sleep and want. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze. His brown eyes, warm and heavy-lidded, held a vulnerability I wasn’t used to seeing. “It’s real,” I whispered, reaching down to lace our fingers together.

His hand was calloused, a reminder of the life he’d lived without me for the past eighteen months, but his touch was gentle, as if he feared I might shatter.

He turned me gently onto my back, body sliding over mine in one smooth, fluid motion. His weight wasn’t oppressive; it was grounding, a reminder of his presence, of us. His lips found my collarbone, and I felt the low hum in his throat as he kissed lower, slower.

My body responded instinctively, arching slightly as his mouth trailed down, his tongue leaving a wet path that made me squirm beneath him.

“Need you one more time,” he said.

My breath hitched. “You just had me.”

“I know,” he whispered, forehead resting against mine. “But I want to feel it again. All of it. You. Us. This. Before sleep takes me.”

There was no room for teasing now, no space for jokes. Just heat and heartache and something deeper than either of us could put into words.

His lips found mine, and he kissed me like it was his final prayer, like he was pouring every unspoken word, every missed moment, into that single touch.

Hands exploring like every inch of me was sacred.

He pushed my hair back, exposing the curve of my neck, and kissed every inch of newly revealed skin as if asking permission all over again. My shirt was peeled away slowly, his lips following the fabric as it slid off my shoulders.

I shivered as his mouth found the sensitive skin of my breasts, his tongue tracing the outline of my nipples before taking one into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, until I gasped his name.

“Kook,” I breathed, my hands tangling in his black hair, pulling him closer.

He smiled against my skin, a cheeky grin that made my heart flutter. “You taste so good,” he murmured, his lips moving lower, his hands sliding down my body.

He kissed my stomach, my hips, my thighs as his fingers hooked into the waistband of my pants. I lifted my hips, helping him slide them off, and he paused, his eyes drinking me in like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with awe.

I blushed, but the heat in my cheeks was nothing compared to the fire burning low in my belly. “Baby,” I whispered, urging him closer.

His lips found the junction of my thighs, his breath warm against my cunt. I gasped as his tongue pressed against me, slow and deliberate, tasting me like I was the sweetest thing he’d ever known.

His hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as he explored, his tongue dipping and swirling, his mouth sucking gently, then harder, until I was moaning his name, my fingers clutching at the sheets.

“Fuuuck, Kook,” I groaned, my body arching off the bed. “Right there.”

He hummed his approval, his tongue pressing deeper, his fingers sliding between my folds, teasing the spot that made me see stars.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice muffled against my skin. “So fucking perfect.”

His praise sent a rush of heat through me, and I felt my walls clenching around his tongue, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Baby, please,” I begged, my body on the edge, teetering between pleasure and release.

He smiled against me, his lips curving into that cheeky grin I loved so much. “I got you baby,” he whispered, pulling back slightly, his tongue tracing lazy circles that made me whimper. “Come apart for me.”

His words were the push, and I felt my body respond, my muscles tightening, my breath hitching as he worked his magic. His tongue was relentless, his mouth devouring me, his fingers sliding inside me, stretching me, filling me, until I was a mess of moans and pleas, my body trembling on the brink.

“Kook, I- ”

He didn’t let me finish. His mouth closed over me, his tongue pressing hard against my clit, his fingers curling inside me, and I shattered. My back arched, my nails digging into his shoulders as my orgasm ripped through me, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me, leaving me breathless and boneless.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, my body still trembling as he kissed his way back up, his lips brushing against mine. “That was-“

“Not enough,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “But we’ll fix that.”

He shifted, his body moving over mine, his lips finding mine again, kissing me deeply, his tongue tangling with mine as he settled between my legs. I felt him, hard and thick, pressing against my thigh, and I reached down, wrapping my hand around him, stroking slowly, savoring the feel of him, the way he twitched in my grip.

“You’re so hard,” I murmured, my thumb brushing over the head, smearing the pre-cum that had leaked from him.

“All for you,” he replied, his voice a low growl. “Always.”

He kissed me again, his lips moving to my neck, my collarbone, his hands sliding down my body, teasing, touching, until I was squirming beneath him, needy and desperate for more.

“I want you inside me,” I whispered, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

He kissed me like he was claiming me, his lips fierce and hungry, his hands gripping my hips as he positioned himself at my entrance. I felt him press against me, the head of his cock teasing my folds, and I gasped as he slid inside, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.

It felt different. More intense. Like our bodies remembered each other better than our minds ever could. There was no rush. No wild rhythm. Just slow, deep movements- hips rocking together in a perfect, quiet ache.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “You feel so good.”

I wrapped my legs tighter around him, urging him deeper, and he obliged, his hips rocking into mine, his thrusts slow and controlled, each one sending a jolt of pleasure through me. His eyes stayed locked on mine, his expression raw and open, as if he was laying his soul bare.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice a chant, a tether holding him to me. “So much.”

I kissed the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, my fingers tracing the scar near his shoulder, a reminder of the life he’d lived before me.

“I’m yours,” I told him. “Always.”

His thrusts grew deeper, his hips moving in a rhythm that matched my own, our bodies moving as one, our breaths syncing, our hearts beating in time.

The air was thick with the sound of our skin slapping together, our moans filling the room, our pleasure building, inexorable and undeniable.

“Kook,” I gasped, my body tightening around him, my walls clenching as I felt the familiar coil of pleasure building low in my belly. “I’m close.”

“Me too,” he groaned, his thrusts becoming more urgent, his hands gripping my hips tighter. “Cum with me, baby. Let go.”

My body shattered around him, my orgasm ripping through me, my cries echoing in the room as he followed, his own release spilling into me, his name on my lips as we came apart together, our bodies trembling, our breaths ragged, our hearts pounding.

He collapsed beside me, chest rising fast, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. I turned into him, pulling the blanket up over us. His hand found mine beneath it.

“I could stay here forever,” he mumbled, lips brushing my temple.

I smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I’d let you.”

And then, slowly, his body began to relax. His breathing slowed. His grip on my hand loosened just slightly as his eyes fluttered shut.

I looked at him. He’s so beautiful and unguarded in sleep.

My heart ached with how much I loved him.

I leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“No more waiting, baby. No more distance. You’re home… you always were.”

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♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 06/10/2025

#jkwrites m #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook ff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts #bts ff #bts ffs #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #welcome home m #jkwrites m one shot

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asapeveryday · 2 months ago

Text

night shift ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ p.b

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ pairing: paige bueckers x nurse!reader ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ warnings: oral sex, scisssoring, slight overstim ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ tl;dr: she's sick of waiting, and she doesn't care if you're fresh off of your shift---she just wants a taste. looks like you're working overtime. rainy day. dim lighting. couch sex. established relationship. ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ a/n: just some intimate sex with your gf who misses u. i haven't written enough established relationship stuff. unpopular opinion, but it can be more fun than the usual first-hookup stuff in most fics (mine included). also dim lighting is sooo sexy. thank u.

"paige, c'mon."

she's on you the minute you walk through the door, keys still in hand, hair wet from the rain you got caught in as you stepped out of your uber home.

"nah," she murmurs against your lips, "i've been waiting."

"paige." you groan, shuddering as her hands grip your ass through your scrubs. "really?"

"yes, really." she pouts, the way that always makes you either agitated or endeared. "you got paged this morning. we didn't get to finish."

"i told you i was on call." you say.

"and i told you that we'd pick up where we left off when your shift was over." she cocks her head.

it's hard to resist, that's for sure. she always knew how to turn you on to the max. look at her now, even with her stupid uconn hoodie from her college days, worn out boxers and messily tied back hair, she still looks like something you'd like to take a bite out of.

and she wasn't wrong---she had said that this morning, right after cornering you in your apartment's small kitchen.

her hands on either side of you as your back met the counter, her lips kissing you languidly, her fingers peeling your pyjamas off. you'd already fucked the night before, but you knew better than anyone that her sex drive was insatiable.

still, it couldn't be helped. your pager began to ring from your bedside table a few rooms over, and it took a whole lot of strength to pry her body off of you this morning.

she's back to kissing you now, softly, despite her impatience. she wants to enjoy it this time, take it slow. it's a nice change from her usual ferocity. you can't help but melt in her hands as one rubs your back and the other grips your rear.

her eyes are closed, her clear-framed glasses bump against your nose ever so slightly, and her lips are soft. she kisses you once, twice, three times, before her tongue finally makes an appearance.

you meet her half way, and suddenly you feel like you're folding into her against the warm, orange light of your living room. she's moving, you're following blindly. she makes these cute little noises, half-whimpers, as your teeth tug her bottom lip ever so slightly, as her tongue tickles the inside of your mouth.

when you part for air she's smiling, her eyes are looking at you with such tenderness. you're sure the look you give her is one of the same. it's hard not to, not with the way her cheeks are tinged pink, or how her lips glisten against the dim lamp light.

"so?" she raises an eyebrow, her voice raspy, quiet. "can we?"

"oh, paige." you frown. "i don't know. i'm still in my scrubs for crying out loud."

"okay. so take them off." she shrugs, and though her face is serious you can sense the comedy in her tone.

"and i'm all gross. y'know...hospital stuff. remember?" you raise a brow.

"we can shower. i could clean you off real good, actually." she hums, leaning in with a grin. "from the inside."

"ugh, gross paige." you snort, pushing her back. "that was not hot."

"shit, really?" she huffs. "i thought that one would work."

"we're definitely not showering together." you shake your head. "not after last time."

"come on, baby." she whines, arms wrapping around you again. "s' not my fault the shower door gave out."

"i told you not to put so much pressure on me!" you gasp. "i almost got a concussion, and i didn't even cum."

"you could face the other way this time?" she suggests.

"no shower." you say stubbornly, to which she simply sighs.

she just holds you against her, head leaning against yours. her fingers trace swirls and lines onto your spine, they trace the curves of the bones in silent appreciation. she's so warm. she smells like home, like fresh shampoo and lemon-vanilla deodorant.

"okay." she mumbles against your hair, uncaring of the horrors it may have seen on the job. she hides any dejection she may possess, she'd never pressure you, but you know she's dissapointed. after all, she's only been waiting all day.

"well, now that you've got me like this, we might as well." you sigh, faking some notion of nonchalance.

"you sure?" she breaks from you slightly so her eyes can meet yours.

"yes." you smile. "but still no shower."

"bed?" she chirps, her blue eyes excited, already sparkling the way they do when she has some game to play.

"i'm all gross."

paige chews her lip in thought. "couch?"

you glance at your couch, the one that's only seen a few elevated makeout sessions.

"okay." you hum. "couch it is."

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

she doesn't care that your underwear is probably the ugliest pair you own---no, she doesn't give a damn. it's all gonna come off anyways.

your scrubs are on the floor, your granny panties caught at your ankles. your bra is pushed up, and her hands jiggle and squeeze your tits mindlessly as she watches how they move, lips bitten half raw.

she's straddling you on the couch, boxers riding high on her thighs, appreciating the way you look underneath her.

your hands trail up her body and under her hoodie. she shivers as your fingertips graze the soft expanse of her skin under the fabric. when you reach her chest and your palms meet bare mounds of flesh, you're pleased to feel she's gone braless. she seems happy enough herself, especially when you squeeze at her softly and pinch her nipples.

she gets off of you, throws the hoodie over her head and slips out of the boxers in a scrambled hurry as her clothes hit the floor. then she's back on the couch, grabbing your ankles and forcing them airborne before pulling you towards you.

"really?" you can't help but giggle at the sheer eagerness of every movement.

"yes, baby. really." paige's eyebrows furrow. "i've been pent up all day, waiting for yo ass to come home."

you don't get a chance to say anything before shes kneeling to meet your cunt, her tongue flatly licking a long stripe through you.

it's her impeccable intuition at work from then, the way she works you turns curt breaths to low whines. she eats you out like she's starving, and she probably is.

she kisses your inner thighs, your lips, your clit. the pressure is perfect, espcially when her kisses turn into sucking, her tongue swirling circles around the sensitive bud, coating you with saliva.

the noises are straight-up lewd as her tongue dips downward, teasing you. her glasses slide down the bridge of her nose and you know that when she's done with you they'll be covered in your slick.

you can see the clear lenses fogging up already as she breathes hard, nuzzling as deep as she can, occasionally glancing up at you tentatively, relishing how your chest heaves and your voice wobbles.

"fuck." you mewl.

"good?" she mumbles against you, her voice sending a dull hum through your core.

"so good." you nod vigorously, and you feel her teeth graze you as she smiles before her tongue is inside you again.

her thumb rubs circles on your clit as she shakes her head against you, kissing and sucking till you feel that familiar tension in your gut. before you know it you're jolting against her mouth, bucking and grinding. she lets you use her, expression glazed over as you take advantage of her open mouth. it's enough bring you to the edge, and when you cum she laps up every last drop.

"how you feelin'?" she says lowly, rising from your cunt. just as you predicted, her glasses are fogged up and clearly wet around the edges. she doesn't care, in fact she doesn't even take them off. she just wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, still kneeling on the couch.

"fantastic." you sigh, stretching your legs.

"good." paige smiles warmly. her hands grab your outstretched legs in an instant, forcing them open and keeping them in the air. "i think i can get one more out of you, hm?"

and who are you to complain?

she hooks one of her legs over you, and suddenly you know what she has in mind. your stomach flutters, already turned on again as she rises slightly and you catch sight of her cunt. she's sopping just from eating you out.

one of your legs hooks over her shoulder, the other outstreched on the couch as she kneels just above you, almost aligned. her free hand reaches down to touch herself, rubbing at her clit before collecting some of her slick with her two fingers.

you watch in awe as she collects what she can on the pads of her fingers, before lowering enough to connect the string of her arousal from her core to yours. you can't take your eyes off it, the way she spreads the remains of your cum with her own slick, the way she mixes the very being of hers with your own.

one hand spreads herself open, the other spreads you, and then she lowers, aligning as best as she can so that her clit rubs against yours.

and then she rolls her hips.

the friction is one you've missed, everything yet not enough. she's slow, too slow at first. you don't tell her to hurry up, you know this is for her own enjoyment now.

she bites her lip hard, the pink flesh chewed between her white teeth. her eyebrows scrunch in pleasure behind her slicked glasses, her eyes keep darting between your face and your cunt. her hips roll agonizingly slow, the noises of you and her together crinkling throughout the quiet of your apartment and the rain outside.

she keeps this excruciating pace for a bit until you notice the gradual speed she's building, an intentional buildup you can appreciate as the friction grows stronger. you're practically pulsing against her, stomach fluttering.

and then the pace is perfect, and her tits are moving as she ruts against you hard. your skin slaps against hers, her grip on your ankle tightens, your core tenses.

noises more than heavy breaths leak out of her pretty mouth, curses and whimpers as you start to aid her, grinding against her parted legs with whatever strength you can muster.

"fuck," she whines, eyes closes tight now, "shit, oh."

"don't stop." you beg, watching the way her toned stomach ripples with every roll of her hips against yours. she doesn't stop, doesn't let up in the slightest, and you cum for the second time with a jerk.

she keeps going, and you let her. your skin is absolutely buzzing with overstimulation as her grinding just doesn't stop. you can see the sheen of sweat that forms on her forehead and between her breasts as she squeaks and moans. finally, you feel her burst against you. it's a wet, soaking mess as she lets out a soft cry of satisfaction before she practically falls over you, head against your chest.

you're both sticky, panting messes. legs twitching, thighs cramped, skin tingling.

"i'm gonna need that shower." you groan.

"lemme join, please." she breaths against you. "no funny business this time."

"yeah, okay." you nod. "let's go?"

"not yet." she mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to the damp skin of your chest. her arms wrap around you, her legs stay uncomfortably tangled with yours.

"just a little longer." she hums, and you wrap your arms around her in return.

#fanfiction #fanfic #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers x reader #smut #paige bueckers smut #paige x reader #wnba x reader #wnba #wbb

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moonlightwritingf1 · 6 months ago

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Straight to you | LN4

✨summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N, captivated by photos of her friend Lando Norris at a gala, sends a bold, flirtatious text that shifts their dynamic. Days later, Lando surprises her at her apartment, confessing his feelings and revealing he can't hold back anymore.

✨pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

✨word count ━━━━━━━ 1.2k

Y/N stretched out on her couch, a glass of wine in hand as her phone screen illuminated her face. She had spent the past hour scrolling through social media, and her feed was flooded with pictures and videos from the FIA Gala in Rwanda. And as much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t stop scrolling through them.

Lando Norris was everywhere: standing proudly with his team, laughing with his peers, and posing for the cameras. But it was one photo in particular that had her captivated—Lando in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, grinning like he knew he owned the room.

She sighed, smiling softly to herself. Over the past year, Lando had gone from a casual acquaintance to someone she truly valued. They’d met through mutual friends at a gathering in London, and their banter had been immediate and effortless. They weren’t best friends by any means, but their connection had grown naturally over time.

He had even invited her to a few races over the past year. At first, she’d assumed it was just because she was someone fun to have around. But there were moments—small, fleeting moments—when she caught him looking at her in a way that made her wonder if there was more to it.

The truth was, she found him attractive. Too attractive, in fact. But it was a line she’d refused to cross, afraid of ruining the friendship they’d built.

As the picture of Lando lingered on her screen, she opened their chat.

Y/N: Congrats again, Lan! You were incredible this season. So proud of you.

She reread the text twice, debating if it sounded too sentimental. After all, they didn’t exchange heartfelt messages often. Usually, it was teasing, inside jokes, and the occasional check-in. But tonight, pride for him outweighed her hesitation, and she hit send.

The reply came quicker than she expected.

Lando: Thanks, Y/N. Means a lot coming from you.

She smiled, staring at the screen. She could stop there, but the wine in her system and the tuxedo picture still sitting in her camera roll gave her an unexpected burst of boldness.

Y/N: Also… you looked insanely hot at the gala. Just saying.

The moment she hit send, her eyes widened in horror. “Oh no,” she muttered, setting her wine down and pressing her hands to her cheeks, which were now burning.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Lando: Hot, huh? Didn’t know you thought of me like that.

She groaned, biting her lip as she typed back.

Y/N: Ignore that. I didn’t mean to send it.

Lando: Yeah, right. Totally accidental.

Y/N: Lando.

Lando: What? I’m just saying, I don’t mind. In fact, I think we should talk more about how hot you think I am.

She couldn’t help but laugh, even as she shook her head.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Lando: And you’re blushing. Don’t lie.

She threw her phone onto the couch, but when it buzzed again, curiosity got the better of her.

Lando: For the record, I thought you looked pretty hot at Silverstone this year. Just saying.

Her heart skipped a beat. Was he flirting? No, he had to be joking—right?

Y/N: Are you flirting with me, Norris?

Lando: Maybe. Is it working?

Her stomach flipped, but she decided to match his energy.

Y/N: I don’t know. Maybe try harder next time.

Their playful exchange continued for another half hour, and while neither of them outright said what they were really thinking, the subtext was undeniable. By the time she went to bed, she couldn’t stop smiling, even if part of her wondered if they’d crossed a line.

Two days later, Y/N was in her tiny London apartment, halfway through cooking dinner, when a knock on the door startled her. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Wiping her hands on a towel, she walked to the door, pulling it open cautiously.

“Lando?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief.

He stood there, suitcase in one hand and a small smile on his face. He was dressed casually in a hoodie and joggers, his hair slightly messy from what she assumed was a long flight.

“Surprise,” he said, his tone light.

Her mouth opened, then closed as she tried to process what she was seeing. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to go to Monaco after the gala?”

“I was,” he admitted, stepping inside as she moved to let him in. “But I decided London sounded better.”

She closed the door behind him, her heart racing. “Why?”

His suitcase hit the floor with a thud as he turned to face her. The playful glint in his eyes softened, replaced by something more serious.

“Because you’re here,” he said simply.

Her heart stopped for a moment, and she struggled to find the right words. “Lando, I—”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he interrupted, taking a step closer. “That night, the things we said… it made me realize I’ve been holding back. And I don’t want to do that anymore.”

She blinked, her throat dry. “Holding back from what?”

“From this,” he said, his voice quieter now. “From telling you how I feel. I thought I could keep it casual, keep pretending we were just friends. But I can’t. Not when I know you feel something too.”

Her breath caught. “What makes you so sure I feel something?”

He grinned, leaning in just slightly. “You called me hot. Twice.”

She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’m also here. For you. So tell me, Y/N… do you feel it too?”

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yes. I’ve felt it for a long time. I just didn’t want to lose you.”

His smile softened, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re not going to lose me. If anything, you’re stuck with me now.”

Before she could overthink it, he closed the distance between them, cupping her face and pressing his lips to hers. The kiss was everything she’d dreamed of—soft yet urgent, full of all the feelings they’d both been holding back.

Her hands found their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his hoodie. The kiss deepened as they moved toward the couch, their hands exploring, their whispered confessions tumbling out between kisses.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” he murmured, his lips trailing down her neck.

“Probably not as long as I have,” she shot back, pulling him closer.

“Wait,” she murmured again against his mouth, pulling back slightly.

“What?” he asked, his voice husky.

“You came all the way to London for me?”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’d fly to the ends of the earth for you.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and she pulled him back into another kiss, this one even more passionate than the last.

That night, months of tension and longing melted away as they finally let themselves feel everything they’d been suppressing.

Hours later, they lay tangled together on the couch, her head resting on his chest as his fingers lazily traced circles on her arm. She looked up at him and smiled, their embrace a quiet testament to their closeness.

“I’m glad you came,” she said softly.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

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lilyinmysoul · 13 days ago

Text

Human Thing

JacksonJoel x F!Reader

WC: 5K

Summary: You jerk Joel to sleep. The request was ‘old man’s first time in subspace’ and I hope I did it justice.

Warnings: subby Joel, Joel with internalized conflict about masculinity, smut, handjob, vivid description of bodily fluids, reader is described as having bony fingers, tit sucking, Joel is 56, anxious Joel, soft!dom reader, palming, embarrassed Joel.

Note: This one doesn’t have as much dialogue and instead more internal stuff, but I think it’s pretty detailed so that’s a win. Sub Joel also revives me, so there. I also noticed how much I overuse em dashes, but I can’t really help it.

Either two jobs really wasn’t enough for Joel, or he still felt like he had something to prove. You didn’t ever know why Joel kept piling on more work—first the obligatory patrols and then the repairs. Little maintenance things around town to occupy him; he was never a pipe guy, but he could unclog a sink. He eventually figured out how to get a dishwasher back up and running, but that was about where his luck ended in the realm of plumbing. But where one road ends, another begins—or so, they say—and so he picked back up on his old practice: his carpentry expertise from times long ago. It almost felt like a lifetime had passed since Joel had spent his days in the sun sawing planks and nailing them down, and maybe it had. However distant the memories, he still remembered the craft like the back of his hand, and the nimbleness of his fingers paired with the handiness of his technique returned as if they had never been gone.

It didn’t take long before Joel was out twice as often, fixing a cupping floor or replacing a bad beam in a roof. The town needed that: helpers. People to be there when you need them, to play their roles and keep things running—and maybe that’s why Joel fell into it so much. It was all he’d ever done. Maybe he really did love that, or maybe he was just still running. Maybe he never stopped. Not when he met Ellie, not when he came to Jackson, and apparently not when he met you. He still had a mighty mind full of buzzing memories—more hurt than life, it sometimes seemed. But that felt like an awful heavy reality to accept. Something you can only come to terms with when you really have to face it, and you don’t want to think about the kind of pain in your cowboy’s heart when you aren’t there to subdue it.

The man seemed very fascinated again by his tools, by the saws in the stables. Joel was a patrolman, and Tommy was surprised to see his brother asking around for more work. It was strange, but that’s not something you deny—so, then, Joel had two jobs. He was building again, helping to cram more new homes into the edge of town, fixing pre-existing ones or doing repairs on shops. It was quite the feat, you imagined, and it showed as Joel began coming home every day with an even more furrowed brow than usual, shirt soaked through with even more sweat. Whenever you’d ask, though, it always sounded the same: I’m alright… I feel fine, even as exhaustion took over his mind and his eyelids drooped like overripe berries.

Joel had always been depended on. He liked that. To provide was to show love in a way that he was comfortable with. It was really the only way he knew how to give his affection, but also to prove his worth. He was strong then—working day in and out to build a shed for a client—and he was strong now—laying the bricks of an old and crumbling house on his own time. He felt a little accomplishment after each, even though he had assumed the belief that fixing things was his duty. Either way, he admits to himself that deep down, he would appreciate some thanks, some congratulation. He usually received none.

Sarah was gone—long gone—and little brother didn’t need him anymore. He’d spent years protecting Tommy amidst a new world with horrifying conditions, and then there was Tess; she always left it upon him to do something, to finish a task, and for Ellie, he had to protect. If he had one job back then, it was to keep that girl alive—but of that responsibility he had long since been dismissed.

He frustrated himself with it sometimes. The desire to get shit done. It was all that his life had allowed him to know, and something he had no choice but to lean into. So, he lets the work pile on. If anything, he pursues it. Being of use, strong, of value… that’s what Joel wants to be. He assured himself of it.

Joel’s shoulders have always beared a certain weight. A tiredness upon them that could only be related to the sheer volume of effort he put into every little thing. A man who tried so hard was a gift, but he would surely work himself to the bone and you worried that you would just never understand it. Accomplishing, building… was he fulfilled by it, or had he spent so long having been expected to do it that it became his nature? Why did he feel so pressured into service—was it tradition or habit? The more it crept into his brain, the harder his mind pushed back, refusing to let himself contemplate. He was a stubborn man—‘Just how I am, always been,’ he’d say in passing. And from what you knew, he was telling the truth.

The week had kept you busy—Joel more so, as always. It was always one thing after another. The wonders of winter were many, and however much Joel hated the cold, he thanked the freezing months that slowed the wandering of infected. The things would freeze and bury themselves in the snow while coming down the mountains or sticking to frosted rocks, even falling through iced over ponds. This kept any of the extra rot-infested creatures away from the town, but as the snowy hilltops began to melt, the bastards began to thaw, and the price of peace was always paid with increased numbers of infected lingering around the gates. Joel’s patrols have been particularly rough and his arms are always tired from aiming at those things from behind the trees, and gosh, he’s getting older.

It’s certainly scary to Joel. This world—this new world—doesn’t accommodate anyone anymore, let alone those with aching backs and weaker wrists. Even in somewhere as quaint as Jackson, it’s impossible to let go of the knowledge of what happens outside. What beasts pace in humid basements or the kinds of people who roam empty streets. He knows what a clicker will do for flesh and what a raider will do for a bullet or two, and soon enough, he worries that the heavy strength in his arms will no longer suffice, giving way to muscle pains and the kinds of headaches that mess with your eyes.

For a week, you had slipped past each other in the mornings, readying for your day. A kiss on the cheek, a rub on the shoulder, and maybe a whispered ‘are you okay’—not because you believed that there was something the matter with Joel—beside his tendency to bite off more than he could chew—but because it was a subtle reassurance where he had trouble giving them. A small conformation that things were fine, that you were fine, even with a little less time to spend together. As much as you worried about Joel taking on too much, you both had to admit that the town needed him right now—construction was heavily underway in Jackson and security measures were up—so for now, you had to deal, and help out a little extra when it came to dinner and chores.

As much as he loved you and loved holding you close, Joel’s focus had to be elsewhere as of late. He’d been working double running around town from house to house, building fences and replacing broken windows.

If it had been a long day, it was about to get a lot longer if his suspicions were correct. The floor of the empty house had been fixed and polished, and Joel hoped to god that the feeling of odd intuition in his gut was wrong.

Joel walks into the center of the room—slowly—his boots making a low knock against the new wood before a dreaded crunch sounds through the room. You’ve got to be kidding me, he thinks, striding back to the doorway so as not to slump the floor further. It was sinking in just a little and his mind says, goddamnit, I can’t catch a break.

“Shit,” Joel mutters, a stained hand rubbing over his sticky forehead. A day’s worth of work in the sun, and this is what it gets him. Some incompetent prick polished a rotting floor as if that would fix it. It’s like filling a pothole with shaving cream, which makes Joel angry. Tired, too. He wants to go home already, but he isn’t one to mope—or quit.

The man rests an exhausted hand upon his hip, the denim under his fingertips acting as the only thing grounding him while his mind spins frustratedly. He’d have to pull up all of these planks—what a goddamn waste—and then he’d have to replace this decaying beam, and then some. Internally, Joel wishes he could just get a day off, but he knows that if he was offered one, he surely wouldn’t accept it. It was already beginning to get dark and he surmised that the new task at hand would take him a couple of hours at least, so he got to work.

••• ••• •••

When you’re fifty-six, it gets really hard to crouch like you used to. To uproot a shit-ton of floorboards, you have to un-drill each one, and pry it apart through the shiny paste that it had before been coated with. Now, half of the brand new floor was gone from the vacant living room, and his breathing was heavy and deep, his lungs in need of a break and his eyes in need of some rest. Outside, it is dark—almost completely—and Joel runs his fingers through his graying hair that’s a bit damp near his scalp, and decides that this would be one of those rare instances in which he calls it quits. He figures he’d screw it up if he didn’t go get some rest, and so he rubs his dusty hands on the faded denim covering his thighs and lets out his longest sigh in a while.

He looks over his work—not with accomplishment, which was much more rare in the realm of Joel’s mind—but contentment. He could leave this half done because he had more to attend to at home: his girl, for one, whom he had a habit of accidentally disregarding in favor of his work—although, he’d never admit that it was in part due to the secret appreciation he had for her congratulations. He didn’t take compliments—well, or at all—but her recognition flattered him. He liked that she made him work for it.

Languidly, Joel switches off the light that reflects in the bare room, closing the door—which could very well be rotting, too—and leaves, for tonight, his responsibility. His work has been sanctioned off and forgotten for now, and his duty is at home: taking care of the dishes, tidying up the bathroom, and falling into bed with his woman, arms wound around her as he slept, or maybe he could get lucky and make it all up to her. God knows it’s been too long.

As he walks down the old cracking driveway, his steps are weary, yet determined. If you were here, you’d laugh as he told you that even though he had only just left, he was already thinking about when he could get back to work and finish that job. You would pat his shoulder and tell him to take a break, or make some innuendo about needing him at home, and he’d wrap an arm around you. Crickets chirp in his ear as he imagines you and the warmth inside that little home you share.

Joel continues down the road, the gravel crunching under his feet as it waits to be replaced with cement, which would take a damn while if this town didn’t get a move on with all this development. he tells his brain to shut up; pushing the thoughts of work from his mind proved difficult.

Gravel soon gives way to concrete as he begins to near the house. Porch lights illuminate the street, and it’s times like these in this little town that he can begin to forget—for a moment—the world beyond it. What he has now is stable and comfortable. He doesn’t have to fight anymore. When he looks up at the stars, long since cleared of the light that once muted them, his heart holds admiration, rather than fear. There always seems to be a little bit of dread in his heart, a weight in his chest that left an odd anxiety coating his skin. But even so, he was learning to ignore it. Maybe, one day, it would shrink.

Joel crosses the narrow road into his own front yard. He hopes you haven’t gone to sleep yet. He feels fatigued and sore; he hasn’t eaten, and he doesn’t want to—but he wants to see you. And he certainly wouldn’t mind a glass of water.

The wetness of the grass turns the dust on his boots to mud and he kicks them off as he steps up onto the porch. The door is unlocked—you must be awake—and he turns the knob. The homely feeling replaces that of the cold night and the sight of the kitchen—even though it’s empty—warms his heart.

His slow steps cross the room as he shrugs off his jacket, hesitating for a moment before moving to hang it up in the closet. It takes him a few seconds longer than it should, an ache threatening to set in his shoulders.

He quietly shuts the closet door, and over the low hum of the radiator, Joel hears a thump from the bedroom. It could be the closing of a drawer or the drop of a book, but in Joel’s mind it simply registers as you, and like a moth to a flame, he ambles down the hall through the dim light, the glowing gaps in the door leading him.

Joel splays a hand against the wood, pushing the cracked door open. He hadn’t realized that his brows are knit tight, but his eyes soften when he sees you, perched upon the bed with a book between your soft hands, fingers framing the pages with a sweet languidity.

When you hear the door creak open, you know who’s there—of course you do. You let out a soft hum, finishing the sentence that entranced you before you finally look up—withdrawn from one world and brought back to another, a fantasy just as sweet: one where Joel was with you, back at home, with nobody to come knocking about a broken shelf.

Your eyes meet with Joel’s, his hair quite disheveled. He’s hesitating, now, fingers fidgeting as they rest near his hips. You can always tell when Joel is exhausted, and he is exhausted now.

“Hey,” he mutters with a gruff voice before shuffling toward the closet. He busies himself with undressing, replacing his dusty clothes with soft and clean ones. He looks relieved to be rid of his stiff jeans, sighing as he pulls on new boxers. He grabs the nearest T-shirt off the shelf and pulls it on, turning back to you.

“Hey, Joel,” you return, voice as affectionate as warm honey as you take note of the reddened bags under his eyes, the sharpness in the lines of his forehead and how his gaze lands on you like you’re the only thing left. It’s clear that he’s tired, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he stands, for a moment.

You push your now forgotten book away, leaning back against the headboard as Joel’s enervated eyes make your heart quicken, just a little. You open up your arms, holding them out, beckoning him. He knows that if he lies down with you, he’ll fall right asleep, and so he does.

He doesn’t pull back the covers, only sitting atop them like you do, letting his back rest up against the wood.

“What’s this?” Joel picks up your discarded book, clearly trying to make some kind of conversation as his tired body relaxes into the mattress.

“A mystery I found in town.” You look at him, his messy hair casting a shadow over his eyes.

Joel hums, leaning his head down to press a soft kiss on your shoulder. “You’re so smart…” his low voice rumbles. He never really read until you showed him how fun it could be. Even then, he rarely had time.

When you give him a thoughtful hum in response, his thick arm wraps around your shoulder, hand slowly finding your side to rub it sweetly, a position so natural and recurring—your bodies are like magnets, always assuming the same attraction, his body enveloping yours. Right about now, he’d usually roll on top of you, hands cradling your head and caging you in as he showed you his love the way he was taught.

You rest your warm hand over his before lightly lifting it, slipping his arm back over your head. You hold his knuckles to your lips, pressing a little kiss to them, one for each weathered finger. Despite the tenderness of your action, Joel is a little confused, and when you place his hand back on his chest, he’s a little bit hurt. He feels his heartbeat underneath his palm and takes a fistful of fabric into it, unsure what to do with this—it felt like rejection.

Joel’s spine slumps a bit against the headboard, his slouch against the soft pillows leaving his head below yours, and you give a peck to the crown of it, taking the opportunity to sling an arm around his shoulder. The act alone elicits an inhale from Joel; you can hear it, and you can feel his heart rate slowing when you pull him closer, hand splayed on his chest.

“You’re sleepy,” you mutter in his ear before laying another kiss, this time in the crook of his neck.

A grumble sounds from Joel, a stubborn admittance. “Yeah. Well, I still want you.” When his voice is low, you can always hear his accent more clearly. A testament, like all other features, to who he is, who he’s been. You respond by rubbing your hand around his chest, and so he keeps talking. “‘M goin’ crazy.”

“You don’t look like it.” You chuckle into his thick hair.

As you bury your fingers into his hair, rubbing his scalp soothingly, his head turns into your chest and when the muscles in his neck tense and it looks like he might retract, you keep him there. A firm hand on the side of his head that presses him lightly into you. You want him to stay there because he needs it. You do know what he needs.

“You look like you’ll pass out on me any second,” you quip, and by the time you finish your sentence, you know that it likely isn’t true. You see it; the bump in his boxers just beyond the belt of softening flesh at his waist, so you run your wandering palm over that ring of tummy that hid years’ worth of muscle, although less visible now.

Your eyes glance down, and his are wide open. He’s watching you stroke the fabric over his coarse skin with eyes calmer than you’ve seen in quite a while. Continuing to roam, your touch rubs soothingly against Joel’s side and his face nuzzles further into your chest.

“I’m awake,” Joel finally says, his grumbling voice breaking the silence. As you touch his skin, you feel his pulse speeding up once again. “Can you…” ahead of himself, he trails off.

When you reply with an inquisitive hum, he only nuzzles deeper, the thin cotton you wear acting as the only barrier between your supple breast and the worn skin on his face. His cheekbones and the tip of his nose rub against your chest, and he can faintly feel your heartbeat. When he doesn’t answer, you don’t push and instead grip the fabric of your shirt and lift.

You don’t take it off, just bringing the fabric to rest over your chest, the flesh jiggling a bit as it’s freed, Joel’s cheek resting upon the soft tissue. He lets out a shaky breath.

The man looked very tired and very drunk on your touch, his body unmoving in a way that was rare. No fidgeting, no grabbing, just accepting.

Your eyes focus on the sweet lines around his eyes, and you let one hand take the side of his face. Maybe he takes it as encouragement, or possibly permission, but with your hand on his jaw, his nuzzles against your chest turn to kisses. They are wet, and not too coordinated, but they are full of that same kind of admiration that you always see in Joel when he loves you, but it’s missing its possession. He isn’t trying to prove anything, just taking. Is it selfish? He doesn’t know, and he’ll probably think about it later, but he can’t right now.

Rosy lips wrap around your firm nipple, the warmth of Joel’s saliva engulfing it. His kisses are turning to licks and sucks as his mind wanders about—about you, about the pure euphoria of sitting and getting what he wants without busting his ass for it. His tongue against the warm flesh puts a moist sound into the air and your fingers on his hairy jaw were only encouraging him, a little grunt leaving his mouth.

“Yeah…” you mumble, partly to yourself as your free hand wanders down his body again, and when he hears your voice, his lips part, a pop ringing through the air as your nipple slides from mouth. He feels caught, for a moment, like a child doing something wrong.

You push his head toward you again, other hand still wandering, and wow, he is rock hard. Joel’s boxers are thin and blue, making no effort to hide the pressure underneath them that forces the fabric to tent. You don’t want to tease him, not now, but you can’t help but have your fingers meander their way down his hips a bit slower than usual. As your hand traces, nearing too close to his pulsing bulge, Joel’s hips twitch into your empty touch.

Joel wonders to himself about how this all seems to you. Does he look stupid, curled up against you like a goddamn baby? If he was in his right mind—never. But now, there was no way to resist your warm embrace, and your hand was coming closer and closer to his cock, and he worried that if you touched it, he’d only last a few seconds. You’d wrecked him.

Ghosting over the fabric once and then twice, your fingers circle the spot Joel that wants you before cupping your palm over it; it feels like heaven, and you can tell. He mumbles something incoherent against your chest, his mouth reconnecting with the slick skin as he begins to suck once again. Something about the weight of them—it was grounding. He didn’t think, now, that he’d ever have enough of them.

As you knead gently, rubbing and squeezing his firm bulge, his hips tick up another time, almost imperceptibly. It’s a light movement, something you’d never usually catch, and you wonder if you’ll ever get him like this again.

Even though Joel tended to treat compliments like cardinal sins, you bet he’d let you get away with it now. Your fingers finally slip underneath the band of his briefs and immediately find his length, tip a bit slippery and oh, so firm.

“Lift your hips a bit, handsome,” you instruct gently, and he does it, his mouth leaving your breast again, its slick and spit covered surface dampening his cheek. Now, his head rests against you, his ear on your collarbone as you get a good look, boxers tugged down to his thighs.

Joel has been quiet, but his face tells it all. His look is dazed, like he wouldn’t be able to tell you what day it is, and you smile softly even though he can’t see it. His chin isn’t tilted up or focused on you, it’s on your hand as it wraps around him with such care.

You glance down at your chest, each nipple a bit shiny in the lamp’s glow. “Made a mess here, huh?”

“Yeah…” Joel responds, his voice raspy and only barely above a whisper. “‘Like doin’ it.” His head lolls back against your shoulder, and with the way he’s slumped, you know his back will be sore, but he just doesn’t care. He needed this, you tell yourself, but you know that you did, too.

“I do, too. It’s… comforting,” you let out a low laugh—partly out of hilarity and partly from contentment. This gets a low chuckle out of Joel—if you could even call it that. A low sound made from humor, sure, but one that sounded like it took effort to produce, like someone pretending not to be drunk and failing miserably. “Didn’t know these were so powerful.”

Joel gives you a mindless hum that turns to something of a whine when your thumb circles his tip. It’s a beautiful sight; Joel is laid out, soft and malleable, almost docile. You could hear the shakiness in his breath, like he was completely gone.

When you bring your hand to Joel’s mouth, he isn’t sure what to do with it, and so he watches you with slitted eyes before opening his mouth, leaning in the slightest bit, and enveloping your fingertips.

He sucks them a little, letting his teeth bite lightly on your fingers. Inside of his mouth, his tongue dances with your fingers like he needs them, and you chuckle into his salty hair.

You give him a little bit longer to suck your bony fingers, and he does so as if he were nursing from them. He looks utterly peaceful as you pull them out, your fingers now wet and again cupped by his mouth. Joel had gotten ahead of himself, but it was nothing if not endearing.

“Could you get these wet for me?” You ask him lowly, and you see his face go a bit red when he realizes what you’re asking. You never asked him to suck on your fingers, and so he looks away as he lets a bit of saliva dribble down into your hand. Joel is hit again with another wave of self-consciousness, and he feels compromised. He swallows and lets his eyes close when finally, your slick hand wraps around his cock again.

“Sorry,” a puff from Joel when he feels your touch. “Fuck.”

“I like it, Joel,” you give him a tight stroke and then a giggle in his ear. “Told you how nice it is to have something to suck on.”

He inhales through his teeth as you continue to touch him, and if he wasn’t so far gone, his face would have gone redder. His skin is damp and rosy, but the embarrassment is leaving as his responsiveness does, making more room in his head for that still softness that he never knew until now.

Joel only watches as your hand slides up and down his length, first taking a slow pace that makes his hands shake a little at his sides. He could no longer think about the contrast between this and the usual arrangements, how he let his strong body rest as you cared for him. His arms were littered with scars, hands tainted by the sun, abdomen dusted with dark hairs that trailed down into the graying abyss at which your hand rested now, your touch so caring.

His hands and his mouth are unoccupied, his eyes misty as he watches. Again, you press a kiss to his temple, nuzzling into his hair, free hand cupping his bearded jaw. Joel lets out heavy breaths, little deep sounds that he doesn’t bother to contain. His face turns again toward your breast. His mouth doesn’t open, but he leans against you, enveloped by the comfort of your body. When your hand speeds its pace, rubbing him quicker, his grunts only amplify, another bud of pre-cum excreting from his cock and dripping down it, slowly.

There’s a kind of gravel to his voice that you only hear when he’s close, and as you murmur little compliments into his ear, you know he hears you, he just doesn’t have it in him to answer. Joel’s mind is spinning a bit, and his eyes fall shut, some mix of a whine and a grunt passing his lips.

What seems to do it, though, is when your arm tightens around him, holding him even closer and even tighter as you work him. His mind has a fuzziness to it that he never wants to let go of—so new, and yet so organic.

He doesn’t tell you when he’s going to cum, he just does, but you can tell by the tightness in his muscles. His thighs tense up, and so do his hands, and when the milky liquid spills out of him, it comes slow. It trickles down onto your hand, and when you think it’ll stop, it keeps going. It’s certainly more than he’s ever given you before, its drips landing at his base and tangling with the hair there.

Joel’s head, slightly sweaty and slack, is rested against your chest, his eyes in slits and fighting not to close.

“Oh, Joel…” you give his warm forehead a rub, looking around the room for something to clean your hand and chest with. You can’t fall asleep like this, so you pull your shirt, already half off, over your head, using the fabric to dab at your damp skin.

You’re extra careful when you wipe Joel, his cock now soft as you dry him off, scrubbing the coarse hair lightly as you try to get it dry. By the time the cloth has done its job and you’ve tossed it aside to the floor, Joel’s eyes have long since been closed and his breaths are shallow against your bare chest, mouth open the slightest bit.

You click off the lamp and your hand finds his head in the dark, fingers running through his hair as you murmur to him sweet nothings that he surely won’t remember.

Thank’s for reading!! Tell me what you think

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godricgryffinsnore · 7 days ago

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helloooo if your you’re taking requests for James Potter i have a REALLYYY long idea and I’m thinking maybe a long story where they are childhood friends and known as the Golden Girl and Boy of Hogwarts. James is quite clingy and touchy with her, so everyone thinks they’re dating. Then, one day, he makes a public, dramatic love confession when he realizes she’s going on a date.

PLEASE PLEASEE feel free to ignore this if its too much💗💗

Just Friends, He Swears ♡ | J.Potter ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

“We were just best friends—until she smiled at someone else and I realized I was one scarf away from staging a public meltdown in the rain.”

pairing : James Potter x fem!reader

summary : A golden boy, a golden girl, and the chaos of being “just friends” when everyone else knows it’s love—except them. A slow-burn Hogwarts rom-com full of tension, longing, and one very dramatic confession in the rain.

warnings : Fluff, Jealousy, Dramatic idiots, Public love confession, Mild language, Secondhand embarrassment. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Thank you so much for requesting anon!!! I really appreciate you coming here and sharing your ideas with me <3 Hope you like this!!

word count : 1.5k

navigation <3

banners : @/omi-resources and @/cafekitsune

James Potter met her on the train to Hogwarts in first year, hair wild from the wind, face flushed with excitement, and she had a chocolate frog stuck in her hair. He fell in love right then. Not that he’d admit it. Not even now. Not even when he’s sixteen and she's sitting next to him in the common room with her legs on his lap and his fingers tracing lazy circles into her shin.

They’re best friends. Have been since day one. She’s the only one who can match his chaos, ground his storms, slap him upside the head when he’s being arrogant, and whisper in his ear when he’s too proud to admit he’s scared. They’re Hogwarts’ Golden Pair—he, the adored Quidditch captain with a cocky grin and heart of gold; she, the fierce, loyal, terrifyingly clever girl who laughs at his jokes like he invented the sun.

Everyone thinks they’re dating.

They’re not.

They just… do things like a couple. Sit too close. Touch too much. Argue like they’ve been married for fifty years. She kisses his cheek before every match. He carries her bag to class. Once, he made her a flower crown out of actual magic and then got detention for hexing a Slytherin who called it “soft.”

Sirius once said: “Either snog already or take it to the Room of Requirement and spare the rest of us.”

Lily muttered: “Honestly, it’s like watching two penguins in denial.”

Remus just sipped his tea. He’s smarter than all of them.

But she doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see the way James stares when she’s laughing. Doesn’t feel how he tense-pretends-not-to-be-tense when another boy flirts with her. Doesn’t notice the absolute havoc he descends into when she walks in wearing that stupid Ravenclaw blue scarf—

Wait. That’s not hers.

James squints. “Whose scarf is that?”

She blinks, fiddling with the tassels. “Oh—Aidan gave it to me. The Ravenclaw prefect? I’ve got a date with him this weekend.”

Silence.

Like… actual silence. The kind that makes the room cold even though the fire’s crackling.

James blinks once. Twice.

Then says, louder than necessary: “A date? Like… a romantic one?”

She laughs, tilting her head. “Is there another kind?”

He wants to throw himself out the window.

James does not spiral. He is composed. Collected. A mature young man.

That’s why he definitely doesn’t—

Drag Sirius out of bed at midnight to rant about "Mr. Ravenclaw Bloody Kindness"

Accidentally blow up a pumpkin in Herbology while muttering “he probably says please before kissing her”

Tell Peter he thinks the bloke’s trying too hard to be soft. (“Is that illegal now?” Pete asks. “IT SHOULD BE,” James hisses.)

By Saturday, it’s raining. Of course it is. Because the universe is dramatic. And so is he.

She’s standing near the courtyard fountain, dressed in a skirt he’s definitely never seen and lipstick that’s going to kill him. The scarf’s around her neck, and he wants to rip it off.

He marches toward her like a man possessed. Wet curls in his eyes. Shirt clinging to his chest. The Marauders (plus Lily, Dorcas, Marlene) are trailing behind him like it’s a bloody play.

“Oi!” he yells.

She turns, eyes wide.

“James?”

He kneels. Like a bloody idiot. In the puddles. In the rain. Like she’s leaving him at the altar.

“Don’t go.”

She blinks. “What—?”

“Don’t go on the date.” His voice cracks. Cracks.

“James, why are you—”

“I don’t know!” he nearly shouts, arms flailing. “I don’t know why I feel like I’m dying when you wear his scarf or talk about his stupid kind smile or mention that he reads poetry—WHO EVEN READS POETRY VOLUNTARILY?!”

“You do,” she whispers.

He falters. “I know. But it sounds better when you read it.”

The rain pours harder. Everyone is watching. But it’s just them now.

“James,” she murmurs, confused and stunned and breathless, “why does this matter to you?”

His eyes lock on hers. Desperate. Soft. Possessive.

“I don’t have the words,” he admits. “I just know I need you. Like… air. Like magic. Like my broomstick needs me not to be a dumbass. You’re the one thing I can’t risk losing because I’d never recover. Not really. Not where it counts.”

Her lip trembles. She kneels down with him, the cobblestones digging into her knees, the rain soaking through her skin, their noses inches apart.

“I think…” she whispers, “I think I’ve been in love with you since first year and just thought it was normal to feel like this all the time.”

His breath hitches.

Then she kisses him.

It’s messy. Rain-slick. A little uncoordinated. James makes a sound like someone just gave him oxygen for the first time in weeks.

Behind them:

Sirius: “FINALLY.” Lily: “I’m emotionally unwell.” Remus: “Pay up, Marlene.” Marlene: “I hate love.”

James Potter, now that he is officially your boyfriend, is insufferable.

He always was, of course—hovering over your shoulder during breakfast, twirling your hair during study sessions, slinging an arm around you like it was a reflex. But that was before. That was when he was still pretending he wasn’t in love with you.

Now?

Now he wakes you up with a “Good morning, love of my life, did you dream of me?” every day. He holds your hand in the corridors and refuses to let go, even when you’re both trying to eat toast. He spells “J + Y/N = 🧡” into the condensation of every window he passes.

It’s revolting.

You adore it.

You’re sitting in the library, trying to do Transfiguration homework. James is across from you, meant to be writing a paper on theoretical wandless magic.

Instead, he’s staring at you. Again.

Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize your face for war.

“James,” you whisper, not looking up from your notes. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me like I’m about to vanish.”

He grins like you just told him he’s your Patronus.

“I would literally pass out if you vanished. Right here. Face-first into my essay.”

“You don’t have an essay.”

“I’d write one about you.”

You blink. “What would it be titled?”

He pauses for half a second before saying, proudly: “‘Anatomy of a Face I’d Die For: A Study in Tragic Obsession.’”

From across the table, Remus snorts.

Aidan—the Ravenclaw you almost went on a date with—is not helping James’s emotional stability.

He’s still friendly. Too friendly. He waves in corridors. Compliments your handwriting. Smiles a bit too long.

James is Not Normal™ about it.

“Do you think he wants to duel?” James says one day while you're walking to Charms.

You blink. “What?”

“Aidan. He looked at me funny. I think he wants to fight.”

“James,” you sigh, “he was holding a kitten.”

“Yeah. As a weapon.”

You stop walking. “Are you jealous of the boy I didn’t go on a date with?”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, tightening his hold on your hand. “I just think he’s too nice. And suspiciously symmetrical.”

He’s pouting. Full-on, Golden Retriever Pout™.

You tug him closer and whisper in his ear, “You know I only want you, right?”

James short-circuits. Blushes so violently Sirius will make fun of him for three days straight.

The Marauders, Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas are trying to have a civil conversation in the Gryffindor common room. You and James are not helping.

You're on his lap. His face is half-buried in your neck. He’s literally just… sighing contentedly.

Dorcas gags. “Do they think they’re in a cottagecore romance novel?”

Sirius throws a pillow. “Oi! James, you’re making us single by proximity.”

James doesn’t move. “You chose this life.”

Lily deadpans: “We didn’t choose anything. You cursed us.”

You grin, twisting slightly to look at your boyfriend. “James, maybe we should tone it down—”

James groans like you’ve stabbed him.

“I just got you!” he whines. “I’ve spent six years in platonic hell! I deserve this! Don’t take this from me, woman!”

“Godric’s bleeding ghost,” Marlene mutters, “he’s dramatic with her too.”

It happens in the middle of a Quidditch match.

You’re cheering from the stands, cold air whipping through your hair, and James does this ridiculous dive to catch the Quaffle—and slams into the ground with a dramatic thud.

Everyone gasps.

You leap from your seat. “JAMES?!”

He sits up immediately and yells:

“I’M OKAY, DARLING! I JUST SAW YOUR FACE AND FORGOT GRAVITY EXISTED!”

The stands go silent.

The Hufflepuff Beaters stop mid-swing.

Madam Hooch looks personally offended.

You turn bright red.

Sirius screams, “GET A ROOM!”

Remus whispers, “We are in the emotional splash zone.”

Later that night, curled into each other on the Gryffindor couch, James hums against your shoulder.

“You think people are sick of us?”

You smile, brushing back his hair. “Definitely.”

“Should we stop?”

“No.”

“Good,” he mumbles sleepily, already halfway to dreaming. “Because I plan on loving you out loud for the rest of my life.”

And even though he’s dramatic, possessive, clingy, and a little stupid in love…

So do you.

#della's inbox 𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡#della answered ⋆˚✿˖°#della 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter drabble #james potter #james fleamont potter #the maruaders #marauders era #marauders #james potter fanfiction #james potter fic

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cybergoth1 · 20 days ago

Text

﹟— ❛❛LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING...

☆﹟— paring: fem!deadpool!reader x jason todd.

☆﹟— summary: jason todd used to think dying was the worst thing that ever happened to him. then he met you.

☆﹟— warnings: +18, dni. hate fuck. rough sex, oral sex, hair pulling, a little bit of spanking, filthy dirty talk, degrading, unprotected sex. swearing, blood, guns, suggestive dialogue, deadpool being deadpool, reader and jason throwing punches in the kitchen. enemies to lovers (?). the divider was made by @bernardsbendystraws. thank you!. some of deadpool's lore. red hood's lore. 4k words!.

JASON HAD BEEN TORTURED, murdered in a warehouse explosion, and shoved into the Lazarus Pit like some experiment. He came back different; angrier, colder, with a permanent itch under his skin he could never quite scratch. He’d clawed his way back into a city that barely noticed he was gone, wearing a new mask and a grudge like armor. And then he’d spent years readjusting to a world he never asked to return to, trapped in a body that felt more like a cage than himself. But none of that, none of that life-long, soul-crushing suffering, prepared him for the torment of working with you.

Standing by your side made him believe in karma. Hell, even divine punishment at this point. Maybe those christians were onto something after all, because just hearing your voice made him want to put a gun in his mouth. That was the level of his despair.

You, with your mouth that never shut up. Your warped moral compass. Your blood-soaked sense of humor. Your fourth-wall-breaking commentary that made him wonder if he was the one hallucinating. You were a walking migraine. A useless, brainless cheap merc from New York who somehow hadn’t managed to die permanently — thanks only to that freak-show healing factor. And, of course, your kill count that made even him raise an eyebrow.

And now you were in his city.

Bruce was pissed. Truly, deeply furious, the kind of mad that led to terse one-sentence orders and sending Red Hood to "clean up the mess". Which meant Jason got stuck playing babysitter to a lunatic who treated Gotham like it was her new theme park. You kept taking contracts on people too close to the Bat’s interest; mob bosses under surveillance, corrupt judges, the occasional undercover informant. Important people. The kind of people you weren’t supposed to make disappear without blowing up months of work.

Months of his fucking work, by the way.

And now here he was, trying to keep you from burning his city to the ground while resisting the urge to shoot you in the face. Not that it would work. He’d tried. Twice. Shoot you right in the face, and in the thighs at least four times. You just laughed at him. Like the bitch you are.

But in the end, the two of you had a few things in common. You were both taking out terrible people, and it’s not like the old man and his cult could really do anything about it, you’re basically immortal. So, yeah… sometimes he ended up teaming up with you behind his family’s back.

You two were literally doing that right now. And he bitterly regretted making that damn call.

The warehouse you two had broken into thirty minutes ago reeked of cheap gun oil and rust. Smoke still curled in the rafters, clinging to the air. Jason stood near a half-shattered window, body tense, pistol aimed at the last conscious thug crawling toward his dropped knife.

One silenced shot.

Thud.

Peace.

Or… so he thought.

"Okay, but hear me out—what if, instead of just shooting them, we had, like, a dance battle first?" your voice rang out behind him, chipper as hell, despite the blood soaking your suit from shoulder to knee. "Real Step Up vibes. I could’ve been Channing Tatum, Hood. You robbed me of that."

Jason let out a slow, pained sigh.

You strolled into view, katanas dripping, mask rolled up just enough to chomp on some suspicious-looking beef jerky you’d stolen off one of the corpses.

He stared at you — hard — judgment practically radiating from behind the helmet.

You winked. "What? He wasn’t gonna need it. I checked. Real dead. No pulse."

He holstered his gun like he was trying to keep himself from choking you with it.

"This was supposed to be stealth," Jason growled. "You came in like a Michael Bay explosion in clown shoes."

"I only wear clown shoes on thursdays. Today’s monday, obviously I wore my sexy combat heels. They give me great posture."

He rolled his eyes, not that you could see it — but you probably felt it.

"You decapitated a guy mid-sentence."

"Yeah, I freed him from the shackles of his spine. Heroism."

Jason sighed, loudly. It came out all warped and mechanical through his helmet’s voice emulator, like a dying vacuum cleaner. Fitting, given his shitty mood.

"Do you even remember the briefing?"

"Absolutely not." You beamed. "But you looked super hot while explaining it. I was distracted by your mouth. It moves like a really angry kiss."

He turned to you slowly, the glare behind his helmet palpable.

You tossed your bloodied jerky onto a pile of corpses. "Also, sorry about the headshot bet. I thought we were still playing. I win, though. That guy’s brain did a little jazz hands at the end."

Jason’s jaw ticked. His fists clenched. He hated you so fucking much. Every mission with you ended in some kind of bloodbath or blown cover. And he’d put up with it. Again and again. Because, unfortunately, you were useful when managed correctly. Roy’s words, not his.

He’d managed feral dogs with more grace.

Still, he tried.

Every time he managed to think of you as just a useful tool — and not an actual person capable of annoying the absolute shit out of him — some of that deep, deep hatred eased up. Just enough to keep him from having a heart attack mid-conversation.

"Let’s just sweep the building and go," he muttered, shouldering past you. You could feel the raw, seething loathing rolling off him. He was pissed. Yikes.

You grinned. "C’mon, don’t be mad. They were assholes. One of them called me a slut with swords. Joke’s on him, though, I’m also amazing in bed. Two for one."

He turned slowly. Here we go.

You took a playful step back. "Ooh. Somebody’s got the grumpy face on. What’s wrong, Red?"

He inhaled, deep, slow, like he was trying not to explode.

Then he did.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Ooooh, there it is."

"I’m serious," he snapped. "You’re a fucking useless dumbass. You blew the side off the building before I even gave the signal!"

"Well, to be fair—" you started.

"Shut the fuck up."

Your mouth closed, but your smirk widened.

Jason stepped toward you, voice dropping to a hiss. "I have had it with your psychotic bullshit. You treat every op like it’s a fucking improv skit. People are dying. Real people. And all you care about is if your one-liner hit or if I laughed at your dumbass joke."

You raised an eyebrow. Not that he could see. "To be fair, the ‘pencil-dick mafia’ line was comedy gold—"

"SHUT UP!" he barked, voice raw now. "Jesus, do you ever stop running your mouth? It’s like your brain’s stuck in horny stand-up mode while the rest of us are trying not to fuck up the mission. You’re not fucking funny. You’re a goddamn walking catastrophe with no fucking impulse control!"

You stared at him.

He kept going.

"You think you’re charming? You’re exhausting. You make every mission ten times harder than it has to be. You blow our cover, you disobey orders, and you laugh while slicing people open like it’s a fucking cartoon. I don’t care how fast you heal—if you get me or anyone else killed with your bullshit, I will personally find a way to keep you dead."

He was panting now.

"And for the record, stop flirting with me. You’re not sexy. You’re not even fucking attractive. You’re loud, obnoxious, and about as subtle as a chainsaw to the face. You think I haven’t had people throw themselves at me? Women with class, with self-control, with an ounce of fucking dignity? I don’t want you. I don’t even like you. Fuck."

Silence.

The air was thick.

And then—

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. "Holy shit."

You stepped closer, eyes gleaming inside your mask. "That was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me. I think I need to sit down."

"What—"

You pointed at him. "That? That whole verbal curb-stomp? I think I just came a little."

"No, seriously," you whispered, leaning in like it was a secret. "I am so unwell right now. I think my ovaries did jazz hands. My therapist’s gonna hear about this. If I had a diary, I’d write ‘Today, Red Hood called me a useless bitch, and I got horny in a warehouse full of corpses."

He took a step back like you were radioactive.

You followed. "Say more mean shit. Call me pathetic. Tell me I’m annoying again but in that gravelly ‘I want to strangle you’ voice. Maybe spit on me?"

Jason turned sharply. "I hate you."

You cupped your hands around your mouth. "Is that foreplay?!"

He ignored you while leaving the warehouse.

You grinned like a devil.

Ten minutes later, you were sitting on the roof together, watching the flames lick up the side of the warehouse. Jason was smoking, trying to pretend you weren’t five inches from his thigh. He’d given up smoking a while ago, but being around you made him seriously reconsider. Alcohol or nicotine felt like the only way to survive your presence.

He was so out of it, he couldn’t even bother worrying about you seeing his face without the helmet.

"I’d call this a win," you offered, sipping from a cup of coffee you definitely hadn’t been holding five minutes ago. "We stopped the arms deal, torched the stockpile, and I got to see you yell like a stressed-out dom in a CW drama."

He exhaled smoke through his nose. "Stop talking."

"Make me."

He didn’t move.

You smirked.

"I can be quiet. If you put something in my mouth."

Jason side-eyed you with the force of a thousand suns.

"Like a gag. Or a sandwich. Or your coc—"

He shoved the rest of his cigarette into your coffee and stood up.

You sighed dreamily.

"God, I love him."

TO JASON'S GREAT MISFORTUNE, the two of you kept working together. Worse, you somehow wormed your way into Roy and Kory’s lives, like this was some kind of team-up he never asked for. Naturally, Roy adored you. You made him laugh so hard he had to stop eating and drinking around you just to avoid choking to death. Kory didn’t get your sense of humor at all, but she liked your honesty. And Jason?

Jason just kept hating you for using his damn safehouse like it was your personal Airbnb.

At least during that time, he’d managed to run a few background checks on you — always keeping tabs, just in case. Dug up some interesting things, like the fact that you’d had terminal cancer and underwent some sketchy experimental treatment. It saved your life, sure… but it also wrecked your body. Now you were covered in scars and practically unkillable thanks to a healing factor so extreme it bordered on obscene.

But being honest, he didn’t give a fuck about your messed-up origin story. Cancer, shady experiments, freakshow healing factor. Whatever. Join the club. He’d been blown to pieces and dumped in a Lazarus Pit, so forgive him if he didn’t feel special sympathy. Your problem was your problem. All he wanted was for you to stop eating his food, leaving weapons in his couch cushions, and walking around his place like it had your name on the deed.

You were needy and reckless, an obnoxious pain in the ass with zero boundaries. Jesus Christ.

But, anyways, things had really gone downhill after that garbage fire of a day he had. He and Isabel were done for good, — she’d been his last attempt at feeling something decent in his shitty life, something soft, something that didn’t hurt — you’d tanked another mission, and now you were somehow giving him unsolicited dating advice, like your love life wasn’t a fucking joke. He knew damn well the only person you’d ever seriously dated before turning into Deadpool was a stripper named Vanessa. Sweet girl. Way too good for this mess. She died in New York months ago, because of you.

And then came the shitshow.

Jason had snapped at you again, like it was becoming a habit.

He would never forget the way your body froze, how your shoulders locked up, your breath caught, and every trace of humor bled out of you. Even with that stupid mask on, the look in your eyes gutted him. Like you’d been slapped.

And he meant it to hurt. Every word he spat was sharp and aimed to cut deep. And judging by the silence that followed, he had.

"The only person who ever loved you was a fucking hooker. And even she had to be paid to do it. So fuck off."

The world stopped in his living room.

You didn’t make a stupid joke.

Your fists clenched before your brain could even register it.

Then you hit him. Hard. Square across the jaw.

No more nice ‘Pool, hm?

His head snapped sideways with a grunt, blood blooming in his mouth, but he was already swinging back. Jason’s body twisted with trained precision, his fist caught your side and you gasped, more from fury than pain.

You grabbed him by the front of the shirt and slammed him into the wall hard enough to make it shudder. The plaster cracked behind him, flakes drifting to the floor like ash. His hands came up again, but you were already pushing him back, breath hot, eyes wild under the mask.

"Call her a hooker again," you growled, breath ragged. "I fucking dare you."

Jason spat blood, his grin feral.

The next punch came fast. His knuckles cracked against your jaw. You grunted, stumbled, but swung back instantly — he ducked under it, shoulder-checked you into the wall, and the two of you collapsed in a flurry of fists and curses.

He grabbed you by the waist and slammed you onto the kitchen counter, the edge biting into your back. You didn’t hesitate. Your boot caught him square in the chest and knocked him back into the fridge. The whole thing rattled violently, a magnet flying off and clattering to the tile floor.

Neither of you even looked.

Your eyes burned. Your chest heaved. You were soaked in sweat.

Jason’s pupils were blown wide, locked on you. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, smeared across his lip, but he didn’t wipe it away. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, like he couldn’t tell if he wanted to hit you again or—

"You don’t talk about her. You don’t even fucking know—"

God, you never shut up.

Jason rolled his eyes, and then his mouth crashed into yours, taking full advantage of the way your mask was rolled up to the bridge of your nose — your lips exposed and vulnerable for him. You bit his already-busted bottom lip out of pure fury, tasting copper and spite. You swung at him again, but he caught your wrist, groaning low in his throat.

Then his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, devouring you like he was starving and furious about it. His knee forced your legs apart, pinning you where he wanted you. One hand fisted in your collar, the other wrapped around your throat. Not choking, not yet. Just holding.

"Always running that loud, stupid mouth around me," he growled against your lips. His breath ghosted over your cheek, warm, intoxicating, and for one fleeting second, you almost forgot. Forgot how he disrespected you. Forgot the way he spat on the memory of the only person you ever truly loved.

"Gonna do everyone a favor and keep it busy."

The kiss tasted like iron, blood on both your tongues, heat rising like a fever. And despite everything you felt yourself melting into it, breath hitching against his mouth. Your hands curled in his jacket, unsure if you meant to push him away or drag him closer.

Jason’s hand fisted in your leather mask, rough and impatient, and tore it off completely. The air hits your skin like ice. You flinched. You felt naked. Your scars, your ruined skin, were now fully on display. And for a second, you hesitated. You turned your face just slightly, instinctively, already bracing for disgust.

But Jason didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Instead, his hand came to your jaw, guiding your face back to his and then his tongue slid past your aching lips, slow and deliberate.

Your brain short-circuited.

"Jason…"

You whimpered against him, a soft, unguarded sound you couldn’t even stop. His bigger body pressed against yours, pinning you to the counter. He was already hard, you could feel it heavy against your thigh.

"All that goddamn noise, every smirk, every wiseass comment, walking around my place like you owned it…" His mouth dragged along your jaw. "You’ve been begging for this. Dripping desperation under all that leather."

His hand dipped between your thighs, fingers finding your clothed cunt. You’d never been a prude but the sound that left your throat was a full-bodied, surprised whine, like some Victorian maiden getting her ankle glimpsed at a ball.

"Is that what gets you off, huh?" he growled against your skin, his thumb finding your poor clit. "Pissing me off until I snap? Playing dumb little games, fighting me in my fucking kitchen, so I’ll bend you over and fuck the attitude out of you?"

Yes, you were absolutely eating that shit up. Thighs already twitching, core pulsing, hips aching to grind into the heat of his thumb. But being a little shit was practically a personality trait by now.

"You sound like a discount Christian Grey or, I don’t know, one of those garbage Tumblr fanfics written by a—"

Jason didn’t let you finish.

He spun you around with zero finesse, hands gripping your hips like handles, and bent you over the kitchen counter so fast your breath left you in a grunt. Cold marble met your cheek as your hands scrambled for purchase.

"Try saying that again with my cock halfway inside you."

You just smirked, eyes wild.

"Oh, I love that."

He yanked the bottom half of your uniform down in one smooth, breathless motion. The cool air licked across your thighs and your ass.

Jason froze.

"...Hello Kitty panties? Are you fucking serious?"

You craned your neck with the most unapologetic grin known to man.

"I got them at a Walmart discount bin. Two-ninety-nine."

He stared for a second, dead silent, like he genuinely couldn’t decide whether to fuck you stupid or haul you in for crimes against fashion. His fingers hooked the waistband of your ridiculous Hello Kitty panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin with a sharp flick.

From that angle, bent over the counter, ass bare, pants around your knees, he could see everything.

Strong legs braced wide. Thick, powerful thighs. And the scars, God, the scars. Burns, patches of rough, discolored skin where your healing factor hadn’t cared about aesthetics. Jagged textures that twisted and crawled across your flesh.

He didn’t say anything.

Not at first.

You sighed after a few seconds.

"Gonna leave a lady hanging?"

"I don’t see any ladies here."

Your grin widened.

He dropped to his knees behind you.

Rough hands yanked your thighs apart as he ducked between them, spreading you open — your ugly panties were already balled up in his jacket pocket, swiped without a second thought after he’d torn them off you.

"Hey," you panted, voice wobbling through a half-laugh, half-moan, "you don’t have to steal my underwear, okay? I can buy you your own. Maybe with little bats on them—Jason?"

His only response was a low growl as he sank his tongue into you without a shred of mercy.

You jolted, mouth falling open.

"Fuck—okay, okay, take the panties, Jesus—"

He didn’t even look up. Just shoved your thighs wider, buried himself deeper, and groaned like your pussy was the first meal he’d had in days. Whatever joke you’d been about to crack turned into a breathless scream, your fingers scrabbling across the counter for something to hold on to. He licked like a man possessed, angry and hungry. You tried to push him back just enough to breathe, and he slapped your thigh. Hard.

"Don’t fucking move," he moaned against you, voice wrecked, wet sounds echoing through the room as he sucked your clit. Then he spit directly onto your cunt, tongue catching it before it could drip, and shoved two thick, warm, fingers inside you without warning.

"Oh—God—what the fuck?" you gasped, legs trembling as his fingers did something positively illegal, curling them just right inside you.

"Where the hell did you learn that?!"

He bit your thigh, hard enough to bruise, then sucked another mark into the skin.

"Jas—fuck—Jason—"

He pulled back just enough to speak.

"Did you ever shut the fuck up?" Jason growled, fingers still deep inside you, knuckles slick, "you sound like a fucking chatterbox."

You gasped, moaned, and tried to sass back but it caught in your throat. His fingers were so big, stretching you up so good…

He smirked, mean and low. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

He stood up suddenly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and his fingers on his jeans. You didn’t get to finish the way you wanted.

"Hey— I was in the middle of something…"

Jason didn’t even glance at you. Just muttered, "Didn’t ask," as he undid his belt with sharp movements, the clink of the buckle cutting through the room. You twisted around on the counter, half-smirking through your haze.

"Hmm, someone’s eager. I get it, okay? I’m hot. Hot like Jessica Alba in The Fantastic Four."

He stepped forward, belt dangling from one hand, eyes dark, mouth set in a flat line. His other hand grabbed your hip hard enough to bruise and spun you back around with no effort at all. Jason lined himself up and thrust in, deep, splitting you open in one filthy, perfect stroke.

Every snarky comeback, every filthy one-liner, every sarcastic jab — all gone. For the next thirty minutes, you couldn’t even form a normal sentence. You moaned loud. Legs shaking.

"Fuck," you gasped. "Jason—"

"Shut up," he grunted. "You can take it."

He fucked into you hard. Brutal. Like punishment. Like he was trying to tear you apart from the inside out and stitch you back together in his shape. You were moaning high pitched, snarling, begging under your breath.

God, that was the best of your life.

He grabbed your wrists, pinned them behind your back with one hand, his other braced on your lower back, pressing you flat to the counter. Every thrust knocked the air out of your lungs. His cock dragged against every overstimulated nerve, punishing and perfect.

"Ah— Fuck, please, Ja—!"

Jason grabbed your hair and pulled you back against him.

"What?" he muttered behind you, giving your cheek a wet kiss, hand tangled tight in your hair, tugging your head back hard enough to sting. "Runned out of jokes? Got nothing for me now?"

He fucked you until the slap of skin was louder than your ragged breathing, until your thighs were shaking and your voice was breaking. And you moaned happly, pressing back into him like the goddamn animal you were, desperately trying to fuck yourself on him.

Jason chuckled, his grip tightening for a second.

"Thought so."

#dc x y/n #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood #dc x reader #dc imagine #dc comics #deadpool!reader

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spaceyaemonds · 1 month ago

Text

paring: dr. jack abbot x robby’s daughter!reader

sum.: what’s a girl to do but fuck her dads sort of best friend?

warnings: smut. like literally 99% smut, idk what came over me, don’t look at me. age gap (reader is mid 20s (robby had her young, she did not meet jack until she was in her 20s, and he never even heard about her until he met her for the first time. robbt kept that part of his life private idk just needed to clarify), jack is canon age), fingering and oral (f!receiving), spit as lube, just the tip for a few seconds, creampie, BRIEF BICEP CHOKING IN PRONE BONE, teasing, idk i’m sure theres more idk idk. minors DNI.

notes: requested!!! literally do not look at me. i wrote this one handed idk idk. no clue what came over me. I’m embarrassed. also just trying to work on my smut writing in general soooo. unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 1.4k

Your dad would absolutely kill you if he knew what, no who, you were doing right now.

Not that it was really any of his business who you slept with or dated, but you don’t want to think too hard about his reaction to his former rival/current somewhat best friend, if they even considered each other that, being the one who has you walking like a newborn deer in the mornings.

But it’s not just a secret from your dad. No one knows.

It’s beyond inappropriate, and maybe it shouldn’t be, but unfortunately it is. Despite the fact that you’re a grown woman, met him as a grown woman, you know someone will have some sort of comment that you are being taken advantage of.

So the two of you keep it to yourselves. In quiet moments in his living room or your kitchen, stolen kisses in the early mornings in the grocery store that’s open 24/7 just down the block from your apartment.

Or moments like this, in your bedroom.

He’s been in between your thighs, licking and sucking at your for what feels like hours.

Every so often, he’ll add two fingers into the mix, quickly bringing you to the edge when he finds that spot inside of you and repeatedly applies just the right amount of pressure.

He’s digging his nails into your thighs hard enough to leave marks as his tongue dives in and out of you, your hips moving ever so slightly to follow it every moment it leaves your dripping hole.

His eyes bore into yours as he drags his mouth up your slit to latch back onto your clit, sucking on it like his life depends on it.

“Fuck,” It comes out a breathy gasp, and his eyes are locked on your swollen lips.

“Yeah?” He pulls his face away from your center, “You like that baby?”

“Mhm,” You nod, tears glittering your eyes as you pout at him, “I’d like your cock more, though.”

Jack stops for a brief moment, eyes narrowing at you.

“I thought we decided you were done being a brat?”

His tone is rough, and it makes you throb.

“‘M not being a brat. I’m just a girl who knows exactly what she wants, is all.”

His face is right next to yours now, with narrowed eyes that hold a gleam you’ve come to know all too well.

“Is that so?”

Before you can respond, his mouth is pressed against yours.

Your hands tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck, gasping when he bites your lip so he can force his tongue into your mouth.

He groans into your mouth when your hand moves to palm at his throbbing cock through his black briefs.

His mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting sharply, taking in all the little noises that leave your mouth.

“You gonna be a good girl for me, baby?” He mumbles hotly in your ear, biting the lobe as his clothed cock grinds against your bare, throbbing cunt.

“Yes, yes. Oh-“

He has you flipped over before your mind can process the movement.

Jack pulls his briefs down just enough to free his cock from them.

You whine out when you feel the tip prod at your sopping hole twice, kicking your legs in frustration when he pulls his cock away from you.

“You’ve been a bad, bad girl, baby.” He sits back slightly, his weight holding your lower body still as his calloused hands spread your ass cheeks apart before landing a harsh slap on your left cheek.

“Oh!” You moan out sharply.

“Naughty pictures left in my wallet,” Another slap on your right cheek.

“lacy panties in my scrub pants,” The next slap on your left cheek is harder than the last two, and it causes you to cry out.

His hand quickly soothes the sting.

“and who can forget the texts you sent me when I was out drinking with my coworkers, with your dad,”

His right hand is tangled in your hair as he yanks your head back, casung a gasp to leave your mouth.

His cups his left hand under your mouth, “Spit.” It’s harsh, demanding.

Pursing your lips, you let a glob of spit fall from your mouth and fall into his palm.

He releases his grip on your hair, letting your head fall into your pillow.

His left hand quickly grips his cock, rubbing your spit in, “Fuuuck,”

Your hips wiggle back, desperate to help guide him inside you.

His right hand swats your ass, eyes rolling back at the moan that leaves your mouth, left hand moving faster up and down his cock

“You’ve been bad-” He cuts himself off with a deep breath out, “bad girls don’t get cock.”

You could cry, fuck, you start tearing up at the thought.

“No, no, no. Please, please give it to me.”

“Give it to you?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Please,” His free thumb traces your slit, rubbing your clit in two hard circles, causing you to moan out loudly, “I promise I’ll be good.”

He barks out a laugh, voice dropping, “Yeah, bet you will.”

He places just the tip of his cock inside you, but doesn’t move further.

At least he doesn’t move his cock further into you.

You can hear him moving his hand, jerking off his cock, can feel the way his tip throbs, barely inside you.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

It’s borderline sadistic, the way the pathetic noises that leave your mouth are making him feel. The way you’re begging and begging for more.

“Oh?” His tone is condescending, and though you can’t see it, but his head is tilted to the side.

“You need more? Is that right?”

Finally, he takes his left hand away from his cock, placing both hands back on your ass cheeks, to once again pull them apart.

His eyes close as he watches the way your soaking cunt stretches around his cock, “That’s it, isn’t it, baby?”

You clench down at his tone, because if nothing else will show it, his voice will always show the true effect that you have on him.

His hips finally meet your ass, and your eyes are rolled into the back of your head.

“Oh god,”

He leans down to press his chest against your back, skin sticking to your as he breathes heavily in your ear as his hips repeatedly meet your ass and his cock hits that one spot in you over and over and over.

“Fuck, maybe you can be a good girl. Huh?” He grunts into your ear, biting at the cartlidge before he wraps his arm around your neck, squeezing lightly.

“You’re my good girl, aren’tcha? Huh, my good baby?”

You nod frantically, gasping as he tightens his hold around your neck slightly.

“I-I-‘m so good, s-so good,” Drool and tears are falling down your face as your core tightens around him, signalling your impending orgasm.

“Oh?” He beings trusting harder, “Are you going to cum for me? Huh? Cum on my cock?”

You don’t have an opportunity to respond, the only thing leaving your mouth is a broken moan as you cum around him.

He fucks you through it before going just a little harder, just a little deeper, for one, two, three, four more thrusts before his thick cum is filling you in heavy spurts, painting your insides a creamy white.

He rests his weight on you, forehead pressed against the back of your head as he mumbles sweet nothings to you, rubbing your shaking body up and down.

When he finally lifts himself off of you and pulls his cock from your sensitive pussy, he lays next to you, pulling you to his chest as he catches his breath.

“Do you want me to cook you dinner?”

His question is quite, and you groan and shake your head, “Let’s just order chinese.”

He laughs, “If that’s what you want.”

You pull away to look at him, sleepy smile on your pretty face. His hand quickly finds your jaw, gently tracing your features from your brow to your nose to your lips.

Jack pinches you lightly when you bite him, but then leans up to give your lips a small kiss before reaching for his phone to place a takeout order at your favorite chinese restaurant.

Both of you go deathly still when you hear the door to you apartment open, knowing only one other person has a key.

“Honey? You here?” You and Jack are both wide eyed at the muffled sound of your dad’s voice.

#the pitt x reader #the pitt smut #dr jack abbot smut #jack abbot smut #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #🐝 writes #🐝 writes: the pitt #🐝’s requests #i am still so embarrassed omg #idk who i was when i wrote this

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moonlight-joy · 4 months ago

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A Surprise Delivery

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: When Spencer forgets his lunch, you decide to bring it to him at the BAU—only to be met with an overly curious and excited team. The moment they realize you’re the person Spencer constantly talks about, they tease him relentlessly, much to his embarrassment. Despite the chaos, Spencer’s quiet affection and the team’s warmth make you realize just how much you belong—not just with him, but with all of them.

Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid

Spencer was always in a rush in the mornings. His mind ran a thousand miles per hour, jumping from one thought to the next, always thinking ahead.

It was one of the things you adored about him.

Unfortunately, it also meant he often forgot things.

Like today—when he left for work without his lunch.

You noticed it the second you walked into the kitchen. His neatly packed lunch sat on the counter, completely untouched.

With a fond sigh, you grabbed it and decided to bring it to him yourself.

After all, you hadn’t had the chance to visit the BAU yet.

Spencer talked about his team all the time—telling you stories of their cases, their friendships, and their relentless teasing of him.

But you’d never actually met them in person.

Until now.

Walking into the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit was… intimidating.

Agents moved around with stacks of files, their voices filling the air with serious discussions. You saw desks cluttered with crime scene photos, case notes, and very, very intense people.

And then you spotted him.

Spencer was sitting at his desk, completely engrossed in a case file. His brow was furrowed, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on his knee, lips pursed in deep concentration.

Your heart swelled.

God, you loved him.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over, lunch in hand.

“Spencer?”

His head snapped up at the sound of your voice, and for a moment, he just stared.

“Y/N?” His eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

You lifted the lunch bag with a small smile. “You forgot this.”

Spencer blinked. Then grinned. He stood so fast that his chair nearly toppled over.

“You didn’t have to bring it all the way here,” he said, voice full of affection.

“I wanted to,” you admitted shyly. “Didn’t want you skipping lunch.”

Before Spencer could respond, a voice cut through the air.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

You turned just in time to see Derek Morgan smirking as he approached, followed by a very curious Penelope Garcia, JJ, and Emily Prentiss.

“Oh. My. God.” Garcia gasped, practically bouncing in excitement.

Her eyes widened as she took you in, then whipped around to face Spencer.

“Tell me this absolute ray of sunshine is the mysterious person you’ve been hiding from us.”

Spencer groaned. “I haven’t been hiding her.”

“Oh, you absolutely have,” Emily teased, crossing her arms. “And I think I speak for everyone when I say… excuse me?!”

You felt your face heat up as all eyes landed on you.

Spencer must have noticed, because he immediately moved closer, his hand brushing against yours in silent reassurance.

JJ smiled kindly. “It’s really nice to finally meet you. Spencer talks about you all the time.”

“JJ.” Spencer muttered, clearly embarrassed.

“What? It’s true!” JJ laughed. “I swear, every other conversation is ‘Y/N said this,’ ‘Y/N likes that.’”

You turned to Spencer, a grin playing at your lips. “Really?”

Spencer cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “I… I may have mentioned you. Once or twice.”

Morgan smirked. “More like a hundred times.”

Spencer glared at him.

You giggled, feeling your nerves slowly fade.

Morgan grinned. “So, tell me, how did this guy manage to score someone like you?”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest, but you beat him to it.

You turned to Morgan with a sweet, sincere smile and said, “He’s pretty easy to love.”

The team collectively swooned.

Garcia clutched her chest dramatically. “Okay, I officially love you. We’re keeping you.”

Emily smirked. “Spencer, you better hold on tight, because I think we just found our new favorite person.”

Spencer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, but you could see the small smile tugging at his lips.

JJ nudged you playfully. “You know, he usually avoids talking about relationships with us. But you? He never stops talking about you.”

You turned to Spencer, softening.

“You do?”

Spencer fidgeted, clearly flustered. “I— I mean, it’s— they’re exaggerating.”

“Oh, not at all,” Morgan said cheerfully. “In fact, the only thing we haven’t heard is how you met.”

Spencer groaned. “Oh, no. We are not doing this right now.”

Garcia gasped. “Wait. Was it a nerdy meet-cute? Did you bump into each other in a library? Did you both reach for the same book and your fingers brushed?”

Morgan grinned. “Did you impress her with your crazy genius memory?”

Emily smirked. “Or did she save him from tripping over his own feet?”

Spencer sighed heavily. “You’re all impossible.”

You laughed, loving the way Spencer’s team teased him but adored him all the same.

Spencer turned back to you, his voice softer now. “Thank you for bringing this.”

You smiled. “Anytime.”

Morgan smirked. “Alright, pretty boy, we’ll leave you two alone… for now.”

As the team walked away—clearly whispering and already planning ways to tease Spencer later—he sighed and turned back to you.

Spencer shook his head. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

You grinned. “Probably not.”

He huffed but then took your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Still worth it.”

Your heart fluttered.

And in that moment, standing in the middle of the busy BAU bullpen, surrounded by Spencer’s friends, his family, you knew—

So was this.

Please support my work with like and comment

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds x reader

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svetamillss · 1 month ago

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Random headcanons in your relationship with them✨

Featuring: Yeon Si Eun x Reader(f), Ahn Su Ho x Reader(f), Oh Beom Seok x Reader(f), Seo Jun Tae x Reader(f), Park Hu Min (Baku) x Reader(f), Go Hyeon Tak x Reader(f)

A/N: English is not my native language! Sorry for the mistakes! I was also asked to write with these boys.

Yeon Si Eun

The guy likes to help you with your homework. Despite the fact that he doesn't like to be distracted while studying, he has a completely different attitude towards you. He is ready to explain the same thing to you until you understand the material. In secret, he is amused by the fact that you are embarrassed by such attention on his part to your grades. It's just that he really wants you to have a good future and is ready to do anything for this.

- Damn, I don't understand this math at all. - you sigh nervously, sitting on his bed, he just looks at you carefully, the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, saying that he is smiling.

- I'll explain everything to you now.

- But you've already done it..

- I'll explain again until you understand. - You don't understand how you deserved love from such a secretive and quiet person like him.

Ahn Su Ho

The guy loves your food madly, he is ready to give up any other, just to eat only yours. Knowing his love, you cook for him all the time. And bring lunch and dinner to him at work, to a restaurant or before he goes to deliver orders. It is important for you to know that your boyfriend is full of energy and not starving, and he has a very good appetite. He will say a million compliments to you, your talent and your food.

- Oh my God, my princess came to save me from hunger. - he says, when you enter the restaurant, Si Eun looks at him strangely.

- You're in a restaurant, you could have eaten here.

- Dude, you won't understand. - he waves it off with a smile, running up to you and hugging you tightly.

Oh Beom Seok

You know his relationship with his father, so you are always ready to help and support him in difficult moments. He often runs away from home after quarrels, he comes to you. Yes, he is ashamed, he is shy, because he has to protect you, not you, but you don't mind at all and are happy to take him in. Your parents don't mind either, because they know his situation, but they don't question him. At home, you will feed him, let him take a shower, and put him on your bed, next to you, so that he feels safe. And he is really grateful to you, and in his heart he believes that he did not deserve you.

- Thank you. - he says quietly, before you both plunge into the kingdom of Morpheus, he will also lightly kiss you on the cheek as a sign of gratitude and love.

Seo Jun Tae

Despite the fact that the guy is a high school graduate, he loves to watch cartoons, but no one knows about it, not even his friends. But you are an exception. When you learned about his passion for cartoons, you gladly accepted his passion and began to arrange home dates with him, where ate sweets and watched various cartoons.

- What cartoon are we going to watch today? - he asked when he brought chips, marmalade and soda to the room, you answered without thinking twice.

- Let's watch "Sponge Bob: Square Pants".

- Great idea. - he replied with a shy smile.

Park Hu Min (Baku)

Your boyfriend was a knight to you, and you were his princess. That's why he constantly met you from school or extra classes, no matter where and what time they are, he will still come. Baku will follow you to your favorite places, whether it's various fashion stores or something like that. At first you wondered why he protected you so much, but when he told more about himself, everything fell into place. He is very afraid to lose you, so he will watch over you as the most important treasure in the world.

- What time do you finish today? - he asks when he brought you to school.

- I'll finish at five.

- Okay, honey, I'll come exactly at this time. - he said, kissing you on the lips.

Go Hyeon Tak

He had two passions. It's you and basketball. So you weren't surprised when he chose a basketball court as a place for dates. He really wanted to teach you how to play so that you could play basketball together later. You didn't burn much with desire, but you agreed for him, because you knew that your boyfriend wanted you to have common interests with him.

- Well, are you ready to fight me today? - he said cheerfully, taking the ball in his hands.

- But I didn't really learn!

- No need to say that, you already know how to do a lot, so at the same time let's see how you learned my lessons.

✨✨✨

#weak hero class x reader #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class one #weak hero class two #yeon sieun #sieun #sieun x reader #ahn suho x reader #ahn suho #oh beomseok #beomseok x reader #seo juntae #juntae x reader #park humin #baku x reader #park humin x reader #go hyuntak #hyuntak x reader #headcanons

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earlysunshines · 2 months ago

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dontcha (want me?)

kang haerin x fem!reader ; fluff

synopsis: haerin doesn’t like you just because and then you hit her in the head with a volleyball and now she has a valid reason to not like you but now YOU have a reason to try to warm up to her

warnings: volleyball player!reader ; haerin is just like me in this I easily hate ; brief one sided enemies to lovers but very brief ; reader lowk whipped ; haerin whipped but she hides it better... maybe ; pure fluff no angst isn't that crazy ; so cute icl ; anything else I didn't mention ; haven't written in twenty years basically this is nooot my best ; not proofread

a/n: you don't understand how much i appreciate haerin's cover of dontcha (listen while you read!! or at least near the second half lolol) bc I'm so obsessed I keep looping the song that song is my everything... also, tried a diff pacing/writing style so lmk what u guys think :-P

haerin never really liked you.

she’s never actually met you, but in her defense, once she has a reason not to like someone (or that tiny feeling in her gut that draws her away), the feeling grows and grows—quietly, steadily—until it fills every space it can. and you? you’ve given her plenty to work with.

considering your athletic reputation as the university’s star outside hitter, you're relatively well-known around campus. that’s her first strike—not that it’s a bad thing, just enough for haerin to put you in a different world in her mind. two sides of a coin. peas of different pods—and so forth. you’re louder, more outgoing, bright in a way that feels abrasive to her more reserved nature.

your friends don’t help your case either. they snicker during lectures while haerin is trying to take notes, organize her planner, or simply pay attention. even in the halls of the building or on the respective way to your classes—you somehow manage to pass by her at least twice a day—-your friends are making you push them away because they made you laugh too hard and suddenly the quiet of the arts building is filled with your voice.

so, she didn’t really acknowledge you at first despite the connections you shared with two of her friends eunchae and minji. but when you decided to switch majors before your second semester and started spending more time in her building, ruining the comfortable routine and atmosphere, that was the beginning of her personal second semester curse.

(haerin’s heard of the infamous second semester curse; she figured it’d just be due to a heavier academic load and whatnot, not for it to manifest in the form of you.)

and if she was being honest, you’d never actually done anything to her. haerin was just being a little more judgmental than she liked to admit—or as her best friend danielle would say, “you’re just being the usual haerin”—and you, all bright and loud, were simply everything she wasn’t very fond of. it was easier to dislike you that way.

but today, she finally had a tangible reason to back up her detestation.

“holy shit—” haerin hears you curse, your voice panicked as sneakers squawk against the gym floor.

the world spins a little as haerin presses her palm against her head, wincing.

you’re already sprinting over, wide-eyed and breathless, guilt written all over your face as you slow down to a stop.

“i’m so sorry,” you blurt, unsure of what to do now that you’re right in front of her. “i swear i wasn’t aiming for you—are you okay? can you stand? should i get someone? oh my god i’m so sorry!”

your voice fully registers in her mind and through the haze of pain, haerin blinks up at you.

of course it had to be you.

of course you had to hit her.

of course you had to look at her like that—so worried, so intense.

and for some reason, that annoys her even more.

“i’m fine.” haerin says through gritted teeth, holding the side of her face that was pummeled by a volleyball. now it makes sense why you’re the star outside hitter, because it hurt. it wasn’t even your worst spike.

she grumbles, “could you watch where you’re hitting next time?”

“i’m so sorry, really.” you hesitate, hand still hovering awkwardly in the air before it reaches over to haerin’s so you can check the side of her face, but she steps back.

“seriously,” she says, sharper this time. “i’m fine.”

you flinch a little at her tone, guilt flashing across your features before you try to cover it up with a sheepish smile.

“right, um, sorry.” you say, backing off and biting the inside of your lip. “but seriously, i’m so sorry. you can, um, like, hit me back if you want? you can throw the volleyball at my face in return—ah, um, revenge. eye for an eye? or i can treat you to something… if you…”

your voice dies down at the sight of her glare, and because she’s taken her hand off her face and wow the color is nasty—a dark red that might just fade into a near purple in the next hour.

she looks at you, unimpressed, and flatly says, “i’m not five.”

you laugh under your breath, scratching the back of your neck. “fair. but if you change your mind, i won’t argue back or anything,” you offer, pointing to your cheek dramatically. “free shot. no consequences.”

for a second, haerin truly wants to slap you in the face. she wants to roll her eyes and walk away. wants to keep being annoyed, to keep clinging to that righteous, simmering dislike she’s built up for no reason.

but you stand there so weirdly genuine and stupidly endearing in your own loud, clumsy way that makes it harder for her to hate on you the way she wants to.

she huffs—loud enough for you to hear and swallow lightly from her terrifying energy—then gives you a small groan before turning and walking away without another word.

behind her, you raise your voice just a bit as you call out, cheerful despite the tension, “i’ll take that as a maybe!”

haerin doesn’t turn around. she just keeps walking, cheeks nearly as warm as the side of her head.

—

the next day haerin has to add a good two layers of color corrector, concealer, and foundation in order to cover up the giant bruise on the side of her face.

after the incident yesterday, the nurse gave her an ice pack and a “take care!” to compensate for your damage because ‘regular’ university students do not get the same attention as an athlete with a torn acl, unfortunately.

she sits down at her usual spot for her music history class, pulling out her laptop and current reading for the course as she waits for hanni. but before hanni can steal a seat next to her, someone else does.

“hi, i don’t know if you remember me. i mean, you probably do…” haerin glances to her right, jaw tensing at the sight of you and hearing your voice. “i, um, got you this…”

you hand her a small box of strawberry chocolate bites, offering her a small smile to break the tension.

but haerin doesn’t give in.

“why?” she asks.

“what?”

“i don’t need your chocolate,” haerin responds flatly. “you can go back to your friends now.” she adds, redirecting her attention back on the book in front of her.

“no, no. please, i—i insist. i’ve been on that end, worse than what you had to endure though, and it’s really bad, just—”

“just because i’m not you doesn’t mean i can’t handle a ball hitting my face. i’m good, are we done?”

haerin notices the look of shock that makes your features twitch slightly. you avoid eye contact then, pursing a smile before pushing the chocolate toward her.

“look. i’m not the type of person to let these things slide. it might seem small to me, but i want to make it up to you. take these chocolates for now,” you sigh, standing up. haerin looks up at you curiously, her expression never shifting as you finally say, “bye.”

—

there was a noticeable routine throughout the next two weeks that you couldn’t seem to break.

you’d cross paths with haerin often, because apparently fate had a terrible sense of humor, and you made sure to acknowledge her each time. it started off small” a smile, nod, or a soft “hey” in her direction. none of it was overbearing, just… persistent. it’s how you are.

even when haerin pretended to notice (she sure noticed each and every time), you never faltered. if her gaze so much as brushed yours, you’d light up immediately, offering a little wave that would never fail to be left hanging.

in class, it was the same. she always sat in the same spot — the third row from the front, fourth seat in — and you always scanned the room for her as soon as you walked in. when you found her (which you always did), you’d stroll past, knock gently on the edge of her desk with your knuckles, and smile before heading to your own seat across the room.

haerin didn’t understand any of it.

why were you being so nice to her? what were your intentions?

it was all so… strange.

hitting her in the head shouldn’t have led to… whatever this was. she’d expected you to move on and forget it. you have much bigger things to worry about anyway, as the outside hitter. instead, it felt like you were making a point to force your way into her peripheral vision every single day.

she’d been skeptical, very skeptical. she’d spend a few minutes zoned out, trying to think about what you were up to, and why it seemed so welcoming. but no, haerin can’t give in. that’s not like her, not for someone like you.

it wasn’t until her confusion simmered down that she found herself out one afternoon with her group of friends huddled around a crowded table at a campus cafe, sipping on iced teas.

“remember when you told us about the volleyball-to-your-head incident?” minji asks, switching the conversation topic from the most annoying professor to you.

haerin raises a brow. “yeah, why?”

“y/n’s been spiraling because of it.” minji says casually, twirling her straw. “because of you.”

haerin blinks, caught mid-sip. “...what?”

“yeah.” minji grins. “she thinks you hate her. she feels awful about it.”

hanni nods, a bite of a sandwich halfway to her mouth. “i feel bad for the girl,” she adds around a mouthful, earning a look from danielle. “sorry dani. but yeah, minji was telling me about it kinda. damn.”

“so you’re just going to tell hanni about a story that involves… me? without telling me first?” haerin rolls her eyes playfully.

“okay well to be fair she’s my roommate so how about that.” minji argues. “anyway, ever since the volleyball thing,” she continues, leaning forward like she’s about to drop the craziest news ever (knowing minji, it’s probably not that crazy), “she’s been convinced she made an enemy out of you. like, actually upset about it. she keeps asking me if she should apologize again, if she’s being annoying, if she should just stop trying…”

haerin stares at her, stunned into silence.

you? of all people? spiraling because of… her?

“maybe she’s just not used to people like you, ‘rinnie. i don’t know her like that but i heard she’s very lively and outgoing and basically your complete opposite.” danielle giggles softly. “and i thought i was bad.”

“plus, she thinks you’re like a ghost or something. she sees you everywhere, apparently,” minji adds with a laugh. “she’s kinda going insane.”

for a long moment, haerin just sits there, her fingers gliding along the condensation on her cup. the irritation that she pairs up with you in her head fizzles away just a little.

she hadn’t realized it got to you that much. she never realized how much you truly cared about how she was affected by your killer spike.

maybe, haerin thinks, maybe she’d been a little too quick to judge.

maybe you’re not just loud and obnoxious. maybe you’re just trying to mend things.

“i guess i’ll be a little nicer. you can’t blame me though, that bruise was purple. i’m just glad it wasn’t that close to my eye.”

“i’ve had worse.” minji snickers, earning a glare from her.

—

today, you have your music history class. 1pm on tuesdays and thursdays, seventy-five minutes long, and one of two classes you have with kang haerin.

you also share the class with two of your teammates: kazuha, the most reliant, talented setter you know, and yunjin, whose killer vertical and presence at the net make her the best middle blocker in the region.

while the two are a dream combination on the court, they’re a nightmare in any academic setting.

out of the three of you, you tend to be a little more reserved, which says a lot. your composure breaks without fail because they’re so loud and unfortunately so hilarious that it makes you cackle and completely lose any self-awareness in class, or anywhere in general.

yunjin’s nudging you as you three walk up the stairs, teasing you as soon as you reach the second level of the building.

“are you ready to be ignored by kang again?” she snickers, grinning from ear to ear. “i think she hates you even more after all of whatever you’re doing.”

“oh shut up.” you groan, shoving her with your shoulder. “look, i’m trying to be nice. do you know how fucking bad it is to get hit in the head with a volleyball? dude, that wasn’t even my best. it was practice. i feel so bad… one time i got hit by ryujin’s spike and—”

you shiver, remembering how puffy and purple your face had been after the game against your rivals. you looked like you’d gone ten rounds in a boxing ring.

and you can’t stop thinking about haerin after, pinching the bridge of her nose at the thought of her. the faint swelling after the incident, the way her concealer couldn’t quite cover the bruise. the fact that she hadn’t said a word about it, just sat there stiff and silent the next day in class.

“—i need to make it up to her.” you mumble under your breath, almost to yourself.

“wow. i’ve never seen you so sorry.” kazuha hums thoughtfully, sipping on whatever flavored latte she has in her hand. then, she nudges you, nodding her head toward the woman you injured two weeks ago. “but seriously, it’s impressive. i’ve never seen someone make being nice this tragic— hey, now’s your time to shine.”

you glance up.

it’s nine in the morning and you always pass haerin on your way to your first class of the day. today is no different.

she’s put together, headphones in, and headed straight towards you.

you feel a lump in your throat. every day, every time, you say hi. and every day, every time, she ignores you.

but you can’t help yourself. you swallow lightly, raising a hand and smiling at haerin. to your surprise—she looks up and meets your eyes, holding the contact for a second longer than usual, something almost unreadable shimmering along the surface before she shifts her gaze forward like it’s nothing, continuing down teh hall.

she acknowledged you.

you turn to watch her walk away, stunned. “guys, maybe she doesn’t hate me.” you gasp under your breath.

“or maybe: you’re delusional.” yunjin clicks her tongue. “there was probably something on your face.”

“was there?” you say in a slight panic, pulling out your phone to check yourself out. there’s nothing but your plain old face, the face that haerin looked at for four whole seconds.

you can’t be delusional, there’s no way.

when you go to your next class, your spirits are still lifted. you step into music history half an hour later. kazuha and yunjin are already in their seats since you left them to go grab something from your car, and by the time you glance over they’re laughing at something on yunjin’s phone. you linger longer by the door, adjusting your hoodie.

out of habit, your eyes find haerin—third row from the front, fourth seat in—posture perfect with her laptop in front of her, earbuds out now.

something is different this time when you look at her, because she’s already looking at you.

you feel your breath catching. a flash of nervousness rushes through your body and you have no clue why. she blinks once, twice, then quickly turns her focus back to the screen, fingers typing calmly like nothing had happened.

still—you catch yourself smiling, chest a little lighter than it had been all week.

something is different. you can feel it.

and for the first time you can relax your shoulders, because it feels like you’re not just fighting this silent losing battle anymore.

—

you see her again thursday morning, but yunjin and kazuha aren’t there to witness your five seconds of embarassing yourself.

today her hair is up in a bun and she’s wearing a plaid long-sleeve button paired with wide-leg sweatpants—she looks good, and now that the thought pops up… when hasn’t she?

“hey,” you blurt out before you can even think about what to say after. “good morning.” you add with a friendly smile.

she slows down, her brows twitching just barely as she looks at you like she’s thinking of what to say. maybe she’ll utter nothing and walk off. maybe she’ll reprimand you. to be honest, you don’t really care what happens next because it’s better than nothing.

“hi.” she says quietly, flatly. she breaks eye contact and walks right past again.

your smile widens, and each step down the hall feels brighter.

—

the week ends for most people with relief, but not for you. most friday’s are spent at the university’s court for practice, running a few warmup laps around the small court to get you going.

everything continues on normally: your team pairs up to pepper for ten minutes before moving into spiking drills, setting, receiving, and perfecting minor details before moving on to scrimmages. it’s a routine you could never get tired of, one your body knows by heart. even when you’re sore and dreading practice, you love it.

what breaks the usual routine is a certain someone showing up twenty minutes before practice ends.

haerin walks through the door with two of her friends. you recognize danielle and hanni since they’re a weekly feature on your teammate minji’s instagram stories. while everyone gets back into order, your eyes linger on haerin. what you don’t expect is for her to lock eyes with you for a split second, a moment that makes you stop in place, before she breaks the contact.

you catch the group sitting in the bleachers, sparking a sudden urge to try a little harder.

the last twenty minutes of scrimmage consist of you doing very well. your turns are sharp and precise, your spikes heavy and quick—even some of your teammates are shocked at the sudden boost of energy. you’re playing almost as well as you would in a real game, and maybe it’s because of a special someone in the crowd. maybe it’s to distract her from the fact that one of your spikes left her in the nurse's office.

when practice ends, you run a few laps with your team before stretching together, though not without trying to sneak a peek at haerin to find that she’s already doing the same. you have to fight back a smile each time.

and after everyone finished changing, you caught up with minji, nudging her arm with your elbow.

“hey buddy,” you greet with a teasing tone. “nice blocks today. your vertical is getting better by the day!”

“thanks,” she laughs. “and… buddy? since when did start using that?”

“since now?”

“you sound ridiculous,” minji sighs. “so, what did you need from me?”

“i already told you! you’re doing better… and… well, i have a question.”

minji sighs once more.

“what’s with your little friends showing up?”

“no,” minji starts, raising her eyebrows. “what’s with haerin showing up.”

“no…”

“...yes,” she counters.

you huff, rolling your eyes as you step back onto the court. minji’s friends are still sitting in the third row of the bleachers, laughing at something from what you can tell. and then minji looks at you from the side, raising her brows again and tilting her head, motioning for you to follow her.

you hesitate when minji starts heading over, but give in anyway.

“i’ll just say hi,” you mutter, more to yourself than minji. your teammate shrugs.

when you arrive, they’re already headed down the bleachers—it’s a little terrifying. haerin is second after danielle, with hanni trailing behind. you watch as danielle leaps over to hug minji, then catches you while her arms are wrapped around your teammate.

“oh hey!” danielle beams into minji’s ear. “you must be y/n?”

“yeah, right on!” you respond with the same energy.

then your eyes land on haerin, who’s fixing the collar of her t-shirt before meeting your gaze once again. the energy in your body dims down, your jaw tenses, and you feel like a movie character when the background blurs behind and it’s just them.

“hi haerin.” you greet warmly.

she scans you again as if she’s figuring out whether or not you deserve a response. you gulp shallowly.

“hi.” she responds. her friends turn their heads toward her, clearly amused. then, her lips curl up just barely, almost imperceptibly. if you weren’t so hyperfocused on her you wouldn’t have caught it. “i’m surprised you didn’t hit anyone in the face.”

your heart beats against your chest like it’s trying to escape.

minji bites back a laugh as you awkwardly chuckle before saying, “well, that’s progress.”

haerin’s brows raise just a bit as she adds, “your aim must’ve improved.”

minji doesn’t hold back her laugh this time, slapping your shoulder. something about haerin’s light teasing warms your chest, there’s a grin on your face as you respond, “just for you.” and maybe it was risky, but it makes haerin’s lips turn up just a little more. it feels like a standing ovation.

“well,” you begin, because your heart might explode right there and right now. “i was just catching up with minji. i have to uh, i have to… catch up with someone else. see you haerin— and um, you two as well— hanni, danielle.”

they all giggle before waving to you, though haerin only offers you a small smile that makes you want to celebrate.

—

haerin lifts up her head after sensing someone’s presence right by her side. she assumes it’s hanni, so she doesn’t bother to look right away. but when she tilts her head and glances over, it’s not who she expected.

“morning.” you greet, casual, but a faint smile is seen on your face.

you’re here early, haerin thinks. usually your friends would make it before you, loud and probably sharing their whole weekend with the class unknowingly. you’d show up just before class started and scan the room for haerin before making your way over to the back to join the disturbance. not that she’s keeping track or anything though. that’d be ridiculous.

she blinks once. “morning.”

she turns to grab something from her bag, assuming you’ll leave sooner. but you don’t. instead, she feels your lingering presence beside her desk.

“so, how was your weekend?” you ask, equally awkward as sincere.

“fine.” she replies without looking up.

you nod, waiting, but nothing conversational trickles in after.

your attempt at dissolving the tension is by clearing your throat, trying not to make it weird. “that’s good. did you do anything fun?”

she turns her head just barely, meeting you halfway—sort of. “why are you bothering me?” she asks, and the bluntness makes you stiffen a little.

your lips part but nothing comes out. you hesitate before answering, “i’m waiting for my friends.”

her brow lifts slightly as if she doesn’t believe you.

“you don’t believe me, do you?” you sigh. “this isn’t me doing charity work because i left a bruise on the side of your face that one time. that was an accident.”

“right.” she says dryly, her lips twitching faintly.

“i swear!” you blurt out, flustered now. “i felt so bad—like, genuinely. i was gonna ask minji if i could venmo you for your medical bills or something—”

haerin cuts you off by letting out a quiet huff of laughter, looking at you properly for the first time. the corners of her lips lift and something in her eyes soften.

“has anyone ever told you how dramatic you are?” she questions, amused.

you fake a pout. “whatever.”

“you know,” she turns back to her desk, fighting a smile, “you’re not bothering me. i also feel bad that you look like a loser, all lonely and all. you can stay a bit until your friends come.”

“what did you say?”

“you heard me.” she says with a smile.

and just like that, you’re pretty sure your morning’s already made.

—

you’re not really sure why you decided to put an effort into stepping over the line to make it on haerin’s good side. all the waving at her and making your presence known—maybe it could be labeled as bothering—had been spontaneous.

there was no doubt that you were drawn to her for whatever reason. maybe it was because she caught your eye each time you would pass her near the beginning of the semester. maybe it was because you looked for the familiar face once you got the rhythm of when you’d briefly be within her presence.

she was also on minji’s instagram occasionally, so you had a clue of who she was before attacking her face with a ball. and you’d stalked her instagram maybe once or twice on a random evening just because she was tagged in a story. she seemed nice and all, so why not talk to her more?

plus, she was nice to look at at. she had the kind of face that lingers in your mind after being around her, sometimes at night too, or even in random bursts throughout the day. she’s a new smile in your life that you start getting used to.

haerin found you to be an addition to her routine, a very unexpected one.

you’d appear at the end of the hall, sometimes with your friends—but recently it had been just you—and wave to her. when it was just you, you never failed to ask her how she was or how her day had been so far, everything friendly. and if she were being honest; she didn’t mind all this energy from you, if anything, she really liked it.

it took a bit of time for haerin to reciprocate, maybe because of the grudge but also because it was difficult to talk to someone who used to be a world away from her. but here she is asking you if your practice is well, when your games were, and further inquiries that introduce you more as a person. she truly liked getting to know you, even if she pretended to be reserved and hesitant at times.

—

“hey,” you greet haerin as you walk up to her.

haerin isn’t sure when the bumping into you turned into willingly wanting to catch you in the morning or afternoon. this time, she’s waiting in the lobby instead of lingering in the usual hall, and she’s caught you by surprise with the slight change.

“hi.” she greets back.

you’re wearing a blue baseball cap with capital ‘a’ in white on it. your hair is pushed down by the cap just a bit, urging you to swipe it away to prevent it from blocking your view. a loose, white graphic tee also hangs over your figure nicely, complemented by a nice pair of jeans with a color that suits you well. you adjust your cap, finding the way it sits on your head a little off, and haerin wonders why she hadn’t realized how cute you’ve been until now.

“so, i was wondering.”

“oh no.” haerin sighs.

“hey!” you whine playfully. “well now i’m not going to say it.”

haerin looks you square in the eye, tilting her head down and raising her brows just barely.

“okay well if you look at me like that…” you surrender, fixing your hair just a bit. “since we have that mini exam, i was wondering if you wanted to go to the library to study… or, we could hit that cafe nearby.”

“there’s a lot of those.”

“well i know a nice one.”

“me too, y/n.”

“everytime i feel like we’re getting better at this, you suddenly find a way to hate me again.” you joke, but haerin lingers on whatever ‘this’ is. you continue, finishing your thoughts, “but yeah, after class, are you down?”

“sure, sure.” she agrees.

and then you smile, teeth peeking out just a bit. haerin feels a weird tingle run through her body.

—

the tingles get worse the next two weeks.

she spends more time with you, getting a little more personal and she likes it a little too much. you tell her the main reason why you switched majors. you were pressured into something law related, but after taking one elective for that path, you knew it wasn’t for you. and then you did that thing where you rambled on about something you liked a lot, in this case you had rambled about your love for playing the bass, which is the main reason you switched.

“you play bass?” haerin’s eyes widen just a bit from the initial shock. you are so much and so normal at the same time. “since when?”

“ummmm when i was like ten i think. i’ve always played and enjoyed it, even had a few gigs, but my parents wanted me to do law or something that would rack up money.” you shrug. “i got a nice scholarship because of volleyball and realized that i could just… do what i like. and what i like is that—more than anything, really—so....”

she turns to see you staring ahead. you’re both walking across campus to meet up with your friends at the food court, but haerin can’t think about any of that when the afternoon sun is kissing your features perfectly. it hits her that you’re really good-looking.

sure, she knows that’s also another key factor that plays into your reputation. people praise you for your skills, how lively you are, but also how nice on the eyes you are. haerin gets that now.

you catch her staring hard, a smile forming as you mumble, “what?”

haerin snaps back to reality, looking ahead again. “nothing. just thinking, sorry.”

“it’s fine.” you assure, running a hand through your hair.

when you arrive at the building, ready to split ways to meet your friends, you tap haerin on the shoulder as she turns to leave. she turns, tilting her head and says, “what?”

“you know, if you ever want to see me play bass… you could just ask~”

“you’re full of it.”

you snicker, shaking your head. “well. if you ever stop accusing me of being narcissist, maybe i’ll invite you over to a gig.”

haerin narrows her eyes. “whatever. you should catch up with your friends. i’ll see you, bye y/n.”

“yeah, yeah. see you, haerin.” you smile at her and it feels like the ground beneath is stealing the energy from her knees, nearly knocking her off balance.

—

something about haerin has you rolling around in bed.

before you dressed in your most comfortable pajamas, flat on your stomach with a pillow under your chin as you stare at your phone, you had spent the evening with minji and her friends—haerin being one of them.

you set your phone face down and rub your face in your hands.

it was a spontaneous outing, and you had nothing better to do, so why not tag along with minji? it wasn’t anything crazy, just casual and friendly. all of you strolled along the boardwalk not too far from downtown and playing stupid carnival games. it was fun, especially when hanni and minji started arguing over who would win the most tickets before the sun would set.

what was the most jarring was haerin. nothing in particular, just everything about her that night.

she showed up in a baby tee, beige cargos, and that face of hers. there was something about her that night, or maybe there had always been something about her that you never fully realized until the glow of a building hit her features perfectly. you two were the first to meet up—coincidentally— and without the rest of the group it felt like all the confidence had slipped away from you.

it took a second to greet her, your eyes in awe from how pretty she looked with the slight change in her makeup, or maybe the smile formed on her lips as her eyes landed on you.

you roll over to lay on your back, face still in your hands.

your cheeks feel significantly warmer as you recall haerin lingering by your side the whole night. her hand had brushed yours multiple times—you remembered each and every time out of fifteen—and she was just so different, charming even, with her friends around. it was a slightly different side of her, one that had your heart beating slightly faster the whole night.

you can’t stop thinking about the moment she fixed the cap on your head, the hair on your face, and her fingers brushing against your face before telling you how stupid you looked with the loveliest grin. it made your stomach churn.

the thought of her couldn’t—cant leave your head, even as you take your hands off your face to pinch the bridge of your nose and shut your eyes tightly.

“what is wrong with me…” you mumble, sighing.

you pick up your phone again, opening on instagram and tapping through stories until minji’s suddenly pops up. your brows furrow slightly as you scan it, eyes lingering on the picture of hanni and haerin, but mainly haerin in that frame.

she looks good. you can’t get over it. and her user is tagged as well, so you click on it out of curiosity and infatuation.

she has two posts, much less than most people you know. the first one has four slides and a cat emoji as the caption. the first picture is a simple selfie of her with a very neutral expression, one which you stare at for a little too long. the next one is a similar selfie, though she’s smiling instead and you spend more time on that one. the last picture is a cute cat on the street, it makes you smile.

when you catch yourself smiling, you throw your phone across the bed, groaning into your hands.

—

haerin shows up to your next practice without warning you, but to be fair, neither of you had the chance (or guts, really) to ask for each others numbers. the only thing you had was the fact that you were now mutuals on instagram and the fear that held you back from texting her a simple “hi.”

she’s in the bleachers reading a book—reading while you’re practicing. it makes you laugh more than it offends you, but there’s no reason to be offended anyway. haerin is just being haerin.

you try a little harder just in case she decides to steal a peek at you. today is mainly you serving and spiking up a ton while the rest of the team works to receive it, but when it comes to scrimmaging, you do your best—almost.

practice ends and instead of heading to the locker room with your team, you run up to haerin, who’s head perks up when she catches the blur of your figure in her vision.

“did you miss me so much that you couldn’t help but stop by and watch?”

haerin scoffs. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“tch, whatever.” you respond.

before she spills the reason she’s there, her gaze shifts to the sweat glistening on your neck, then down to your collarbone, your shoulders, and arms. it’s oddly alluring, but she pushes it down by gulping and meeting your eyes again, trying to ignore the stupid smirk on your lips that tugs at her heartstrings.

“you put your laptop charger in the wrong bag. i figured you’d be here, so—” she pulls out your macbook charger and hands it to you. “—here.”

“haerin,” you mutter, grabbing the charger. then, you put your other hand out and say, “give me your phone.”

“what?”

“just do it.” you urge, and she surprisingly does.

haerin watches you type in something, then hears the phone vibrate. “my number.” you say it like it’s obvious. “so you don’t have to spend your time reading while the sound of our yelling and the volleyballs distract you.”

“it wasn’t distracting.”

“then why’d you come?”

“to see you.”

your face heats up immediately.

“whatever. are you doing anything after this?” you ask with a twinge of nervousness in your tone. your thumb presses down on the charger in your hand, an attempt to cool your nerves. “lets hangout?”

“look who’s the one missing me now.”

“oh whatever. do you want to, or no?”

haerin rolls her eyes. “okay, but wash up. you’re sweaty and gross,” she says, her look falling to your bicep as it flexes while you squeeze your charger.

—

“so, you and y/n?” minji asks one afternoon, lazily sitting on the couch.

haerin looks up from her laptop, raising a brow. “what?”

“what’s with you two? are you guys dating?”

“what?” haerin repeats, though much more baffled than before. “where did you even get that idea?”

dating? that’s ridiculous. two people can spend more time together, become friends and whatnot. that’s not dating. and plus, you’re still a world apart. if you’re not around her you’re in your bubble above her, floating around far out of her reach. you guys are nothing more than good friends. you’re nothing more than her good friend.

“y/n talks about you a lot.” minji shrugs, but the flicker of mischief in her eyes doesn’t go unnoticed. “a lot.”

“because we’re friends.”

“y/n and yunjin are best friends, but i haven’t heard much about yunjin in a while.”

haerin bites back immediately. “because you know her as well, you guys are teammates.”

“i know you too, haerin. it’s the same.”

minji’s just being ridiculous. there’s no way she’s implying that you have a thing for her. there’s a ton of girls lined up for you and for you to be fixated on her of all people would be ridiculous.

“there’s a lot of people who are into her, but it seems she’s only into you.”

“i—” haerin doesn’t know what to say, she bites her lip instead.

could you really be into her? she thinks hard about it. you’re so oblivious and idiotic, it would be much more blatant if you were actually into her.

“maybe you should pay more attention to her, because she pays a lot of attention to you, haerin.” minji says, followed by a smirk.

haerin groans quietly, sinking in her spot.

“you’re being stupid.”

minji shakes her head. “i think you’re trying to deny what i’m trying to say because you’re also into her—whether you’re going to accept that or not.”

—

minji’s accusation is proven right when it hits her—or rather you, quite literally—not too soon after the night on the couch.

haerin agrees to go to one of your games, but she doesn’t admit it’s because of you. she purposely meets up with minji first, pretending she isn’t eager to see your stupid face. when you run up to her in your uniform, the short sleeves hugging your arms just right, she has to fight back a huge smile.

you raise your brows, giving her a teasing little smirk. “look who decided to show up.”

“you love to flatter yourself.”

“and you.” it’s a risky comment coming from you, especially when it’s paired with a wink. your teeth catch your lower lip like you regret it—maybe it was too risky. but haerin finds herself scoffing to distract you from the blush spreading across her face.

haerin gets some downtime to meet up with hanni, danielle, and eunchae in the stands. and then the game starts before she process what’s going on.

your team shows up all smiley in their jerseys, the crowd cheering. haerin isn’t on the loud side, so she claps for your team—a sharp contrast to hanni and danielle who are screaming at the top of their lungs.

somehow, you catch her in the crowd, winking at her before slapping yunjin on the back to boost her spirits. haerin shakes her head, smiling as she does so.

the game starts off well for your team. yoon’s serves throw off the team in the beginning, giving your team a bit of a headstart before they grow accustomed to her. kazuha’s setting, paired with how quick and determined you are on the court, score two-thirds of the points in the first set.

the second set is rougher, with the other team winning by a few points. haerin can see the frustration in your face from where she’s at. the way you tighten your jaw after each slip up and how minji slaps your shoulder to keep you from losing your cool. she’s never seen you so serious, not even during practice. the way you hold yourself on the court is tremendously different from how unserious and carefree in class or alone with her. it’s admirable—also really attractive

the game goes on. you play well. really well.

the third set has you pumping your fist with each successful spike. haerin’s never been into volleyball like that—eunchae was the one who had to explain all the rules while the game was running—but she can tell that you’re incredible just from the way you leap, score, and celebrate.

everyone cools off a bit before the fourth set, determining if you’ll have to play another rigorous round or if you’re ready to celebrate a win against your rivals.

it begins well, with one great serve from lily that scores the first point. yunjin’s quick to block a spike from the other side, and then kazuha’s dump scores another point for your own team, earning a slap on the back from you that’s too hard for her liking. she pushes your head roughly with a smile on her face.

for a while, the game goes smoothly—until it doesn’t.

your rivals’ star ace spike was faster than you could react, the ball hitting your temple unexpectedly with a force matching your own spikes. the sharp sound catches everyone off guard, and it’s followed by a few gasps, then cheers as the ball lands on the ground after your team loses their focus to look at you with concern.

it hurts, but you shake it off, signaling that you’re fine with a toothy smile and a thumbs-up.

haerin’s sitting up straigher in the stands now, worry etched into the way her eyebrows furrow. danielle glances at her, brows raised, but haerin says nothing. she doesn’t blink once until the game continues on.

everyone’s on the edge of their seats nearing the end of the game—your team is a point away from winning. the other team serves, your team does their best to keep them from scoring, then the ball is on the other side for them to deal with it.

and then, unbelievably, it happens again—this time way worse.

their outside hitter jumps, swings, and the ball hits you directly in the face clean, and blood shoots out from your nose like something out of a cartoon. the crowd gasps, and haerin flinches as if it hit her too.

you recover quick, blinking hard, and yell at yunjin. she runs after the ball, keeps it in the air, and the game continues. your team scrambles, recovers, and you manage to run up, leap, and score a winning point that echoes in the court.

the gym erupts.

you exhale in relief, losing strength in your legs and laying on the ground with your eyes on the ceiling. blood trickles down your lip, mixing with sweat, and dripping onto the court where you lie down. it’s kind of gross, but you can’t really bother to care because you’ve won.

the athletic trainer rushes over and makes you sit on the sideline, ice pressed to your face, tissues jammed up your nose almost comically. your team scrambles around you, and you brush them off, telling them you’re fine.

as soon as you’re left alone, haerin doesn’t think—she just moves. she scoots past legs and bags and down the bleachers, walking fast toward where you are.

you look up when she approaches, and all she can think of is how completely stupid you look. stupid and cute.

something sharp and certain twists in her chest.

she likes you.

not in a maybe, possibly way. in a real way. in a “you just bled all over your team’s side of the court, it’s on your jersey, and you’re still smiling at me like that” kind of way.

“i’m fine,” you say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be grinning with blood drying under your nose.

she sits down next to you, looking at you with worry in her eyes. “you look like an idiot.”

“an idiot who scored the winning assist~” you hum happily, then pause. “maybe this is payback for the time i hit you.”

she narrows her eyes and shoves your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you laugh.

“i hate you. i still have a grudge because of that but,” she smiles, then continues, “that’s way too harsh for payback.”

you laugh—sort of, through the tissue—and it’s not even that funny, but she laughs too.

and for a second, the sounds around you fade. the gym, the team, the chaos. it all blurs. everything clicks into place like it’s always been leading to this.

it scares you both simultaneously—how real it feels, how quick it settles in your chests—but it also feels safe. god it feels warm. like this was supposed to happen eventually.

you like her. she likes you. it hits you both at the same time—the third time something has hit you today, but this one hits way harder.

—

when haerin sees you next, your face is still swollen from the game a few days prior.

you’ve shown up to class without bothering to cover up the giant purple mark around your eye and another red mark on your nose bridge. but still, like always, you greet haerin with a smile before heading to your friends, who poke at your face on purpose and earn a pained groan.

“damn, ryujin got you good… it’s still there!” kazuha snickers poking you again. “jesus christ, it looks like you got punched.”

you shove her off, scoffing. “i’ll give you a similar mark if you keep it up.”

“you better pray that the mark fades into something better, friday we’ve got that gig.” yunjin reminds you.

a lightbulb appears above your head. you’ve totally forgotten about the gig you landed—with the help of yunjin—after your little triumph on the court from a few days ago. your rub your face in your hands a little too hard and it hurts, making kazuha chuckle.

yunjin arranged a little gig for you and two other students to play at a lively restaurant downtown. you’ve been a few times, and each time there’s been musicians brightening the atmosphere while bringing people together. out of all the places, this is the one you’ve been wanting to play at the longest. how could you forget?

it’s been a while since you’ve had a gig, if you’re not counting late-night bedroom sessions with friends, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends in someone's dorm or rooftop. the though of performing in such a long time, after being occupied with volleyball, makes you a little nervous.

“fuck,” you mutter. “i completely brushed that off.”

“well, you better be ready by then. we’ve got to practice for that after practice practice.”

you nod, sighing at the slight sting of your injury. your eyes land on haerin, who’s writing something down on a sticky note and placing it in her notebook. she turns to say something to hanni and your eyes linger on the outline of her side profile.

a thought pops up in your head, one that makes you smile ever so slightly.

—

“so i was thinking,” you start, watching haerin turn to look at you with an “oh god,” expression plastered on her face.

“that’s not good.”

“would you not.” you sigh. “just let me finish.”

you two have been studying european music history together on the second floor of your campus’ most popular cafe. chatter is spilling out from every table, some mixed with the sound of writing or a pen tapping against the table, which does a decent job of making the process of studying your least favorite era less dreadful.

haerin has on a slight blush and lip balm that tints her lips, a no-makeup kind of look that prompts you to steal glances every few minutes or so. you can’t not glance at her, not when her hair is up in a high bun, some shorter hairs falling over her face shifting around just a bit everytime she laughs at your stupid jokes or looks up to think about something.

“okay, fine.” haerin giggles softly.

“as i was saying,” you continue, but haerin is momentarily distracted.

the oversized t-shirt’s collar is loose enough to reveal a fraction of your collarbones. it drapes over you lazily, complimenting the slight tousled look of your hair. plus, you just look cute in general that it had made it really difficult to study with full concentration. the swelling had gone down and the bruise faded ever so slightly, but there’s a natural flush on your cheeks that lingers from the inflammation that haerin can’t help but find adorable. she looks down at the table, biting down on her back teeth and pursing her lips to give you her full attention.

“i have this… thing on sunday. it’s nothing big, kinda…” you say a little quiter than before. haerin’s distracted again, but just a little. your mannerisms are caught by her eye immediately; the way your voice simmers down to something slightly vulnerable when you’re serious, how you bite your lip in between sentences, and the way your eyes dart around are enough to tell her that it’s actually ‘something big.’

“down at that restaurant near the waterfront, the one with the good burgers and italian food—i have a um… a gig.” you explain, eyes meeting haerin’s again to search for something. “and you know, i’m gonna play bass, and yunjin’s gonna be there too with some others. we’re just gonna have fun, have a good time, a good night and stuff. i was um, i was wondering if you wanted to come.”

before haerin can respond, you clear your throat and clarify, “actually, i’m not really asking. i want you to come.”

haerin is speechless for a moment, responding with only a blush dimmed by the ambience of the cafe and a smile.

“i’d like that.”

“really?” your posture fixes just a bit from sheer shock. “great. you can bring a friend of course! i don’t care, but i’d… i’d like to see you there. i’d like to spend time with you after my little thing too.”

she laughs and her head tilts a bit, eyes softening as she looks at you with those dumb, adorable blue light glasses slipping down near the tip of your nose. her hand moves over to push them back up, making you smile like a child.

haerin moves her hand back to her laptop, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks and says, “i’m looking forward to it.”

—

panic crawls up haerin’s spine before she can stop it.

she was supposed to have everything under control—finish her assignment early, take her time getting ready, maybe even have some downtime before heading out. but the essay took longer than expected because she lost half of her sources somehow, and now she’s scrambling. she types at a speed that blurs her vision and biting the inside of her lip with each typo just to submit with barely thirty minutes left to get ready to see you.

haerin’s usually composed, easy-going, and on top of things. but now there’s a small pile of clothes tossed on the bed, her phone buzzing with the time, and her thoughts spinning faster than she can catch them. the bus stop is five minutes away, which means she has less time than she thought. her fingers have trouble zipping up her bag.

she ends up in something simple, making her second guess (but there’s no time for that, really). her hair is braided in two, something simple and hopefully cute enough for you. the braids fall neatly over her shoulders, parted slightly off-center. her makeup is light to match the striped, long-sleeve top she has on, paired with comfy jeans. it’s casual, but hopefully enough to make a statement, or get you to notice her, or maybe—

she closes her eyes, thinking of how ridiculous it is to be thinking so hard about her impression on you. she wants to look nice—wants you to think she looks nice. it’s stupid. she knows it’s stupid. and it’s conflicting in the sense that she’s standing in the mirror trying to impress someone who might not think twice about what she’s wearing. but she can’t help it.

now she’s tying her sneakers and thinking about how you’ll see her when she walks in. if you’ll glance at her for a beat longer than usual. if you’ll say anything. and that thought alone makes her blush so hard she has to put a hand over her face, thinking, what’s gotten into me?

—

haerin gets there a little late—heart banging against her chest from the walk and nerves—but it’s fine. the outdoor area is dim from the setting sun, the lights are warm and hazy, and you’re just about to start. the crowd isn’t crazy huge, but only two tables aren’t filled with a group of friends or couple. she spots a table for two, walking over and passing people talking over drinks, leaning into each other, swaying slightly even before the music begins.

you’re on stage, tuning your bass, laughing at something yunjin says into the mic. haerin spots you immediately, and before she can duck or think twice, your eyes catch hers through the crowd.

the moment is like a movie. everything slows down and it’s just you. your face lighting up—small, just a grin—but she feels it right in her chest. you look thrilled. like her showing up meant the world. like she’s not just another person in that room looking for a nice friday night. like she’s there for you and you only and the thought of it makes you soar.

she finds a spot somewhere off to the side, still in your line of sight. the music starts. something low and smooth and groovy—your fingers working the bass like it’s second nature. haerin’s never really paid attention to bassists before. but with you, it’s impossible not to.

she’s suddenly too aware of every single thing you do. everytime your fingers shift to another note, the way your eyes flicker over her a little too often—none of it goes unnoticed.

yunjin stands beside you, her energy laidback, teasing. she waits for you to finish the opening chords, then strums into the rhythm, syncing naturally with the beat. you move with the rhythm, eyes mostly on your bandmates but still drifting back to haerin again and again like you can’t help it.

the chorus creeps in, you step up next to yunjin, nodding at her like there’s a silent understanding of what’s up next. the crowd sways with you two, reeled in by your energy and playfulness. you alternate the lyrics with yunjin; she sings the first part of the chorus, and you sing the second part.

“cause basically i—” yunjin starts, before passing it to you, “i just wanna ride with you”

your voice slides into the space, low and clear, easy but intimate.

“i gotta getcha—’cause i just wanna vibe with you”

yunjin keeps it light, laughing a little as you bump her shoulder during her next line, but when you return to your part, your gaze locks in on haerin.

“‘cause i just gotta know if you want me too,” you sing. your voice is like silk, the tone is almost inviting, “dontcha want me?”

the lyrics feel different—like they mean something deeper and you’re not just singing it to entertain the crowd, like you really mean what you’re singing and it’s not just the song.

haerin’s heart races in her chest. she feels it even in her neck, in her fingertips, and the thrill of it makes it impossible to look away. the way your voice fills the room, rich and warm, and she’s hanging on every word. you sing with such ease, so naturally, as though this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. and with every chorus that yunjin flows into, you complement her voice without failing to make eye contact with haerin as you dance around with yunjin.

dontcha,

dontcha want me?

the outro loops, and she’s completely under whatever your voice has cast. her head bobs along, a faint smile on her lips, not even trying to hide how enamored she is.

as the song ends, you pause for a moment, fingers still resting on the bass strings, and meet her gaze. you have the same look from before. a quiet understanding. your smile isn’t wide now, but it’s full of something softer, steadier. like you’re both aware of the new realization that hangs in the air.

haerin rises with the rest of the crowd, clapping, her expression a little different now—slightly flushed, eyes bright. she makes her way to you once the applause dies down and people begin settling back into their seats after everyone on stage says their final words of appreciation and gratitude.

it’s just you and her again.

you’re both quiet. not because you want to be, but because haerin opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out. and on your end, it feels like your brain short-circuits the second you see her up close.

she’s standing there with her hands fidgeting around with the end of her top, her cheeks are pink from the slight chill of the evening or maybe from the song—maybe both. her hair catches the light in soft waves, and her eyes, even as she glances down, make you want to collapse then and there. she looks up again with those gorgeous brown eyes you could probably stare at for the entirety of a lecture and longer and your brain is fuzzy and twisted and tangled.

the golden light from the streetlamp pools down against a window and it somehow reflects perfectly to make her face glow more than before. everything about her feels surreal, a little too good to be true.

and before you can even process anything other than the slight tilt of her head, you say it.

“wow.”

your voice is quiet, breathy, like you’ve just found a new wonder of the world.

she glances up at you, lips parted like she was about to speak, but your next words beat her to it.

“you look beautiful.” and it’s not smooth, or practiced. it falls out of your mouth clumsy and too honest. but the second it slips out, you mean it more than anything you’ve ever said.

her eyes go wide for a second, and then she laughs—soft and flustered and caught off guard. her eyes dart away like they’re too shy to hold yours anymore. she shifts on her feet, head ducking slightly, biting the inside of her lip just barely.

“you’re just saying that,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but warm, still not quite looking at you.

“no,” you say, immediate, because it’s true and you need her to know it. “i mean it.”

she laughs again—maybe to calm her stuttering heart, or because she is way to flustered to act normal at all—and smiles into the sidewalk like it’s the only way she can keep from blowing up then and there.

(something like that)

you watch her closely, your heart racing, but not from nerves anymore. from something else. something lighter. better.

“i um, i—” you pinch the bridge of your nose, cringing at your stutter. haerin laughs, and you do too before continuing. “thank you for coming. i was really looking forward to see you.”

“you were?”

“of course i was, idiot.” you grin. “have you eaten yet?”

haerin thinks to herself briefly. she had crammed before meeting with you, and if she tried to take even a bite out of anything she probably wouldn’t have been able to swallow it just from the overwhelming rush of nervousness that washed over her just from thinking about you and seeing you.

“no. i didn’t get the chance.”

“let me treat you then! the burgers here are great. lets grab two and share the fries,” you suggest, putting your hand on your stomach. “and i’m really hungry after all of that.”

haerin rolls her eyes, then chuckles. “of course you are. let’s go eat, y/n.”

—

after dinner, and saying all your goodbyes to everyone who showed up, you end up walking along the waterfront right outside the restaurant.

(yunjin makes sure to wiggle her brows at you two, and tease you until you’re blushing even harder than before.)

the night is quiet except for the sound of water lapping gently against the edge of the dock and the occasional breeze. the street lamps light up your path, and your steps slow naturally, like neither of you are in a rush to go home.

you nudge her arm gently as you walk. “you know, i always wanted to get to know you better.”

she glances over, rasing an eyebrow. “since when?”

“since that day i hit you in the head.” you laugh a little, eyes on the water now.

she groans. “seriously?” and you grin.

“i felt so bad—you were so pissed,” you say fondly. “i did everything i could to warm up to you because i was so, so sorry. every time we passed each other, you’d act like i didn’t exist or give me that look… my friends poked at me for it but i was kind of fascinated.”

haerin’s already laughing now, shaking her head. “you’re so weird.”

“probably.” you admit with a chuckle. “but i liked finally getting through your skin, getting to know you… you just— you stood out. i don’t think i’ve ever met anyone like you. and i didn’t stick around because i felt bad for giving you a giant bruise. i just thought you were interesting, and smart, and pretty. and when you say you hate me and call me an idiot it only makes me want to stick around and bother you more.”

your voice dies down a bit. haerin notices the shift in your demeanor—something shy, nervous, and adorable.

“i thought you were so odd for wanting to stick around,” she finally says, glancing at you with that same familiar side-eye, but softer this time. “and i didn’t like you before because we were in two different worlds and… your friends were so loud.” she jokes.

you pretend to clutch your chest, gasping. “wow, i’m hurt. you hated me without knowing me?”

“i didn’t hate you!” she defends, pushing you softly.

she laughs again and you both stop walking, pausing near the edge of the water. she’s still smiling when she looks at you, but her voice is smaller when she speaks again.

“i’ve really grown to admire you,” she says quietly. “and i’m glad we’re here, and you invited me to your little gig and i finally got to see you play bass and you…”

“i’m glad we’re friends—kind of,” you say softly, quietly. she looks up at you with a confused expression, to which you respond by looking away, smiling at the water in front of you. “i’m saying ‘kind of because’… i’ve kinda had a thing for you for a while and i’m really glad you came and i wanted to ask you out tonight but god it feels like my heart is beating out of my chest and—”

you inhale, then look her in the eyes before exhaling your confession, “haerin. i really, really like you.”

she doesn’t say anything at first. just looks at you, her eyes darting across your face like she’s searching for something in the sparkle on the surface of your eyes.

then, slowly, she leans in and kisses your cheek. it’s quick, barely there, but you heat up almost immediately. your chest warms, and then your face, and then your whole body.

you blink. your cheeks are flushed like crazy—they have to be—and haerin pulls back, clearly flustered now too. she bites back a smile.

“i really like you too,” she mumbles, looking anywhere but at you. “you’re so cute. i hate it.”

you grin. “sorry.”

“don’t be. i like it.” she responds, earning a playful scoff from you.

you can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night. neither can she.

—

your first official date with haerin is downtown, but it’s nothing too far from a usual hangout other than the fact that both of you are crazy aware of the mutual feelings, mutual everything. haerin smiles at you the whole time and you want to capture the moment and hang it on your wall.

the second official date is nothing crazy, but it’s really domestic for a second date.

you invite her over to your place since yunjin’s out for the weekend helping her mom with something you completely forgot about. haerin shows up in a simple sweater and shorts and the sight of her alone earns a bunch of kisses pressed all over her face. she pretends to be annoyed, pushing you off and groaning playfully, but when you’re settled, she presses a soft kiss on your cheek and calls you cute. you nearly combust.

for a second date, it’s awfully intimate. intimate in the way that you were supposed to be watching a movie together, but a gust of drowsiness decided to sweep by. it hits you first, starting off with a small yawn that leaves your lips, and then your head falls to haerin’s chest, the thump of her heart lulling you to sleep. she’s flustered beyond measure at how calm and settled you look, snapping a picture before shutting your laptop and pulling your blanket over both of you. she moves just a bit so you can both lie comfortably instead of at a questionable angle, and the last of your energy takes over then, your arm wrapping around her.

the second date ends with you waking up to a dead-asleep haerin sprawled out on top of you. the soft breaths from her lips urge you to reach out your hand, even while half asleep, and brush the hair out her face, smiling before you succumb to sleepiness again.

—

an incident familiar to your first mishap with haerin occurs before you even get to your third date.

it’s just like before–same gym, same rush of adrenaline as you play through another long rally during practice. the ball sails high over the net, your timing feels perfect, and without thinking, you leap up and spike it hard.

the ball’s trajectory decides to swerve and smack right into someone’s head.

you freeze.

it takes less than a second to realize it’s haerin.

“oh my god—” you’re already sprinting across the court before she can even recover from the hit, cradling her head with one hand while waving off the coach with the other. “are you okay? are you—can you see me well? how is your vision? do you feel dizzy?”

“i’m fine,” she says, blinking a few times. “it just scared me—”

“i just hit your head with a nasty spike, do not lie to me. i’m not taking any chances. come on.” you gently take her wrist, ignoring the fact that practice hasn’t ended yet as you pull her toward the exit.

she doesn’t resist. she just walks beside you with that unreadable expression she always has on her face—though it’s slightly more readable when she’s around you and you take much pride in that—though you don’t catch the way she keeps stealing glances at you.

you head over toward the nurse’s offices, nearly barging into the hallway, but once you’re alone and the noise of the gym fades behind you, you stop and turn to her.

“let me see,” you mutter.

she opens her mouth to assure you that she’s perfectly fine even though a stinging sensation lingers, but you’re already cupping her face in both hands.

your thumbs press softly against her cheeks, fingers curled just under her jaw, tilting her head from one side to the other. “you’re not dizzy? does your head hurt? is your vision—”

“i’m fine,” she repeats, but her voice is quieter now, and her eyes keep flicking between yours and your lips.

the proximity decreases the more you frown. concern is etched on your features as you inspect her like she’s made of glass. “i swear, i didn’t mean to—the ball just, i thought yunjin would’ve got it but—ugh, you could’ve been really hurt if it were a direct spike. your cheek is already deepening in color, your face—”

and that’s when she kisses you.

a quick, soft press of her lips to yours. barely there. just enough to shut you up.

you blink.

she pulls back immediately and fills the silence, her voice small. “you worry too much.”

your hands are still on her face, and now they tighten slightly. and before you can overthink it, you lean in and kiss her again. this time it’s slower, softer, and certain.

she makes a small noise of shock against your mouth, but melts into it a second later. her whole body relaxes completely.

when you finally pull back you’re blushing like crazy. her eyes are widened and her smile grows the longer you look at her.

“... are you sure you’re okay?” you murmur, your thumb brushing her cheek.

“i am, stop worrying so much.” she scolds, then giggles softly. “you still hit me in the head me in the head though—again.”

“sorry.” you sigh. “guess we’ve come full circle now.”

“i guess so, loser.” she laughs, then moves over to peck your lips again.

#newjeans x reader #kpop x reader #njz x reader #kang haerin x reader #haerin x reader #kang haerin

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