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cherievol6 · 2 years

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not waiting around - pt II

read part I

AND BREATHE. this is my fourth draft of this. FOURTH. i changed it so so so many times, but i hope you're happy with it, because i'm pretty happy with it. can you tell which song i used for inspo? pls pls pls like/reblog, i work so hard on my stuff. . .love u all so much - M

also little banner for visuals...

engagements bring out the softie in harry, and time apart most definitely does make the heart grow fonder

word count: 3.3k (slay)

warnings: swearing!!! (they're british, it's a given), fluff fluff fluff i love them sm, there may be some cringey parts, not sorry x

“You’re such a blunt texter.” Harry laughs as he enters your bedroom, eyes finding your head poking out of the swirls of white covers. He drops his overnight bag on to the vintage chair in the corner of the room and braces his arms over your head.

You frown up at him and his smile grows wider. “I’m not.”

“You never put kisses on your texts anymore.” He notes, leaning down to peck the corner of your mouth. You feel your stomach flip at this; how did he notice something so little in the change of your behaviour? You were trying to shake the petty feelings you had by treating him as you would any random hook-up, but he made it very difficult.

“I sometimes draft them, but you never put them back, so I delete them.” Your voice is almost embarrassed as you say it. Harry frowns, tilting his head. You watch as his hair falls with him.

“Don’t delete the kisses,” he mumbles, gently kissing your mouth and mumbling against your lips, “they’re cute.”

The memory from months ago flashes through your head as you stare down at the drafted text message on your phone, the line flashing next to the words ‘we should talk later’. Harry’s number is still saved into your phone, a small picture of him wearing your scrunchie and a pink mask spread around his face sits above his name, squeezing your heart painfully.

“Shit.” You sigh, deleting the four words and locking your phone, placing it down on the table and glancing up at Sarah showing off her ring to some of your mutual friends, hers and Mitch’s eyes sparkling akin to the small diamond on her finger. It was depressing, really, observing all of your friends around you settling down and getting engaged, whilst you were still emotionally getting over a casual fling. It didn’t help that you had perfect view of Harry’s back as he sat and talked to Sarah’s parents merely a stone’s throw away. You sometimes caught snippets of his laugh, or mumblings of a joke that made Sarah’s father cackle loudly.

His eyes had followed you when you arrived, passing Sarah and Mitch an expensive bottle of wine, hands nervously brushing down your powder blue dress. You had finally met Harry’s eyes as they fawned over the present, him barely lifting the corner of his mouth before turning and walking into the garden, downing the glass of prosecco in his hand. When Sarah gave you a sad smile as you turned back, you knew immediately that Harry had told Mitch everything, and he’d most likely filled the gaps for his fiancée.

It was safe to say after that small encounter you scurried to the other side of the garden and planted yourself at a small table that was furthest from the mingling crowd. This was the last place you wanted to be.

The sun set beautifully over Sarah’s Hampstead home and an old record crooned through the speakers at the patio doors. It was springtime now, the cold memory of when you left Harry’s house in January still sitting bitterly in your chest. Since that moment, you both had only shared fleeting glances on group nights out, or stiffly interacting when you were round at Sarah’s for game night. It was torture not being able to share illicit kisses in the foyer like you used to, Harry usually tugging your arm and pressing you against the wall, “to tide me over until later” he would say, a searing kiss punctuating it before he slunk back off to the living room. What once was thrilling had now turned sour and dormant.

Sarah came and checked on you after many photos, and you could tell her socially awkward side was starting to rear its head as more family members tried to shove their cameras in her face.

“Wanna get a drink?” You laugh, and she nods enthusiastically, blowing her bangs out of her face and grabbing your hand. She pours you both a wine once you’re away from the crowds, the music turning to a mere humming that lulled your anxiety. Parties weren’t usually your thing, and Harry’s presence normally helped. This time, however, it was making it slightly worse. You catch Sarah clinking her ring against her glass and you grin.

“I’m so happy for you, Sar.” A hand squeezes her shoulder, and she thanks you, laying her palm on top of yours gently. You stand in silence together and sip your drinks, both needing the breather from the intense atmosphere.

“So, when are you and H going to make up, and stop moping around at my party?” She quips. Your drink slips down an awkward part of your throat that makes you splutter; you fan your watery eyes until your coughing subsides.

“God, Sarah.” You sigh.

“Hey! I don’t know what happened,” you shoot her a pointed look, “but I can tell that you’re both sad. Harry’s been writing more than ever, too.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You ignore the strange feeling you get at the thought of being Harry’s subject of his songs. Of his sad songs, at that. You rest your free hand against your sternum to calm your heartbeat.

“He’s been a right grump these past few weeks. Some of his sessions with Mitch have ended up going on through the night, I’m a bit worried about him.”

Your eyes sting and Sarah’s voice softens. “I’ve been worried about you, too.”

“I’m fine. He told me in our last conversation that he thinks he still loves his ex, so…s’probably who he’s writing about.” You shrug, and Sarah frowns.

“Harry hasn’t seen her in ages, Y/N—” Her voice dims as a familiar pair of boots click into the kitchen. You clear your throat and turn the other way, pretending to busy yourself with pouring more wine.

“Oh, hey. We were just…getting a drink.” Sarah’s sheepish voice gives you both away immediately, though you’re pretty sure Harry heard the last few sentences of your conversation.

The air is stagnant and uncomfortable before Harry lets out a loaded huff. You can feel his stare like pin pricks all over your back.

“I haven’t seen her since that night, Y/N.” He says stiffly, completely ignoring Sarah. Your hands tremble as you place the wine bottle down and turn around slowly, glancing at Harry’s face. You expect to see a stony expression, but his eyes are softened and sad-looking, his mouth turned down. Sarah rubs your shoulder and slinks out of the kitchen, a gentle hand on Harry’s back conveying the same message.

“I-“ Your voice is weak. You try to say something, anything, but the words die in your throat. You look down at your feet and then back to Harry’s face. God, Sarah was right. His under eyes are deep grey from lack of sleep. You begin to well up. It was all too much, properly speaking to Harry for the first time in weeks, seeing him looking all sorry for himself, hearing that he was writing about you.

“Oh, Y/N.” He sighs regretfully, running a hand through his longer hair. Sounds of kids squealing in the back garden make him on edge, you can tell with the way he begins cracking his knuckles against his thigh.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is thick from the tears.

“No, no. I don’t wanna hear any of that.” He shakes his head, moving closer and placing his wine glass down next to yours. He looks down at you but doesn’t make a move to touch you in any way. It makes more tears fall.

“Harry, why haven’t you been sleeping?” You whisper to him sadly, your hand unconsciously resting on his wrist. All you can think about is what Sarah said about his emotional state since that day, was he really that hung up about it?

He swallows and looks down at your touch, eyebrows furrowing.

“Felt lonely without you there.” He shrugs, itching the tip of his nose as his eyes begin to sting and redden. You sigh and slip your hand into his before he can object. Noise clatters from somewhere in the house followed by a string of conversation and you come back down to earth quickly.

“If we’re gonna talk, we need to do it privately.” You squeeze his hand and he nods, squeezing it back before leading you out of the kitchen, his tall frame hiding your bleary eyes as he guides you to the familiar entryway to the house. Sarah’s foyer to her front door is closed off from the rest of the house, giving you both a semblance of privacy.

“Why here?” you mutter, wrapping your arms around yourself at the draft. He almost looks hurt at your question.

“Dunno. Was kind of our place, no?.” He’s clipped with his tone, but it juxtaposes his actions as he slips his expensive cardigan off his shoulders and drapes it over your shoulders. You watch his face closely as he fits it over your body, having no choice with the small space you had to stand in. You mull over the use of ‘our’ in his reply.

“Harry.” You mumble. He hums.

“I’m sorry for storming out.” It just comes out of you, not feeling like tiptoeing around the subject any longer. He freezes and bites the inside of his cheek.

“I deserved it. Stop apologising, alrigh’? S’me that should be doing it first.” His hands stay perched on your shoulders gently, warming every cell and sensory in your body.

“I’m sorry if it seemed like I was leading you on, or anything,” one of his hands lifts to brush your hair away from your face, “truthfully, I was trying myself to hide my own feelings. I was scared that I was the one who’d fallen first, Y/N.” Your heart starts to thud a bit harder in your chest

“So why did you react so badly, when I first told you that night I was drunk?” Your tears have dried up now and your tone is slightly hostile. He was always just so…fucking confusing.

“I got scared. I don’t know, like you were just saying it because you were drunk, and you didn’t actually mean it.” He says nervously. You’d never considered that to be the reason for his apprehensiveness, although it didn’t sound like the strongest argument for how he’d reacted.

“God, Harry. It really upset me, you know?” He nods profusely and holds the guiltiest look on his face, eyes glancing down at your lips before travelling up your face. Your eyes hang on his lips too, wanting that intimacy you hadn’t felt from him in so long. At this point, you weren’t sure if you were even upset anymore, this hurt had dragged on for so long that you were just yearning for some semblance of normality with him.

“I know, I know. I regretted it when you came to my house with all my stuff that day. I could tell that you were really hurt. I-I guess I spat out my feelings to you so you wouldn’t leave. It really fucking hurt watching you walk back down the driveway, too. And I can’t wear that teddy bear ring anymore…” He’s rambling at this point and you place your hands on his jaw to slow him down.

The air feels dense around the two of you, and it seems you’re both waiting for the right time to act on what you’re feeling. He missed you, you missed him. Would it be so bad?

“Harry.” You breathe. He calms down, eyes searching yours before he surges forward and fits your mouths together for what feels like the first time in eternity, seemingly reading your mind and beating you to the punch. He breathes harshly through his nose at the contact, humming contently against your mouth as he lulls you through a long and needy kiss, tilting your head back on your neck for easier access. His fingers are delicate, stroking your cheek, your jaw, your hair.

“I don’t even care about her. Not one bit.” He heaves out in between kisses, and you whimper, locking your arms tightly around his neck. You break from the kiss and he kisses your cheekbones, rubbing his nose against yours as you catch your breath.

“You’re so confusing. Really make my head spin, y’know?” Your eyes close as his hands travel to grip your waist tightly.

“I know. You don’t need to be confused now, yeah? M’right here.” He’s on your neck now, kissing soft trails from your ear to your collar bone. His head finally rests in your neck however, not seeming to initiate anything you thought he would. All you can feel is the rhythmic breaths coming from his lips that spread over your collarbones.

“Harry?” Your voice is soft but airy, still out of breath from the intense kiss you just shared.

“I’ve really missed how you smell, y’know? So sweet.”

“Okay, vampire.” You laugh. He lifts his head with amused yet bleary eyes meeting yours, muttering a ‘shut up’ at your teasing. Truthfully, you knew exactly what he meant. You’d missed the smell of his aftershave lingering around your place, his washing powder on your sheets. You just missed him.

“I miss you leaving little things around my house. Found your lilac bra the other day, y’know? Torture.” He sighs, you clear your throat in attempt to will away the heat from your cheeks. You’d been searching for that bra just last week.

“Is that all you miss? My lingerie?” You scoff – although joking, it was a question that had been sitting in the back of your head for quite some time. What exactly did he miss? Just the sex, or you holistically?

He kisses you again, nipping at your lips.

“Miss the little puffs that came out of your lips when you were fast asleep. The scrunchies I find in every bloody place.” He laughs, listing off each thing between a delicate peck, “miss your smile. I just miss you.”

“I missed you too Harry, s’much.” Your breath is airy, the sheer amount of emotion weighing down your larynx, almost making it impossible to form a sentence. He almost seemed to render you speechless when he was like this, all soft and kind. The Harry that made you fall in love with him.

“Yeah?” You shiver at his tone.

You nod, “I almost texted you earlier, was kind of hoping we’d be able to talk. I’m glad you barged in on mine and Sarah’s conversation now.”

“Why didn’t you text?” He runs his thumb along where he was biting at your lips.

“I was scared you’d tell me to fuck off.” You laugh, “or worse, watch you from a few metres away reading the text and ignoring it.”

He shakes his head. “Y/N, you know I wouldn’t have done that.” You shrug, feeling your insecurity rising. Someone slinks past the door to the foyer and you both have bated breath until they move away. Harry has a frown on his face when he looks back at you.

“Did you even believe what I said that day?” His insecurity is showing now, and a resounding knock on the door makes you release your grip that was still on the back of his neck, interrupting the heavier content of the conversation.

“I’m fucking in love with you, you know that?” He yells as you’re halfway through the threshold of the door. You wish that this was like a film or something, that you’d stop in your tracks and turn back to him, running into his arms and making up in the beat of a heart. But this was real-life, real-life feelings and real hurt that you were feeling. You turn around, tears falling freely now.

“No you’re fucking not.” You whisper. His hand slips to your cheek and he has a pained look on his face and you’re shaking your head with your eyes screwed shut. He tries to convince you with small murmurs of your name.

A friend of Sarah’s pops her head round the door, informing you both that a toast was about to happen, and Mitch had given a very grumbled request that they be there. You both slip out to the garden with around five seconds between your entrances, but you’re fully aware of how suspicious it looks. You stand a bit away from Harry now, hands trembling slightly from where the conversation left off. Was that it? The moment you’d wished for since the day of your argument, the moment Harry would tell you he loved you, and actually meant it? You shake off the question, locking your eyes on the couple before you.

“Everyone here? Good.” Mitch grins, and it’s a weird sight to say at the least.

“We wanted to thank you all for attending our little do, though it turned out to be a bit of a soiree, thank you Harry.” Sarah jokingly grits his name through her teeth and it draws a laugh from the crowd. Harry knew people, and he knew how to throw a party. Harry jokingly bows and a string of secondary laughs buzz through the crowd.

“I promised I’d take this one, since, you know, Mitch is such the talker,” he gives her a faux-stern look, nothing even remotely bitter in his eyes, just pure and unadulterated love. The sun peeks over the distant houses and hills of England, and you breathe in the air. It was a perfect scene and it blossomed that already-blooming seed of love in your stomach.

“I guess, us finding one another was unexpected. Not the bad kind of unexpected though, and I’m eternally grateful to whatever force brought us together, I guess. You make me better, and you make my life brighter, and louder, and a bit more bearable.” Sarah’s voice is quiet and wobbly, and you feel your throat catching. Mitch looks the most emotional you’ve ever seen him. “I felt silly telling you I loved you that first time, because I didn’t possibly think you could love me back. But you did, and you do, every single waking moment. Looking back, I think it’s ridiculous to push those feelings away, or even doubt them at all. If you love, love to your highest count, y’know, as cheesy as it sounds. Let those people know, because it might be your last chance.” she laughs, wiping tears from her pink cheeks. Mitch grabs her hand and squeezes it and you hear a few sniffles in the crowd, people clapping and cheering and hooting. Tears silently slip down the scape of your cheekbones and some kind of pull forces you to look in Harry’s direction, his eyes already on you, consuming you. He's got tears falling out of his eyes too, hands clapping but paying no attention to the celebration around him. He shakes his head at you in disbelief, a laugh falling from his lips. There’s a small vacuum and It feels like you and Harry are the only ones in it for a moment, Sarah’s voice tuning out.

“I love you. I love you so much.” He mouths, but you can see every syllable, every word, and God, can you feel each word too.

People file away from the huddle towards a table laid with food and drink, leaving you both under the cast of the setting sun. His face glows like a beacon.

You carry yourself over to him and submit to his hold, leaning all of your both physical and emotional weight against him as he kisses you with every fibre of his being. You both laugh in between the movements, unbothered by the possible attention of others around you as you turn your heads in tandem. His hands grip your waist so tightly you fear he might break you, but some part of your brain is more than okay with that. The kiss isn’t anything more than delicate touches, saving the indulgent ones for when you’re in private.

“I love you too. I did those months ago and I still do.” You whisper, kissing his cheek, his mouth, the mole next to his mouth. He holds you to his chest as you both stop to look at each other. The peace you had been seeking finally sets in as you brush his hair around his face. His eyes bounce around your face as he breathes out his next words, that make your heart contract.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You’re my girl.”

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johobi · 4 years

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Falling, Falling, Gone

Word count: 5.8k

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Warnings: None really, it’s my first ‘SFW’ fic, though there is some extremely bad language in here. And there might be an erection because I can’t help myself.

A/N: This is the fourth and final ‘drabble’ for the drabble game I ran ages ago. Prompt: “The thought of me making out with someone else is ruining you.”

Music inspo: Don’t Be So Serious, Baby Don’t Stop, Waste It On Me

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477485

Taehyung. Captain of the soccer team. Master of your heart. You'll never tell him for fear of rejection.

So why the fuck are you about to do it in front of dozens of his peers?

Banana and peanut butter become pulp in your mouth as you glare out the kitchen window. It's so grey out there. Greyer than it has any right to be. As if your dour mood has polluted the very atmosphere. Rain lashes the exterior in leaden pellets, each one compounding your headache like a rap on the head. Don't be so serious, your bluetooth speaker croons as you chew and chew, unblinking. The bridge of your glasses slip further down your nose but you don’t correct them. Don't be so serious.

Oh, but it's all so serious.

Your final portfolio lacks in ways your mentor is incapable of articulating, and you only have so much time to fix it. Your college life is coming to a close. There are frighteningly few opportunities out there and they’re sure to spurn a sham like you. What do you do now? Where do you go from here—

"God, you listen to such depressing music," a husky voice sounds. It’s thick with sleep and horribly attractive. You hear his feet next; big and bare as they slap the tile floor and disrupt the ambience.

Yes, dismal is an ambience.

Before you glimpse the interloper himself, his fingers pilfer your next mouthful of toast. His other hand has your phone and is skipping through your carefully curated playlist of moody tunes. With all the scant energy you can muster, you glower at him.

“Taehyung.”

Soccer captain. Campus celebrity. Doofus.

Unlikely friend and unlikelier crush. But life is strange, and he is both these things. Indeed, he proclaims himself your best friend to all who will listen. As for the matter of your tender feelings, however, he is oblivious. And will remain so.

Taehyung is long-legged and limber-bodied, but round of face and feature. A kitten in a tiger’s pelt. Will mew for affection and roar when angry. Has quite literally nudged your hand for pets and raged at referees in the same afternoon. There is usually no in-between.

Your scowl goes unseen. He sidles past like the oblivious buffoon he is and continues to tamper with Spotify. Smears his peanut-buttered thumb around your phone display. Ugh. You brush back your hood and fix him again with extra scorn.

"Actually, douchebag, it’s good music for thinking. And I have a headache. I hardly wanna listen to something like—no, don't you dare put fucking Party Rock on right now. Tae!"

It’s too late. The lanky idiot is already gesticulating to the beginning beats. Your phone is an unreachable hostage in his flapping hands. You’re about to lunge for it but he preempts the attack by smothering you with your own hood. “Tae.” Your whining sounds all the more pitiful muffled. “Everyfing hurfs. ‘m hungover. Pleathe.”

Taehyung relents after further, strangled pleas. Unwraps you with a grin that grows like the sunrise. For a moment, you’re dazzled. “Sorry. No more torture,” he chuckles all low, hair in his eyes. His locks are long and always untamed. An aureate crown befitting of his celebrity status.

One swipe and he’s muted the racket and returned your phone. You turn the sticky thing over in your hands, rueing the day you met the overgrown imp. “How did you get it this dirty…?”

You go ignored and Taehyung gets closer. He scrutinises your hunched and hoodied appearance with a thoughtful hum. “Headache?” A rounded nose and two brown eyes come into focus. "Hungover? How? I didn't see you go out last night."

Averse to such study, you shy away. "Well, I did." You did not. You stayed home and guzzled $4 Prosecco while lamenting your trash portfolio. But you aren’t about to regale him with that pitiful tale. The sheerness of shame prevents you. Taehyung would be so sweet about it, too! So buoying, with his sunny smiles and fervent encouragement: "Why were you crying over that?!" He'd ask. "Your work is amazing. Seriously amazing. I love everything you do!" He'd gush. "People will be stumbling over themselves to hire you!" He'd continue, naively. And that hurts the most, because he just doesn't get it. Taehyung is a sponsored, collegiate athlete that's graduating into a guaranteed draft. He is—and always has been—praised widely as up-and-coming. The kid has had scouts scrapping for him mid-way through high school!

You, however, are small fry, swimming in a shoal of other unknowns, leaping for the hook of internship. Your dreams of animating for Disney died long back. They dwelled with Walt now.

But you don’t resent Taehyung for any of it. Ever. He’s a paragon. Born for the limelight. Has sweat and bled oceans for it. And for some reason he insists that you, too, are deserving of that same renown. Why? He’s ridiculous. Far too kind. And—Christ, he has a big dick.

"Taehyung, can you please not shove your tiny fucking penis in my face while I'm trying to eat? I'm nauseous enough as it is."

The soccer captain rests a foot on the seat next to you, giving you ungainly insight into his crotch. Taehyung, as he often, inexplicably is, is clad only in his boxer-briefs. This would be alarming were it not so goddamn commonplace. He is allergic to clothes.

According to him, he’s a naturist.

According to you, he’s an attention whore.

Taehyung points to his elevated foot, but it's a little difficult to ignore the bulge he's brandishing. "Do you understand the concept of inappropriate proximity and your current state of undress?" You rattle on, words slurred half by OJ, half by fluster. He simply points again, and with more insistence. Relenting, you follow the line of his finger to his pretty, if gigantic, foot. Then notice the ink around his ankle, black and fresh. "Oh, wow, you got a tattoo? Cool!"

"Yep! I didn't ever really think about getting one 'til I saw yours. They were so cool I became kinda obsessed with getting one. So I finally did it last night."

‘Til he saw yours? Your stomach flutters. It's not the nausea. You smother it with more orange juice. "Well, that's awesome, Tae. You'll probably want more eventually. I would've gone with you if I'd known you were gonna go alone."

Finally, he lowers his leg. It’s a small mercy. But then, for no discernible, earthly reason, Taehyung begins flexing his many defined muscles. His calves in particular catch your attention. They’re so goddamned thick. They ripple. Fucking soccer players. "Hm? Oh, I wasn't alone. I went with some guys from the team." He ogles his reflection in the microwave door.

How can you avert your eyes when his pecs dance so compellingly? It all becomes a bit too much. "Okay, what are you doing? Seriously, what? I know you're into yourself, but this is ridiculous.” He stops. Snorts. Thank God. “If you were with the guys, why did you come back here last night? I thought you’d go back to your dorm."

Finally Taehyung sits, but he’s spread-legged and that’s perhaps worse than what he was doing just now. He’s 6ft of pure, hewn sex and just so fucking casual about it. He reclines. "Some of them took girls home last night so I needed somewhere to go and you're always an open door." Finger guns follow a cheesy wink.

You scoff, but he's right. You’d do anything for the big-hearted clown. Open door? You'd be the doormat under his soccer cleats, licking them free of dirt— "You're lucky Areum isn’t here right now. Don't think she’d take kindly to having some almost-naked oaf clambering into her bed."

"You say that, but she’s tried to hit this several times.” Taehyung is smug, brows high on his forehead. Yours lower harshly. “Tell her I slept in her bed last night. She’ll cream herself thinking about it later, I guarantee you."

“You’re gross. And can you stop—why do you keep flexing? There’s just me here.” You peer about for emphasis. Taehyung is again admiring his form in some burnished surface. “No-one is looking. Or cares.” Contrarily, you’re doing both those things. But he needn’t be privy to that.

"This is serious. I need to work on my angles.” He contorts himself into something of a pretzel to peek at his back muscles. “We're holding a hook-up auction at our dorm to raise money for a graduation blow-out. And I'm on sale. Do you think I need to work on my back?"

You ease into a squint. "When you said serious, I thought serious words were about to follow."

"I am being serious!" Again Taehyung flexes, biceps bulging by his ears like an overfed turkey’s thighs. "How much do you think I'm worth?"

The world.

"I dunno. I'd take you for free, I guess, if you were the last one left."

Taehyung is unperturbed by your acerbic wit. It ricochets off him like rubber bullets would a muscle-bound ox. He is your greatest adversary. The bastard lacquers his lips until they’re plump and glossy and boasting a smirk.

He’s always doing this.

Always moistening himself.

"Oh yeah? Well, I think you'll be disappointed." A boxy smile emerges. "I got girls and guys already approaching me about it. Some of the guys literally just wanna buy me for mentoring. I mean, that’s more effort than kissing, but—" He shrugs. The thought goes unfinished.

"That makes sense. You are a God among these mere mortals, Taetae." It's not sarcasm this time. Taehyung senses it. The grin he returns is life-affirming. You're so close to reaching across the table and squeezing his hand. Telling him you're proud. Telling him you most likely, maybe, love him. But you notice you've dragged your sleeve through peanut butter—”Ah, shit,”—and you can tell him how you feel some other day.

Some other day.

"Some of them just wanna make out too, of course, and, like, I'm happy to comply. It's all for charity." His altruism knows no limits.

"Charity, huh?" You snort. Taehyung's mouth grows more square at your incredulity. "Who else is up for bidding, then?"

"Mostly guys from the team and dorm. There are some mutuals who just wanna get in on the action, too. Uh, you know Kim Namjoon?" He measures your reaction. When you give none: "Jeon Jungkook?"

Disinterest mellows your features. "Oh, right. Cool."

"So you don't like Jeon Jungkook?" Taehyung's eyes are eager, his body poised. Anticipating.

"What? No. What gave you that idea? I've talked to him, like, twice." Your face crumples as you towel your soiled sleeve. The peanut butter smears into a tragic, shit-brown stain. "Damn, that's never coming out."

"He's gonna be so disappointed. He might even cry." Taehyung heaves a hammy sigh and clutches at his breast. There’s nothing the captain enjoys more than clowning his subordinates. "Kook likes you so much. He's really into your whole androgynous fuckboi thing you got going on. He literally said, 'She's like a mystery, man. I'm not sure if she's a girl or a guy and—like, I'm not like that, but that's hot.'"

If your eyes could roll past the bounds of their sockets, they would. "Wow, what a poet. He sounds like a douchebag and I'm even less interested now. Fuckboi? Is that really the vibe I give off?" You don't fuck full stop. Nor were you aware you could dress like you do.

"I dunno. You just seem kinda like a gremlin to me. Or like that weird guy from Death Note," Taehyung is quick to reassure you. Cool. You’re fucking overjoyed that he perceives you that way. Not as a goddess, or his beautiful, sexy soulmate, or the princess that wanders the spires of his captive heart. No. A gremlin. Or L.

"Well, you got me there, son."

"What about Kim Namjoon?" Taehyung presses, urgent again. He picks at your bread crusts with one hand, head cradled delicately in the other. The boy could be a world-class model, too. His loose, dark curls hang like a Van Gogh nightscape, framing the planes of his unmarred face. It hurts to look at him. It hurts to be looked at.

A self-conscious shuffle. "What about him? I don't know who that is." You flick away his foraging fingers but he draws you into an impromptu game of thumb-war in retaliation. It's the only thing to extract a smile from you today.

Taehyung looks sceptical. "He's the physio student with our team! You literally talked to him all day during this season's semi-final." His lengthy digits best yours easily. But though the match is won, he doesn’t withdraw his hand. Instead he encroaches further. Thumbs your wrist. Encompasses your knuckles in a soft, warm palm. He’s clasping you like an enamoured suitor might their bashful sweetheart, and it’s very strange. What is he doing? His mind looks to be elsewhere, now.

"Uh...—oh. Oh." Yours ambles back to you. "Yeah, he was really nice, but you know my rule. No—"

"—dating in final year. Yeah, I know. I'll tell him that if he asks about you again." Taehyung has returned, too. His hand is gone. Your gooseflesh ebbs with it.

With a cough, you sober. "I think the auction's a bit stupid, really, Tae. You sure you wanna do it?"

"Stupid? Why?" He shimmies in close, smug on his face and intolerably naked the rest of the way down. His skin is hot and golden and just far too close. "You're only saying that because you're jealous, right?" He tickles your chin to keep you honest and your eyes on him. You seize and squeeze the offending hand because he might be right and now you’re embarrassed. "The thought of me making out with someone else is ruining you," he goes on to say, brazen as the smirk defiling his cherubic cheeks.

"Some rather large conclusion-jumping going on there," you smile, sweet as sugared cyanide. Your vice-grip tightens until he’s pouting in repentance. "I meant it's stupid to put yourself in a potentially uncomfortable situation if you don't want to kiss that person."

"I'm just joking!" he whimpers like the overlarge puppy he is and you free him of his snare. Because you would die for this big, soppy boy and his big, soppy eyes. “You’re so grouchy today.”

‘The joke won’t land if it collides with the truth, Taehyung,’ you muse. You expect him to know this despite never having apprised him of your situation. You’re jealous and cowardly and completely unreasonable. You want him for yourself but you never want him to know that.

If he wants your candour he should be a telepath. Simple.

Irritated by your own nonsense, you lash out at the unsuspecting boy. "You know what? I was joking, too. I remember Namjoon, he was hot. And smart. I think I'll cheat on my dating ban this once and bid on him. He has super nice lips, so."

Taehyung simply smiles. "Oh, okay. Cool! Glad you’re gonna come along."

Your threat proves ineffective because he doesn’t like you like that. Wouldn’t give a shit if Namjoon rawed you on stage while you stared him down. You stall on that thought because it’s kinda hot. “It’ll be great. Can’t wait to get my tongue down his throat.”

“Hell yeah! I knew you liked him.”

Yep, Taehyung is oblivious to your pining. As he should be. Because outwardly, your pining consists of nothing more than the odd, lingering look here and there. The balled-up sketches of him he will never see. A secret smile if you’re feeling particularly sentimental. Other than that, you're steely. Poker-faced. Rarely blind-sided by his allure, especially now that you've acclimated to his penchant for exhibitionism.

"Thank you in advance for your patronage." Rising from his seat, Taehyung comes to a stand behind you and leans. Encircles your shoulders with his terribly athletic arms and puts his lips to your ear. You're like a feral cat in the arms of a senseless child. You're bristling. "If he turns out to be a jerk and tries something he shouldn't, I'll protect you." For a moment, you're touched enough to unclench a little. "With these guns." And then you choke between his straining biceps and vie to repay him in kind.

----

The common room of Taehyung's dorm has been crudely transformed. Some questionable construction has taken place in order to build the catwalk centrepiece. Sofas and tables line the walls, thrust from the limelight. You've occupied the drinks table for the last 45 minutes, from the second you entered this place. You harbour an intense dislike for the chaotic energy of Taehyung's dorm. Machismo rages noisily between these walls and you much prefer less testosterone-drenched environments. Nevertheless, despite it all you're here on an endeavour this evening. One your idiot, rampant mouth has obligated you to. To buy time with a guy that's perfectly nice and all, but isn’t Taehyung.

Kim Namjoon makes eyes at you from the head of the runway, awaiting his musical cue. The beer you just slurped down bubbles up. You have to look away. Unfortunately, when you do, Taehyung is immediately there, his face in yours, his thumb and fingers pulling at your cheeks. "Hey you, don't get too drunk, okay? I don't trust a single man here. Especially not nice-as-pie Namjoon."

Nice-as-pie Namjoon has chosen some Bruno Mars track by the sounds of it. The auction-goers' excitement ramps up considerably.

Unable to move your captured face, your eyes sweep the room. "Not even your own teammates?" you scoff cynically, swatting at his hands until he’s baited into a game of slapsies. "Now who sounds jealous?"

Taehyung stops for a moment, thoughtful. "You know, you're right. I'm extremely jealous. I want Namjoon all to myself. He gives the best massages. And a happy ending when I ask nicely." And then he's back to rough-housing you, slapping your upper arms to alternating beats. "You look cute tonight. Your outfit, I mean," he offers up out of nowhere, so quiet you almost lose it to the bass. "He's lucky."

But you look exactly the same as you did earlier that day. Exactly the same as that afternoon in the cafeteria when he ribbed you for raiding Billie Eilish's Good Will donations. "Um, thanks. I guess." You're genuine, but don’t sound it. You can't look at him for fear of revealing the dopey grin that has hijacked your face.

"You're welcome, buddy." A large palm flattens your hair. His fingers get all in there, ruffling it until it probably looks more akin a bird's nest. Is Taehyung trying to sabotage you? Also, buddy? "Look, Namjoon's walking."

You turn and see that he is. Strutting, moreover, albeit awkwardly. It's obvious that the lanky boy is unaccustomed to the same attention the team he services is. Nevertheless, there are whoops and hollers aplenty for the handsome blonde dork, and you, too, catch yourself smiling. How can you not, when he pokes at his dimples so? The others seem captivated, too, though less by the finger-hearts and more by his form-fitting tracksuit.

“I’d wrap my car around a tree if he was the tree,” one auction-goer confides to her friend. “And then I’d wrap my legs around—”

“Yeah, we get it Lisa.”

Lisa quiets.

Namjoon’s endless legs sidle to a stop at the catwalk's end, directly opposite you. His bespectacled eyes meet your bespectacled eyes. For one, long second, the interest is palpable. But then he breaks, and casts his gaze down to his FILAs.

"Okay, he's, like, in love with you, I think," Taehyung whisper-yells, hands aflurry in applause. "Are you gonna bid?"

Shouts puncture the cheering either side of the room.

"$10!"

"$20!"

Neither of them are you.

The evening’s auctioneer - Taehyung's partner-in-slime Park Jimin - echoes each cry that rings out, giggling into a tinny karaoke mic. "$20 for our team physio?! Is that all you got ladies and gents? Do I have to remind you this guy can grope away pain with his magic hands?"

Namjoon spins toward Jimin's makeshift podium of an upturned bookcase and menaces him with his eyes. Well, it would be menacing were the man not as threatening as a ribbon-wrapped basket of newborn sloths.

The striker backpedals. "Okay, the massage might not be included, but don't let that deter you! He kisses like a pro!"

Screams of how do you know that, Jimin?! erupt and the throng grows ever more wild. Namjoon is redder than the cup you're strangling.

"Are you gonna bid?! You're gonna miss your chance!" For some reason Taehyung is still here, harassment game still strong. He should be preparing to walk next, but sees fit to pester you instead. And because of that, he's caught you in your lie, bare-faced and blushing.

No, you are not going to bid on Kim Namjoon.

"Uh, oh no, I forgot my purse," you grumble around the rim of your next drink, gulping it down like the bottom is your way out of this God-awful situation.

Then what are you doing here?

"It's right there." Taehyung pokes the cross-body bag hanging traitorously by your side.

"Oh, is it?" You reach for another cup even while burdened with one. Anything to sidetrack this conversation.

Taehyung intervenes with a firm hand. Swaddles your knuckles ‘til the shaking stops. You’re shaking? Beer slops over the sides, unnoticed. “___?”

Stupid, warm hand. And why are his fingers so fucking delicate for a footballer? He should model jewellery. Wedding rings.

Yours.

His ringless fingers close around your wrist when you persist in avoiding his gaze. The ruse is almost up. Fuck. There’s nothing left to do but to look at him.

You do, ever so timidly. “What?”

"What are you doing?" Puzzlement becomes him well. Why is he so goddamn handsome? "If you aren't gonna bid on Namjoon, why did you come?"

Silence, but for the pump of background Bruno Mars.

‘You. I came for you. You were the plan all along. Not him,’ your mind screams.

You, however, just stare.

"Going—going—gone! Sold for $70! Come claim your kiss!" Jimin can hardly stop himself from squealing. For a guy that beds girls on the daily, his sincere excitement over simple lip-locking is amusing.

Taehyung's teammates hail him from the drapery behind the catwalk but he won't yet go. No, he insists on searing holes into the side of your face while you watch Namjoon get sloppy on-stage with some girl you don't know. They're really getting into it. Damn, he forgot about you quick. In their fervour they edge towards the bounds of the catwalk, too absorbed in one another to notice. Thankfully, voyeuristic bystanders are on-hand to catch them before they fall.

"Kim Taehyung! How many times do I have to call you?! Get over here before I kick your fucking ass," Jungkook roars across the hubbub, halfway through the room. He enacts the violent gesture for emphasis and knees some unsuspecting girl in the ass. Immediately the macho facade drops and he's all doe-eyed and buck-toothed, prostrating himself before the girl who actually seems grateful to have been assaulted by one Jeon Jungkook. Between his hushed apologies, Jungkook shoots Taehyung a look something murderous. And then he sees you and throws a shy wave, the kind a little kid might when cajoled by his parents.

"Ew." The word comes up involuntarily, like bile.

A deep cackle emanates from beside you. "Okay, guess I'm up." Taehyung squares his shoulders. His mouth, too. He's a very angular boy. "Better get my kit on. Cheer for me!" With a pat to your shoulder, he makes for Jungkook. Leaves you with an insidious dread. His soccer kit is your weakness.

No, he is your weakness.

"Next up - and I'm sure most of you here tonight are anticipating this guy - our very own Team Captain and soon-to-be Major League Soccer player, Kim Taehyung!" Banshee-shrieking reverberates at Jimin's announcement. "Stick around, he'll be out in a few minutes!"

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. You turn from the catwalk and fully embrace the drinks table, supporting yourself with two hands and God's grace.

Nah, you aren't gonna do this.

No way.

This wasn’t an actual plan. Just a fantasy.

You're not gonna tell him like this.

You're not gonna tell him ever.

All you have to do is just say you turned out to support him. You rarely get to go out with him anyway, what with his ever-growing entourage. Taehyung would appreciate that, and he'd never have to know that you came here for cornier purposes.

You're not a big gesture kind of girl.

Nah, you aren't gonna do this.

Distantly, you wished Areum were here. She'd have slapped some sense into you, maybe even literally.

No. Wait.

The devious cow would've talked you into doing it. For sure. She has a flair for the dramatic.

"Sorry, can I just—thanks." Someone with offensively bony elbows bulldozes you aside and passes a drink to her companion. An apology is on the tip of your tongue but evaporates into the ether upon seeing the twosome in question. Both were complicit in the casual bullying you endured during your high school years. They don't appear to recognise you now. Not that they even spare your pitiful person a glance.

"Who's up next?" the worst one queries, cup snug to her bosom.

"Taehyung," the lackey answers, glee upending her petulant features. "Kim Taehyung."

An elbow jabs you again as the girl struggles with the clasp on her clutch. Her overlong claws impede her. "Oh shit, already? I thought we had more time. Shit."

"Nope. It's go time. Hurry up, girl, competition's gonna be fierce." The other one watches her digital acrobatics to get into her purse.

Oh God. She has so much money. There's no doubt in your mind she'll trump everyone present.

No. Oh, no.

Not her. Not with him.

Your mind flits through premonitions of the future. They’re all rather grim. The last one is that of a wedding. A marriage between this dreadful bitch and your most cherished of friends, Taehyung. It's garish and tacky - she's denied him input, of course - and the ceremony is filled with faces that once mocked you mercilessly. None of Taehyung's friends are there; indeed, he is no longer even part of his team. Her possessiveness and his undying loyalty have put an end to his blossoming career. He looks sad beneath a mask of happy. Eyes that once blazed with the embers of ambition are doused by despondency. He is a husk.

And their first meeting is this auction, this cute anecdotal encounter of oh, I just had to have him, and when I kissed him I knew.

Just a glimpse at this dystopian future disturbs you silly. Conviction, while tentative, burgeons in your heart.

You can't let her have him. Anyone but this noxious cunt.

And suddenly you've money in hand, too. Bills you withdrew specifically for this purpose, and yet would sooner have left them crisp and cold in your purse than followed through. But public humiliation is endlessly preferable to damning Taehyung to a kiss with this serpent. Because it won't stop there. It won't just be a kiss but an appeal for more. She’ll say it’s no strings attached, but she doesn't attach strings. She weaves webs. You recall her high school boyfriend. He was a well-performing, jovial guy that always waved hi. And she consumed him, heart-first, ‘til he was naught but a sunken-eyed zombie. He took a leave of absence that never ended.

Sexy, dangerous synth sounds from the speakers either side the catwalk. Ah, shit. Not that song. Any song but that one. NCT U’s Baby Don’t Stop. Of course Taehyung picked that. It fills the air with a fatal drum beat and in he comes through the curtains, strutting like he is the rhythm. The room, rather than become uproarious, falls eerily quiet. Everyone breathes as one entranced being, and no one moves but him. Halfway down the catwalk he body-rolls with the fluidity of wind-rippled satin, burgeoning from his chest and snapping at the hips. Prospective bidders gasp, as do you. And then his thumb is in the hem of his shirt, luring it upwards, exposing his olive expanses inch by mouthwatering inch. You see his abs near every day, but in this context, backed by that song, you find yourself as winded as everyone else. His stomach tautens for show, feeding into loose-waisted shorts that sit far too low. Even you haven’t been privy to this much. And especially not the alluring trail of hair that thickens at his waistband.

Someone shatters the stupor and screams, “$80!”

“Geez, you’re a horny bunch.” Jimin’s laughter peals. “We already have $80. Any advance on—“

“$100!” Some breathless sap cries next. “Oh my God, look at his thighs!”

And look you do. Taehyung grooves at the catwalk’s end, shirt back in place but hiking up the hems of his shorts instead. You almost glimpse groin. He’s absolutely shameless, straining the muscles of his thighs until they’re lewdly pronounced. They’re veritable tree trunks. His calves, too, defy belief. Rock-hard and rounded and begging to be bitten. The party-goers crowding round his feet must think similarly.

What distracts you most, however, are Taehyung’s straying fingers. They skirt his crotch in a salacious manner, stretching the material where it shouldn’t. Accentuating things they shouldn’t. You may pass out.

All the while his eyes are down, maybe closed. You want to see his face more than anything. The playful smirk on his plump, wet lips and the focus in his brows.

“$120!!” You almost lose your head to a cash-strangling fist beside you.

It's her. Pointy-elbowed bitch.

But you aren't thrusting your student loan up just yet. You're in the middle of an almost holy, revelatory experience. Taehyung is still undulating and provoking the crowd, who are no longer hushed but whooping like chimps in heat. His shirt is off and helicoptering overhead. He allows one overcome girl at the sidelines to verify the thew of his biceps and bags himself another bid. You, however, do nothing but gawp, bills clutched to your chest and your eyes affixed to the glorious grin that breaks across his face. His eyes open onto you and then it's you you see at his wedding, standing afore him, bouquet instead of a wad of cash. You want to be the one. Now is the moment, while he's watching you envision this.

"$200,” you splutter. Volume is difficult when your voice is a quivering inconstant.

"What was that? Did we just get another bid?" Jimin wavers too, out of disbelief. "Did someone say $200?!"

The room is a clamour of confusion but Taehyung watched you mouth the very syllables. The shock is such that it softens his salacious movements to a dance more modest. His eyes are wider than you've ever seen them; mouth too. It hangs agape and downturned, as yours does. Because you're not quite sure whether you said something else altogether. Maybe you hurled a cuss word out of frustration? Did you momentarily black out and proclaim Hitler did nothing wrong? Nothing else can account for the scrutiny with which he punishes you with now.

Or.

You actually did bid, and that's why he's walking over, to the very drop-off of the catwalk, no longer any swagger to his step. "What are you doing?" he calls down, the music still strong and now strangely inappropriate. You simply watch the mole beneath his bottom lip move, dumb.

Louder, now, you call again. "$200!"

"Oh! It was a bid! ____?!" The flame-haired MC shares his puzzlement with the rest of the reacting room. All heads turn toward you.

But yours turns nowhere but Taehyung, your expression an open book of long-hidden liking. You watch, suspended by dissociation, as he lays a palm flat against his chest. "Me?"

It could all still be explained away. A joke. You drank too much. You just wanted to see the look on his face. Instead, you grant him the minutest of nods. A simple tip of the chin. "You," you whisper, whether it's heard or not.

Taehyung sees it in the shape your lips make. And then his gaze sweeps back upward, his chest heaving far too much for a man standing stationary.

"What's going on?" The disgruntled echo each other.

Jimin is quick to make sense of things and keep it rolling. "Okay, so, a bid of $200! Anyone else?"

A new song comes on; it's gone on too long. Something with a cantering beat that's adequately sentimental.

So if love is nothing more than just a waste of your time—

Clambering atop the platform, you counter someone's desperate bid of $220 with a measured breath. "$250." You hold Taehyung at fingerpoint. "You."

Waste it on me.

For a pants-shitting second, nothing happens. Your outstretched arm gains a tremor that could crumble it. Taehyung sifts your soul with his big, dewy eyes and then he's walking. Stalking toward you. Knocks the money from your hands and seizes your shying face with both of his. The last thing you see is his nose mole before his mouth joins with yours. His grip is like a vice and his lips are no gentler. They pry you open with little effort and then you're flooded with wet heat. Taehyung is insatiable in pursuit of your tongue. His hands drop to draw in your waist, your chest, every inch of your overclothed form. He's underclothed but burning hot, planes of honed skin beneath your fingertips. It's all so right. Feels so good. Taehyung moans that much into you when he chances a breath of air. Applause starts up as the music swells. It's so cliche but you've never had a cliche of your own before and your gloom-ridden ass needs this.

"Going—"

"I didn't know. I wish I had. This would've happened sooner," Taehyung gasps between desperate, too-short smooches. It proves too difficult to resist the pull of your mouth and he captures it again, sloppier. Slower.

"Going—"

"It doesn't matter." You pull the oxygen in, impatient. "Doesn't matter." Your fingers are a tangle at the nape of his neck, tugging on his lustrous locks. "Make up for it."

"Gone! Sold for $250!"

The two of you won't be parted for a moment. Not even when dismounting the platform. There's ruckus around you but it's so distant when his lips are on you. You sink into him like you would a scalding bath. "You don't have to pay that," Taehyung tells your cheek, smearing his saliva-slick mouth back to yours. His greed for you manifests against your stomach, and you ache in return. "This is a freebie."

Your passionate clinch takes you to the sidelines, away from prying eyes. Most of them, anyway. "What about this?" Your hands are suddenly in unseemly places.

"Th-That's also free. Everything's free. Oh, God."

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