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lazystar · 4 months

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IM CRYING IN THE CLUB RN

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞・l.f.

— five times you want to tell your best friend you love him and the time you finally do.

words・7.7k

pairing・idol!felix x gn!reader

genres・fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn w/a happy ending, 5 + 1 trope, idiots in love who are also afraid of love, you do the math

warnings・alcohol consumption, discussions of anxiety, lots of emotional vulnerability, like a surprising amount of crying icl

playlist・jazz bar by dreamcatcher・spring day by bts・through the night by iu・eight by iu ft. suga・house song by searows・not mine by day6

a/n・i borrowed the title of this beautiful day6 song for this fic; give it a listen if you can (especially while reading part four). happy late birthday, lix <333 thank you for being you

One. The door to the café opens with a soft jingle, bringing a chilly draft into the room and causing you to draw your scarf tighter around your shoulders.

Theoretically, you come here to study—but people-watching has become a simultaneous pastime. There was that couple with a pair of samoyeds, so fluffy that they looked like walking clouds; a mother and son, hunched over their croissants, arguing in a classic “don’t cause a scene in public” tone; an elderly woman in bicycle shorts asking for extra shots of espresso in the menu’s most caffeinated item.

And now, there is him.

“Hello,” the ashy-haired stranger says to the barista with a quick, polite bow. “May I have a medium caramel latte? Hot, with sweetener, please. Thank you.”

His voice reminds you of the notes of a cello, of the feeling of running your fingers through tufted velvet. When he turns away from the counter, he’s slipping a card back into his wallet, and you catch a glimpse of long lashes and a scattering of freckles. You cannot see his face, as it’s covered by a black mask, but that only propels the question further: who are you?

And perhaps it is destiny herself who hooks a gentle finger beneath the stranger’s chin and tilts his head upwards, because when he inadvertently steps into a patch of sunlight, his brown irises illuminate like molten amber, and they are fixed upon you.

You feel your lips part, your stomach turn. You don’t know if your cheeks are so warm because of your piping hot tea (your third one today) or because of the newfound eye contact with someone so ethereal.

But you are sure that the corners of the stranger’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly, as if his lips have just curved into a smile beneath his mask.

“Felix,” the barista calls, and you turn the name silently on your tongue.

Maybe you are exhausted from work and not thinking straight. Maybe you are more starved for change than you’ve ever been. Or maybe you’re just prophetic. But you think you sense forever in this man, with his freckled cheeks and pretty eyes.

That is the first time you want to tell Lee Felix you love him.

Two. The second Felix comes into your line of vision, you sense that something is wrong.

You hold up a hand in greeting, and the smile he returns is sincere but muted, as if it pains him to move, to breathe. He sounded weary on the phone earlier—can I see you tonight? Just for a bit—but only now that he’s in front of you do you see the extent of his fatigue, seeping into his sunken shoulders and lightless eyes.

“Hi,” he says once he’s close enough.

“Hey, you,” you answer, rising out of your seat. Instinctively, he extends his arms toward you, and you draw him into a hug that is fleeting and familiar. He smells faintly of laundry detergent and vanilla, and it makes something within you ache, like an oyster searching for its absent pearl.

When you pull away, your hands move to your best friend’s cheeks, cocooning his face so you can get a better look at him. Even under the sparse streetlights, you see that his eyes are slightly bloodshot, the shadows beneath them deep and sullen. Has he been crying?

“Bad day?” You ask, your hands falling back to your sides.

“The worst,” he returns with a weak smile.

“Wanna take a walk?”

“Yes, please. How long do I have you for?”

This is what you do when your schedules are too packed for you to make real plans: take strolls wherever is most convenient, for however long either of you can spare. Sometimes that’s five minutes, sometimes five hours. But you know that you need to be here for him tonight.

“As long as you need me,” you say.

You turn around to pick up your drinks (a decaf caramel latte for Felix and a black milk tea for yourself), and you don't see the way his smile comes back a little bigger the second time, the way his cheeks warm slightly under the moonlight.

There’s a small park a few blocks behind your apartment. Granted, it's not a very good park, with only a tiny, sad playground and very little foliage, but it is an excellent stargazing spot, due to it being so dark and desolate. You and Felix decide to head there now, your arms touching as you walk through the quiet residential area.

Ten minutes later, blades of grass are poking the back of your head, and directly above you is a sea of scattered stars, flickering like millions of faulty flashlights. Felix’s voice is leaden when he starts to speak, breaking the park’s fragile silence. He tells you about his fears, about how earlier today they overwhelmed him so much that he wanted to lock himself away from the world and throw away the key. He tells you about his dreams, about how even in his relentless pursuit of them they sometimes still feel as amorphous and unattainable as fragments of mist.

The way he always does when he’s around you, Felix spills parts of himself that he never thought he could entrust to anyone. And you don’t say a word, your knee leaning against his, listening, understanding. (But you wish you could tell him a lot of things: that you care for him more than you ever believed yourself capable; that you hope for his happiness more than your own; that you don’t have the words to heal him, but you would give anything to find them.)

By the time the two of you leave the park, it’s almost midnight, and the streets have fallen silent save for the occasional whoosh of car wheels on cement and the distant lamentations of cricket choirs. You’re making small talk now, and Felix is smiling a little easier. It seems your conversation worked in cheering him up; a temporary fix, you’re sure, like a bandaid where stitches should be, but seeing his eyes crinkle and hearing his laugh again is enough to soothe your worry for the rest of the night, at the very least.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay going back yourself?” You ask once the two of you reach the entrance to your apartment building.

“Yeah, of course.” Felix touches the back of his neck apologetically. “I’m sorry I kept you out so late.”

“Nonsense, Lix. I’m always here for you.”

Felix averts his eyes to his shoes, and you’re caught off guard by his facial expression: exhausted but contemplative, and possessing a sense of tenderness. It is a look that you don’t think you’ve seen before, and you feel your heartstrings pull at its unfamiliarity, its strange softness.

You say your goodbyes, but your "let me know when you get home safe" is cut short when you feel a hand catch your wrist, just as you’re entering the building.

How Felix doesn’t notice your frantic pulse beneath his touch is beyond you, but instead he parts his lips, and his next words resound in your mind as you try and fail to fall asleep that night.

“I can’t explain why, or how—but I feel braver when I’m with you, Y/N. I meant to tell you that earlier.”

And those three words rush to your mind fleetingly, like saltwater crashing against the shores of your mind. Even when the tide has subsided, they remain on the sand, waiting to be read aloud.

“Thank you,” Felix mumbles, “for everything.”

You don’t read out those words, of course. Instead, you reach up to squish Felix’s face and call him a sentimental dork, to which he rolls his eyes affectionately and bats you away, and the moment is over. But when you turn to go, your heart is pounding so loudly that your reply may as well have been a confession.

Three. You sink into your mattress, careful to keep your tea within your mug’s rim, and let out a hybrid of a groan and a sigh that is strikingly reminiscent of an old man lowering himself into a worn armchair.

You can’t remember the last time you had a cold this terrible. It feels as if your lungs took a plunge in a vat of wet cement and then rolled around in gravel immediately afterward. And it’s got you in the mood to do nothing but listen to the heavy drops of rain knocking against your window, curl up with a good show and a hot drink, and bask in your own congestion.

But then your phone, which you left in the bathroom, emits four deafening notification sounds, and you haul yourself back out of bed with a groan-sigh that’s twice as anguished as the last.

When you reach the hellish device, your best friend’s name greets you, and your ire dissipates momentarily.

From: Lix 🐣 Hey hey From: Lix 🐣 We still on for dinner tonight? From: Lix 🐣 Just gonna be me, Minho, Seungmin. Jeongin has a vocal lesson From: Lix 🐣 Please don’t play the “if Jeongin doesn’t go neither do I” card again I’ve had enough of it!!! ENOUGH

You let out a throaty laugh that sounds like one of Minho’s cats battling a hairball, heading back to bed.

From: Y/N 🌙 ahhhh i meant to text you earlier, but i have the worst cold From: Y/N 🌙 no clue how or why i caught it but i feel like fucking shit. it’d be a bad idea for me to come over right now From: Y/N 🌙 sorry :( can we raincheck in a few days? From: Y/N 🌙 (that way jeongin can come too!!!)

Felix dislikes this last text, and you snort into your tea.

From: Lix 🐣 Yeah, of course. Don’t apologize From: Lix 🐣 Do you need anything? You’re eating and sleeping well, yeah? From: Y/N 🌙 sleeping, YES. From: Y/N 🌙 eating, not really 😅 but i don’t have much of an appetite anyways From: Y/N 🌙 don’t worry about me. i’ll be raring to go in a day or two

Felix starts to type a response, but the gray dots disappear after a bit, and you set your phone face-down on your nightstand. He probably has to get back to work, and you have to get back to your episode.

Slowly, the soporific fragrance of chamomile and the lull of relentless rain start to weigh on your eyelids, and you slump unconsciously into your makeshift fortress of blankets, your show playing to nobody.

Night has fallen by the time the door of your apartment clicks open, and Felix pokes a head into your dark kitchen, cautiously calling out your name. When you don’t respond, he slips inside and moves to your kitchen counter, where he unloads the bags in his arms. A spare key to your place dangles from the opening of his hoodie pocket.

There’s a quiet knock on your bedroom door, another call of your name—infinitely softer this time, like how one would speak to a dove. But Felix finds you out like a light, even when he closes your laptop and puts it on your desk, checks your temperature with a gentle hand to your forehead. It feels normal enough to let you sleep, but warm enough that he brings a glass of water and two pills of ibuprofen to your nightstand, placed within your reach, should you wake up in the middle of the night needing them.

Using only the slivers of light coming in from the hallway, Felix allows himself to look at your sleeping form. Your breathing is callous but steady; your face pallid but peaceful. And if only you'd seen see the tiny, helpless smile that pulls at his lips; if only you'd heard the pulse protesting against his skin, yelling at him “do something about this, you fucking idiot, and do it soon."

But you don’t see or hear anything; you just speak, instead.

“Stay with me,” you whisper, and Felix’s hand freezes on your doorknob, his eyes widening in the darkness. “Please?”

There is a lengthy period of nothing, during which neither of you makes another noise; there is only the sound of your clock ticking, raindrops rushing against the windows, and Felix’s heart in his ears.

And then he moves.

“C'mere,” Felix murmurs once he’s lying down next to you, and you nestle into his embrace as easily as if you've always belonged there, your face burrowing into the crook of his neck, your arms winding around his waist, searching for him, asking for him.

Felix has always expressed his affection for people through touch, and you’ve gotten used to his constant hand on your shoulder, his leg resting against yours. But he thinks this is the first time you’ve initiated physicality outright, and he feels a concerned pang in his chest at your unexpected vulnerability. He lifts a hand to cradle the back of your head, running his fingers through your hair.

“Gonna get you sick,” you say with a wet sniffle, your voice muffled against him. And Felix presses a kiss to the top of your head, perhaps without thinking as much as he should have; but who can blame him for forgetting to think when he’s holding you the way he is?

“Don’t care,” he answers readily. “I'm not going anywhere.”

At some point before you fall back asleep, you think your mouth actually forms the words I love you, subtly and silently and into the fabric of his hoodie. But you resume your slumber before you can think more of it. (Felix waits until your breathing is steady again, checks your temperature one more time; and only afterward does he allow his eyes to close.)

The next morning, you wake to an empty bed and a Post-It note explaining that Felix had to run to a recording session: Check your kitchen! See u soon x. Accompanied by a small, messy doodle of a baby chick popping out of its egg.

Your face melts into a smile when you see that the fridge is chock-full of fresh groceries and the pantry has been restocked with your favorite snacks, including a batch of Felix’s world-famous sea salt brownies—accompanied by another note with another doodle, this time a crescent moon wearing your sneakers. Sugar is prolly bad for you rn. Pls have in moderation!

When you pull out your phone to thank him for everything, you see his remaining texts from yesterday—and you feel momentarily empty, as if only then noticing that you've been missing a fraction of your soul your whole life.

From: Lix 🐣 I’ll drop by tonight to check on you From: Lix 🐣 Wait for me, okay?

And he is right in front of you, just out of reach.

Four. “This isn’t a bad idea, right?” Chan asks under his breath.

“Nah, they’ll be fine,” Minho replies, clapping a hand on the leader’s shoulder. “Y/N will take care of him.”

A loud yelp comes from up ahead, and the men whip around quickly enough to crack a joint—only to realize that the noise was the opening note of DAY6’s “Not Mine,” and you and Felix have just launched into song so terribly and so loudly that it’s probably awoken the entirety of Seoul.

“And who’s gonna take care of Y/N?”

The two men look at each other for a moment before deciding they’re not interested in talking the two of you out of a disorderly intoxication charge.

“Let me know when you get back!” Chan hollers after you, and they reenter the karaoke bar in a hurry.

The members decided to go out for karaoke after finishing promotions earlier that week, and Felix invited you to come along. And you might've gone a little overboard with the mango sake, but your level of tipsy is nothing compared to that of the blue-haired boy draped over you.

Felix is rather prone to hangovers, you’ve discovered from past experiences, so the moment he started speaking in some kind of nonsensical Korean-English mutation that not even Chan could understand, the members tasked you with taking him home early. Now, Felix has his arm around your neck, less out of affection and more out of a genuine requirement for support, doing his best to walk in a straight line. He hasn't stopped grinning for the last hour, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to run out of energy anytime soon, not as long as there’s more of DAY6’s discography to butcher.

In spite of your foggy mind, you're well aware that your best friend has never been prettier. He sets the bar high as it is, but then you throw in the flushed lips and cheeks, the lopsided, ditzy grin, the wine-kissed complexion, and life becomes terribly difficult for you. It doesn’t help that alcohol amplifies his proclivity for physical contact—he's been attached to your hip all night, holding your waist, pulling you into incidental hugs.

Needless to say, your current situation is a bit precarious; but you don't know that. Not yet.

The two of you finish your disrespectful rendition of “Not Mine” just as you pass the apartment’s front desk, and it is only when you see the deadly look that the receptionist gives you over the brim of his glasses that you finally feel sober again. You have the sense to incline your head in apology. Felix, however, launches into “You Were Beautiful” without a care in the world.

You dig a pointed elbow into his ribs as you hit the up button, and his singing abruptly falters with a pained huff. "Ow."

“Take an intermission, superstar,” you say. “The receptionist looks like he’s ready to throttle us.”

“Ah, he would never. We’re tight,” he returns, and before you can stop him he’s lifting his head, raising his voice. “Have a good night, Mr. Seo!”

Your nose scrunches into an apprehensive wince—but instead, you think you hear a hint of a smile in the man's cool reply.

“You too, Mr. Lee. Keep your voices down, please.”

“Yes, sir!” You and Felix reply in unison. Felix gives you a smile that says I told you so before he nestles his cheek against your shoulder, and you shake your head. Nobody is immune to the boy’s brightness.

Entering the building seemed to be effective in calming Felix down. The elevator ride up is silent save for a bit of quiet humming, and you finally see a bit of sleep on his face when you open the door of his dorm and turn on the living room lights. He lets you escort him to his bathroom without a word.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” you say, reaching to pat his cheeks a couple times. “Be careful in there.”

“M’kay. Thank you," he says with a drowsy smile, and closes the door.

You pull out your phone and open up your messages with Chan, remembering his parting request.

To: Chan 🐺 we got back safe!! To: Chan 🐺 lix is gonna be okay. i'll take care of him

A few minutes later, a notification appears at the top of your screen; Chan left hearts on both of your messages and sent two in response.

From: Chan 🐺 Thanks, good to hear :) you get some rest too, okay? From: Chan 🐺 Bro tore that sake UP

You begin to type back a retort—give me a break it was basically JUICE—when you hear Felix call your name, his voice muffled through the bathroom door.

“What's up?” You answer.

“I think I’m...stuck.”

Now what the hell does that mean?

“Can I come in?”

“Mhm.”

You open the door, and your attempt to suppress your laughter fails with flying colors. Felix is well and truly stuck in his crewneck, the gray material swathed around his head, his arms positioned in some kind of advanced pretzel formation.

“You are a hot mess, Lee Yongbok," you sing, moving toward him, and he whines from inside his cotton prison.

“Please don’t kick me while I’m down.”

Grinning, you bring your fingers to the hem of his top and attempt to lift it over his head. He’s managed to tangle himself quite impressively, and the next few minutes are spent with you trying to extract him, like he’s that one nose hair that your tweezers have never been able to reach, all while he's moaning and groaning about the fabric catching on his earrings, about his joints not being able to handle this kind of pressure anymore.

He emerges from the crewneck a while later looking positively disgruntled. You toss the gray mass onto the counter, proud of your handiwork.

“So maybe I‘m a hot mess,” he concedes. “A little bit.”

“That's alright. We all have our moments,” you giggle. “Come on, let me help you with your jewelry.”

For a second, he looks like he’s about to protest—but the look you give him reminds him that his motor functions are currently on strike.

“Okay,” he mumbles adorably.

You position yourself a little closer to Felix and lift your hands to the nape of his neck, where the clasp of his chain lies. It takes you a few tries to undo it, and you end up having to use the mirror above the sink for guidance. Soon, there is a soft click. You set the chain down next to the crewneck before your hands return to the sides of his face, this time to tuck long, light blue strands behind the cuffs of his ears. Your fingers run over the curves of his silver earrings.

“Are these bothering you at all?” You ask nonchalantly. “I forgot you had so many piercings.”

In your peripheral vision, you see Felix’s lips move, but no sound comes out. Puzzled, you move your eyes to meet his, and it takes you one blink’s worth of time to understand the source of his speechlessness.

Somewhere between your reaching up to touch his necklace and the present moment, you’ve come incredibly, dangerously close to him. Close enough that you can count the freckles that speckle his skin like fallen stars, that you can feel the heat of his body against your own, that Felix’s eyes are nearly crossed trying to maintain eye contact with you.

Your heartbeat lodges itself firmly in your throat, and your thoughts evaporate into complete and utter disarray. There are three differently-worded apologies on the tip of your tongue within seconds. You immediately start to pray that he won’t remember this tomorrow morning. And your strongest impulse is to move; to get as far away from him as possible, before either of you does anything you'll regret.

But there is something that overwhelms your every instinct, and stops you from budging an inch. And that is the way Felix is looking at you, unblinking brown eyes filled with something that doesn’t have a name. It is the same tender expression that’d surprised you the first time you saw it, and it is with a spiraling stomach that you finally realize what that expression is.

You reach your conclusion a second after he does.

Felix’s hand lifts to cradle your jaw, his face moving closer to yours. Your foreheads touch, wisps of his hair falling over the bridge of your nose, your senses engulfed by the vanilla of his cologne and the touch of sweet wine on his breath. The scene is as delicate as a dragonfly’s tail dipping into a pond’s surface; even a minuscule disturbance would shatter this limbo instantaneously.

A part of you wishes that it would, but nothing does. There is only his pulse, perceptible through the thin cloth of his tank top, vehement beneath your fingertips—and your heart, naked and frail, sitting upon the palm of his hand.

Felix doesn’t push you away; he doesn’t kiss you. He does something far worse.

“I love you,” he whispers.

A few seconds. That is how long you stand there for, with every word of every language you know inaccessible, every qualm and doubt and source of anxiety that plagued your mind moments before now distant memories, every ounce of your energy channeled into keeping yourself upright.

But the few seconds feel like forever. The same way he has always felt like forever to you. The same way you imagined you would spend forever loving him, close enough for him to love you back, but far enough that he’ll never know the true nature of your affection: greater and truer than anything anyone would ever call friendship.

An urgent question suddenly surfaces in your mind: is he still drunk? He was falling up, down, and sideways minutes ago. Surely this was an intoxicated slip of the tongue. But you discern the slight tremble to Felix’s breathing and the intensity in his heavy-lidded gaze, all far too intentional, far too conscious to be wine-induced—leaving behind one impossible possibility.

You should be having your happy tears kissed from your face right now. You should be over the moon, relishing in the sensation of two stars aligning at long fucking last, the way you’ve dreamed of since the very first time you laid eyes on Felix.

But instead, you just feel inexplicably and profusely afraid.

You won’t remember the specifics of the next few minutes. You think you stumble away from him and whisper I’m sorry through watering eyes, though you don’t really know what for. He sputters something in return, his tone so desperate and confused that you feel your heart break to pieces on the spot. You apologize again, leave the bathroom, and move towards the apartment door as if your life depends on it. In your peripheral vision, you notice the crease of concern on Mr. Seo’s face when you stalk past him, tears now flying freely down your cheeks. You run into Minho and Jeongin when you step out of the building, and you see the worry that creases their faces, hear their voices calling your name. Jeongin's hand closes around your wrist—are you okay?! What the fuck happened?—but you do not, can not say anything, not right now.

And then you are alone again, and you briskly walk the two miles back to your apartment. Your mind and heart are every bit as foggy as the somber night sky that hangs over your head.

Five. When the two of you step out of the restaurant and into the evening, Felix turns around to face you, launching into his best tour guide walk.

“And, with that,” he says with a glowing smile, “we are nearing the end of our tour of Sydney.”

“Noooo,” you lament, reaching your arm out. Felix falls back into step beside you and links it with his, the movement like clockwork. Your jackets scrunch up together where your elbows bend. “Already?”

“Okay, the tour’s been going on for two days and you haven’t paid a cent for my toil. Don’t push your luck.”

Your laughter spills into the otherwise quiet avenue, the setting sun throwing shadows across the cement, but it always feels like midday when you have the brightest man in the world by your side.

When the two of you discovered you had a free weekend on the same days, Felix conjured up the idea of going home—and suggested that you go with him. You’d freaked out for a bit, but then Felix reminded you that his mom texts you on your birthday and that you’re on multiple different subscription plans with his sisters, and you collected yourself quite quickly. There was a lot of cheering over the phone when Felix informed his family that they’d finally get to meet you in person.

But such a fast trip to the other side of the world proved to be no easy feat. Felix took on the task of piecing together a travel plan that would cover most of his favorite spots in forty-eight hours. The last two weeks were filled with him fretting over the details and you fretting over him, asking time and time again if you could help with anything, only for him to shoo you away with a single hand and a pointed “you are my guest. Now leave me.”

With assistance from every other resource at his disposal, though, he pulled it off, and the weekend has been wonderful thus far.

“I think that was some of the best food I’ve ever had, seriously,” you hum. “I’ll be dreaming about those appetizers for the rest of my life.”

“I'm glad. It took a Socratic seminar to choose the place, after all."

(The Socratic seminar in question: a two-hour FaceTime call and an intense match of rock-paper-scissors between him and his siblings, aimed to decide on where Felix would take you for dinner the second night. Only for his mom to ignore all of their efforts and insist upon her own choice of restaurant instead—no ifs, ands, or buts.)

“We have to try your sisters’ recommendations the next time I visit, don’t we?”

“Yes," he returns, shuddering. "I think my family is done for if we don’t."

He has one place left to take you, and the two of you head there now, shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm.

A month has passed since that night.

You’ve tried with every fiber of your being to put the whole thing from your mind, of course to no avail. You see Felix’s flushed lips and gentle gaze every time you blink; you hear his “I love you” every time you’re alone, the words whispered in the wind and dragged over the earth, in tandem with your footsteps.

You wanted to fucking die of awkwardness in the few days following, but it was never an option for you to avoid Felix for long. The two of you still went on convenience store runs together; still met up for coffee before work; still continued your business as usual, against all odds. And you owed it all to Felix and how he knows you better than you know yourself. He didn’t try to talk to you when he sensed that you had nothing to say; nor did he try to bring you back when you felt miles away. He would just silently slip a pack of your favorite cookies into your grocery basket or order your drink on your behalf.

Felix had questions and wanted answers; there was no doubt about that. But he held his tongue, granted you as much space as you needed to come back to him. And you did, in your gradual, meticulous way.

You’re finally going to bring it up tonight. You’ve planned to since the day you confirmed the trip, and you hope that the final stop of the tour will be the perfect place to bite the bullet.

“We’re here,” Felix says.

The two of you have arrived at the bank of a wide river, and you’re at a temporary loss for words. To your right is a bridge that spans the distance of the water, and to your left is a stunning, panoramic view of the city of Sydney. Twilight has turned the buildings into dark silhouettes against the autumn sunset, and the water reminds you of a palette of oil paints with how it reflects the pinks and oranges in the sky.

Felix feels you tighten your hold around his arm, and he smiles when he sees the wonder in your eyes. He wishes he could see this place for the first time again.

“Not bad, huh?”

“No,” you murmur. “Not at all.”

“C’mon.”

Felix leads you to the center of the bridge, where he props his elbows atop the metal railing and looks over the water. You join him and pull out your phone, but no settings or adjustments render your camera capable of capturing the landscape's beauty.

(Until Felix throws up a peace sign and pokes his head into the corner of your frame. Then it stands a fighting chance.)

“What is this place?” You ask, your shoulder touching his when you also lean over the railing. “Why are we the only ones here?”

“Crazy, right?” Felix says proudly. “I dunno. I think it might be private property, or something. But it’s only a few blocks away from my house and on the way I used to take to school, so I used to come here all the time, always around this time of day.”

Felix’s gaze moves over the sky, oblivious to the fact that his eyes hold whole rainbows of their own.

“There was never anyone around, but I could still hear the birds chirping and the wind in the leaves. It felt like a corner of the world had been sealed off just for me. I’m glad to see that nothing’s changed.”

Some time passes, and Felix tells you more stories about this peculiar bridge: how he asked someone to formal and got rejected and came here to reflect on his actions; how he had to take two different buses every day because his school was so far away from his house, but he always stopped here to feed the families of mallards that came out to swim in the mornings, even if it meant he’d be late; how this was the last place he went to before moving to South Korea, because he knew he’d miss this nook of Sydney most.

Of all the places you've visited, you think this one will remain with you longest. As time elapses, the colors of the sunset augment and deepen, dyeing the world in ways that remind you of the aurora. And then there is the man, wearing a gentle smile to match his softened features, his voice to your ears what honey is to a sore throat, telling you about his past, letting you into yet another chamber of his soul.

You are in no way prepared to butcher the sanctity of this moment, but you know that you can only run for so long and so far. You owe it to him. You owe it to yourself.

When the sun’s final rays are clinging the faraway mountaintops, Felix lifts himself off the railing and stands up straight. “Ready to go home?"

And your hand finds his, the pads of your fingers cold against his skin. Felix is surprised at first, but then he sees the hint of sadness in your eyes and the tension in your shoulders, and he understands what’s coming.

“I want to talk to you about that night,” you say.

Felix doesn’t respond for a few seconds. But when he does, his voice is so soft and so infuriatingly kind that hearing it makes you want to sob.

“...you don’t have to, Y/N.”

“No. I do,” you return, startling even yourself with the firmness in your voice, "I don’t want to keep dancing around the topic, not when you’ve been waiting for as long as you have.”

You feel Felix’s gaze on your face, as if he’s trying to read between your lines, and then he yields with a slight incline of his head.

“Okay.” And the stage is yours.

You don't start talking right away, your mind reeling with the effort to organize everything you feel and verbalize everything you want to tell him. It isn’t until Felix gives your hand a gentle squeeze—you’ve forgotten that you’re still holding his—that you feel rooted in the moment again.

It’s Felix you’re talking to; your soulmate, your sunlight. Nothing you are about to say will ever change that. This, you believe with every fiber of your being.

So you take a deep breath.

“When you said those words,” you begin, and the words sound alien in your voice, despite how many times you’ve rehearsed this conversation in your head, “I couldn’t process a thing. I was so happy, but I was so, so scared. I’ve spent the last month trying to figure out why I was so scared, and I can’t say that I know for sure yet, but I have a much better idea now, and—it’s a lot of things.

“For as long as I can remember, I have only ever been able to love profoundly and deeply, with everything in me. And over time, I led myself to believe that nobody would ever be able to understand or reciprocate my love, not in the manner I want most.”

You feel yourself starting to waver, but you find strength in his touch.

“But you changed that, Felix. You walked into that café that afternoon with your voice and your smile, and suddenly I’d found you—someone who experiences life the way I do, who loves the way I love. And every day since, I’ve been surrounded by you and your effortless warmth and your beautiful soul. It was only a matter of time before I started hoping, constantly and stupidly, that you would one day love me, the same way that I—”

Your voice catches in your throat like a heel slamming into car brakes, “love you” hanging so dangerously from the tip of your tongue that you’re stunned it doesn’t fall out right away.

“But that’s why I’m fucking terrified,” you go on. “When you told me you loved me, I felt like I could fly. But I also felt like I was falling—and maybe this is because I was still tipsy, I'm not really sure—but in that moment I saw a world where we weren't there to catch each other, where something had gone horribly wrong and I'd wake up one morning and you’d—you’d just be a distant memory.

“And that was the thought that shook me so badly: losing you. Leaving you.” You’re crying now, tears paving golden trails against your cheeks. “For whatever reason, that was the first thing that came to mind, and it broke me.”

You need to wrap it up, and fast, if your faltering voice and racing heart are any indication.

“I meant it when I apologized to you that night. I’m sorry, Lix. I’m sorry I made everything so fucking complicated. I’m sorry that I ran away. I’m sorry that I hurt you, or worried you. But I want you to know that I feel more for you than you will ever understand; I just need a little more time to put it into words. So, wait for me—”

Your eyes squeeze shut, and you finally cave, your last word coming out in a shattered rasp.

“—please.”

And the syllable has barely left your mouth when Felix lets go of your hand, only to bring his arms around you and pull you to his chest with such urgency that the breath momentarily leaves your lungs.

When you fall against him, you fall entirely apart. You have no idea where all the feelings are coming from, only that they’re suddenly overwhelming your every sense. And you start to cry, really cry, your fingers seeking refuge in his jacket, in his hair.

The sun departs at last, and night starts to fall. You lose track of how long you remain in this position, shaking with hushed sobs, fighting to regain control of your emotions. But Felix stays with you through it all, muted tears of his own intermingling with yours in the material of his scarf. He holds you carefully yet fiercely, like you really will crumble if he lets go.

And he waits, because of course he does. He would wait lifetimes for you.

One. The way you thaw is like melting snow.

It happens under your nose for the most part, but it is slow, sure, and irreversible, and you open your eyes one morning only to realize that the world outside has changed—and so have you.

You roll over and pick up your phone. There are unread messages from Felix sitting in your notifications, probably confirming the plans you made to get coffee before work today, but you put them on hold for now. Instead, you open up your camera roll and find an album, labeled with a sun emoji and yellow heart.

You made this a few months after you met Felix, and you’ve doted on it since, in the sense that you update it almost every day. Funnily enough, though, you’ve never looked through the album just to look through it. Maybe because you’ve never had the time or felt the impulse, but more likely because you know that the album is a visual time capsule of your relationship with the most important person in your life—which has never been purely platonic for you, despite how hard you’ve tried to change your heart.

Looking through it would mean acknowledging your true emotions, something you’ve never felt ready for.

Now, you open the album without a second thought, a preemptive smile on your lips. And you find yourself swept out of your bed and thrown back inside each of the pictures you see, reliving the moments as vividly as if you’re watching them on film.

This is one of your favorites, taken during a late-night tteokbokki run to a small restaurant behind Felix's company building. Felix was laughing so hard at one of your stories that he could only take bites of his meal every five minutes. His face had broken into a dazzling grin, his figure blurring as he lurched forward in his seat, trying to pull his hood over his face in secondhand embarrassment. Snap. He is always handsome, extraordinarily so, but you think you love the way he looks here most of all: every guard of his lowered, carefree, happy.

Another is from the first time you met Chan. Nowadays, your interactions with the boys consist mostly of running into them at Felix's dorm and making friendly small talk. But it's always been different with the oldest member. The first time Felix introduced the two of you, you clicked straightaway, and you had to have spent four hours after dinner just talking, scouring the city for something cold to eat. By the end of the sweltering summer night, the three of you were perched atop a short stone barrier in a secluded corner of Seoul, right outside the best bingsu place in all of South Korea. Felix had leaned over to steal the last cube of mango from Chan’s bowl, to Chan's dramatic protest. Snap. And Chan is like a brother to you now; you will never be able to fathom how much light Felix has brought to your life, be it through him or the people he loves.

A computer screen displaying a League of Legends scoreboard, in which Felix has died more times than there were minutes of the game. Snap. You (not sober) in the center of Felix's living room, your body poised in what is supposed to be the chorus of “Queencard," Felix and Bin completely losing their shit on the couch. Snap. His head bowed in anguish over a bowl of brownie batter after he mistakes salt for sugar. Snap. A low-quality, tiny Felix on stage, the brightest grin on his face when he finally manages to spot you in the nosebleeds. Snap. Your dining table creaking under the weight of all the gifts he got you for your last birthday. Snap. Him and one of your best friends from home, arms around each other, peace signs thrown up, beaming. Snap.

There are countless more, and they are all so incredibly near and dear to you, all thanks to the freckled boy in each.

You respond to Felix's messages (“be there soon!”), and then move to get dressed. There is a new sense of certainty in your gait when you emerge from your building and into the quiet morning.

The weather is lovely, the fresh sunlight cream-colored against a cloudless sky, the light breeze shuffling the new leaves about. A hound’s ears twitch when you hurry past its home; it is too drowsy to investigate your presence further. The only sounds in the air are the chattering of sparrows in the branches above you and the soles of your shoes, moving quickly across the sidewalk. The wonder in the world is more palpable to you today than it’s ever been.

Soon, the chalk-written menu and hand-carved wooden sign of your favorite café come into view, and you open the door. There are only a few customers inside, and you spot your person right away: his long, dark hair partially pinned back, his figure flattered by a black long sleeve and jeans. He has a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, as well as two drinks on the table before him: one caramel latte and one black milk tea.

When he hears the door jingle, he looks up, and the smile that melts across his face is so fond that you can’t believe there was ever a time when you doubted his feelings for you.

The way his loving smile mirrors onto your face is as inevitable and involuntary as destiny herself.

“Hi,” Felix says, rising from his seat.

“Hey, you,” you answer. “Wanna take a walk?”

And so you do.

You link arms, as always; you try each other’s drinks, as always; you manage to talk about everything and nothing all at once, as always. But when his company building comes into view, your footsteps come to a halt, and your hand fastens around the cuff of his sleeve.

“Hey, Lix—"

When his eyes meet yours, the sun hits them just right, and you have not known anything as clearly and certainly as you do right then.

“—I love you.”

Felix can only stare, his eyes so wide that you can see the whites of them all around, his straw falling from his parted lips.

Then, a smile starts to creep across his face like spilt syrup.

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Lee Yongbok.”

He sets his bag and drink down on the pavement. “Again, please.”

“I love you,” you repeat, starting to laugh. “I love you, I love you, god, I love you, Felix, so fucking much—”

Felix brings his hands to either side of your face, leaning his forehead against your own. And this time, there is no hesitation, no fear—only starlight when he tilts your chin up and finally, finally presses his lips to yours.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, hordes of them flapping so fervently you feel as though you might take off into the air, but you seek out his elbows, then his shoulders, and then the back of his neck, anchoring yourself to the earth, to him. Felix kisses you like he will never be able to again, and it is all you can do to savor how the curve of his smile feels against your own; how he murmurs the words “I love you, too” in between breaths. He tastes like sugar and smells like shampoo. He feels like forever.

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lazystar · 4 months

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the way i’m so hype for this fic

Still working on Venom Eater! It’s relatively longish - sort of. I was trying to decide whether I should split it into two parts but I’ll keep it as one since I know people are waiting for it. Thank you all for being so patient! It will be uploaded soon, although I do need to smooth out some areas and make sure it flows. The last thing I want to do is upload something that I feel has been rushed!

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lazystar · 5 months

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im gonna be real guys i am not exhibiting mentally healthy behaviors

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lazystar · 5 months

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a word from our sponsors | knj

you’ve co-hosted a podcast with namjoon for three years; have known him even longer. the two of you have always been the picture of platonic, but that hasn’t stopped the internet from doing what the internet does. the shipping? a little weird at first, but you can understand it: two attractive twenty-somethings always in close proximity to one another, obvious (platonic!) chemistry—people have created ships for less. the fanfiction, though? also pretty funny… until you can’t stop thinking about it. 🎙️

pairing: namjoon x f. reader genre: podcast, friends to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact. warnings: parasocial relationships galore, a m*n with a p*dcast, author abuses italics, swearing, alcohol, reader uses a pseudonym/nickname (piper) because writing the meta fanfiction scene would've been too weird without one and i refuse to use y/n, dialogue-heavy but it is a fic about a podcast, everyone is down horrendous, mentions of social media & fake r*ddit posts, ex-boyfriend yoongi but in a good, healthy way. let me know if i missed anything but mostly this is just two goofballs not realizing they're in love with one another. smut warnings: kissing, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex (fiction), protected vaginal sex (nonfiction), a lil squirting, mild degradation, mentions of a p*ss kink but there is no actual pee i promise (...lest?), i didn't intend to write size kink but it's namjoon so it just showed up anyway, slight dom!joon, everyone orgasms. wordcount: 17.5k credits: this was entirely inspired by that one episode of the basement yard where frankie reads the smut fic of him and joe, so credits to both that author and that podcast. spotify, for their podcast name generator. astro-seek for helping me drag namjoon astrologically. an extra special, gigantic thanks to @effortandmore for writing the meta fanfic (3k of it, no less!) and not batting an eye when i said it could have pee in it as a joke. this is as much yours as it is mine. finally, @hot-soop and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over for me and telling me i'm funny. author's note: happy birthday, indigo! here i am to validate every fear you've ever had that the people you write porn about may one day read it. live and on air. :)

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years.

You can learn a lot about a guy in that amount of time.

None of it is especially salacious. You know all about his family and his dog and the brand of recycled paper towels he insists on buying in bulk. You know what he’d written his grad school thesis on and what he’d looked like in the thick of it, when he was staving off his fifth mental break of the week. You know how fidgety he gets when it’s closing in on Friday night and he’s got a date—how much he stresses over which restaurant to pick, which cologne, which expensive cashmere sweater to wear.

You also know what the internet thinks about him. Intimately.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is peak husband material. He has cheeks ripe for pinching and thighs small countries would go to war to defend. He has a lap that doubles as a seat and dimples people want to get baptized in. He has Instagram selfies with hundreds of thousands of likes and comment sections full of intelligible keysmashes, especially the ones he posts from the gym.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is a man written by a woman.

Looking at him now, you aren’t sure that’s true, you think people just need to raise their standards. Namjoon is just… Namjoon. He’s intelligent and kind and up to date on modern feminist theory, is all. And, sure, maybe in the current political landscape that puts him far above the rest of men, but the way the internet has latched onto him is a little concerning.

“There’s another post about whether or not we’re dating,” you say, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose.

sooo let’s be real here, we ALL think they’re dating, right?? Posted by u/pod-shipper 2 hours ago

Just like he always does, Namjoon huffs out a soft laugh, makes his way around to your side of the table. Puts his large hands on your shoulders as he leans in close to read from your screen, snorting every time he reads a sentence he finds particularly amusing. Whichever cologne he’d chosen this morning is, admittedly, very nice.

It’s sooo obvious, especially in the episodes they film and post on YouTube. The way they look at each other?? I don’t even look at my HUSBAND like that! (+1264) ↳ omg ur sooooo right! i could MAYBE buy that they aren’t full on dating, but they’ve def at least slept together. Namjoon is so 🔥🔥🔥 (+791) ↳ um how can namjoon be dating her when he’s already married to me 😌💅 (+3) ↳ For the millionth time, can we not speculate on their personal lives? This is weird and reinforces really harmful ideas that men and women can’t just be friends. (-51)

“How come they never talk about how hot you are?”

You can tell by the look on Namjoon’s face that he hadn’t meant to say that—or, if he did, he didn’t mean to say it like that, with an entire pout, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “Cursed to be ugly and dumb,” you joke to ease the sudden tension, reading the comment that simply says you’d have to be the dumbest person alive to not sleep with Namjoon.

He scrunches his nose at that. Returns to his side of the table. “Yeah, I don’t think so, lots of people haven’t slept with me.” Starts to unpack all the gear from his bag before he says, “Hey, all that stuff—does it bother you?”

“What do you mean?” you answer, the corner of a protein bar stuck in your mouth. Namjoon always insists on recording at the most inconvenient times.

“People thinking we’re together,” he clarifies.

You shrug. “I dunno. Not really. Comes with the territory, I think, not to mention how much you love to overshare—”

“Hello?”

“I’m just saying,” you retort, hands raised in self-defense. “There really was no need for you to mention you blew your grad school stipend on a porn scam.” Namjoon looks affronted, like he can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to bring that up. “Or that you lost your virginity at fifteen.”

“We have a relationship podcast,” he states simply. “That’s kind of what we do, right? Talk about relationships? And the spectrum of human sexuality is part of that.”

You slump back in your chair as you quirk an eyebrow. “No one said it wasn’t, I just said you overshare. Which you do.”

“And that’s why there’s a dozen Reddit posts a week discussing whether or not we’re dating? Because I overshare?”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s the kind of behavior that leads to parasocial relationships. People latch onto that shit. Makes them think they’re your friend.” He glares. “Don’t give me that look, you know I’m right. It’s bad enough you’ve word-vomited all this highly personal information about yourself, but to not even do it under a pseudonym? It’s like you’re begging for trouble.”

Another comment he doesn’t even realize he’s making: “I don’t beg. For anything.”

To this day, you’re not sure why Namjoon asked you to co-host a podcast with him.

His reasoning had been simple: “You’re my best friend and we don’t agree on anything.” Hard to argue with that. Namjoon has seemingly endless patience, even in the face of things he shouldn’t entertain, and you… do not, to put it simply.

You’re not a cold person. Your fuse isn’t short. You’re just a little jaded, is all. Have far less propensity for bullshit than Namjoon does, so the two of you play well off each other. You end a sentence with a well-punctuated full stop and Namjoon’s right behind you to sigh and say maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty, not everything in the world can be so black or white.

Except some things are. Somewhere along the way, the podcast—which Namjoon had affectionately named Place Him Gently in the Garbage, even though some people should be shoved in there with force—had picked up a following. A big one. And now, every week, you’re inundated with emails ranging in severity. Sometimes people just want to vent after their tenth bad date in a row or share funny stories, and Namjoon lets you take the lead on those, but sometimes it’s a little more serious. That’s where Namjoon shines, all that endless patience, and people love him for it.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asks, accepting a thick stack of papers from Jungkook.

Ah, Jungkook.

You aren’t sure what he actually does. Some kind of social media manager, which is obvious from the wildly out-of-context clips he posts of you to TikTok, and it’s his responsibility to go through the thousands of emails you get from listeners, but aside from that all you’ve got are your suspicions that he just sticks around to swindle Namjoon out of more and more money.

“I’m in a silly goofy mood,” comes Jungkook’s reply, and you let out a witch cackle as Namjoon winces. Nothing good ever comes of Jungkook being in a silly goofy mood, and that’s quite alright by you.

Fifteen minutes later finds you with a camera in your face that you greet with an unamused, flat stare. Jungkook is used to it by now. Just films for a few seconds before turning his attention to an unaware Namjoon. Head down, pen and highlighter going a mile a minute as he pores over the stack of papers with all the doggedness and eagle-eyed stare of a literature professor.

That’s the thing about Namjoon—he takes this really seriously. So do you, but not in the ways Namjoon does. He’s all skill and determination and you’re color commentary. It works. It clearly works, so you aren’t too bent out of shape about it, but sometimes you worry. Namjoon takes this really seriously and sometimes you worry that he takes it too seriously, that he carries the burdens and worries of all these strangers, that he’s trying to solve and fix things that aren’t his responsibility to solve and fix.

So he takes it really seriously and you don’t take it as seriously as you maybe should, and everything is by design. Balanced.

Twenty minutes later finds you staring across the table at Namjoon, who asks, “Are you ready?” and does one last equipment check before he launches into, “Welcome back to another episode of Place Him Gently in the Garbage with Namjoon and Piper. What’s new with you, Pipe? Any fun news?”

Pipe. It drives you nuts. Feels like nails on a chalkboard. “I see you almost every single day,” you respond dryly. “But for the sake of entertainment, I’m thinking about getting a cat.”

“A cat?” Namjoon parrots, and his eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe because he knows what that means.

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, but you’ve known him even longer.

Since your first year of college, which is also when you met Yoongi. Yoongi, your ex. Yoongi, the person you’d been with for six years and had planned a life around. Yoongi, now one of your closest friends, because the two of you still love one another but no longer in that way, which is fine. But also—Yoongi, allergic to cats.

So, yeah. Namjoon knows what that means, and he has the good sense not to mention it. Unlike him, you’re intensely private and keep your cards close to your chest. Your listeners don’t even know your real name, let alone that you’d gone through a breakup a year ago.

“What kind of cat?” he continues, like his entire world hasn’t just been turned upside-down.

You shrug. “Eh, I don’t know. Probably one that’s been in the shelter a long time, I guess. I’m not too fussy, you know?”

“Right, a cat is a cat,” Namjoon says, thinking he’s done something. You and Jungkook gasp at the same time. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

“Because that’s a fucked up thing to say! A cat is not just a cat. They have little personalities, just like people. You’ve got—”

“But you just said you’re not fussy,” he interjects. “And I know they have personalities and that you have to find one that suits your lifestyle! Like, you can’t have one of those really cool cats that likes to go kayaking and shit, it’d never work—”

“What does that mean? Why couldn’t I have a cool cat?”

“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens,” Namjoon mocks, and you can tell he thinks he’s done something again, but his impression falls flatter than flat. An awkward silence fills the studio. He coughs. “Anyway. Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah. I also have a list of candidates ranked by how cool their names are. Number five, Casserole.”

“That’s cute.”

“Mhm,” you agree, “but Casserole is a kitten, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“They do say you should adopt kittens in pairs.”

“And that’s how they get you. You want one kitten and they talk you into two, and before you know it you’ve got, like, twelve cats. Number four, Party Girl.”

“Sick name.”

“Number three, Toddler.”

“Toddler?”

“Number two, Flat.”

“Just Flat? Understandable.”

“And, finally, number one: Human Torch.”

“Yoooo.” Namjoon laughs. “You have to adopt Human Torch. Let me see.” You pull up a picture on your phone and hand it over. “Okay, for our listeners—Human Torch is a young, male Domestic Short Hair. He has stripes. I don’t know what that’s called.”

“Tabby,” Jungkook chimes in.

“Jungkook says he’s a tabby. He’s cute. Adopt him.”

You return your phone to your pocket. “Maybe. I still think I want an older cat, but I’ll consider it. What about you, though? Any new dating horror stories to share?”

Ah, the dating horror stories. Your most dedicated shippers are convinced they’re fake, that Namjoon just makes them up on the spot to keep them off your trail. If only. Not in the if only they were fake and Namjoon and I were actually dating kind of way, but the holy shit one of my closest friends is a fucking disaster and it’s a little embarrassing kind of way.

“Not really,” he answers. “I’ve got a date this Friday, though. Trying to decide if dinner and a movie is too boring.”

“It’s a classic for a reason. What are you gonna see, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3?”

“Three?” Namjoon emphasizes, truly sounding scandalized. “Since when are there three? I haven’t even seen one or two.”

“Okay, first of all, the original is a classic and it’s a crime you haven’t seen it.”

“And second of all?”

“There is no second of all. Repeat point one.”

He snorts. “I’m not gonna see that, anyway. Maybe the re-release of Howl’s Moving Castle.”

“Subbed or dubbed, though?”

“Are you trying to get me canceled?”

“Absolutely.”

“I like both,” he chickens out. “Now, let’s stop wasting time and get to the point of the show.”

“Talking about cats is a waste of time?”

“I—no, we’ve just got a lot on the agenda today.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s lots to talk about on the celebrity front—”

Namjoon loves this part. As esteemed and educated as he is, not even he is immune to good old celebrity gossip. (Inside him there are two wolves.) Lives for it. Texts you about it at all hours of the night. Sends you links to Reddit threads with hundreds of comments. Has more opinions on Celebrity Big Brother than he does on Ludwig Wittgenstein, sometimes, and when that’s the case you know you’re in for a long evening. You’ve never even seen an episode of Celebrity Big Brother.

But Namjoon loves it, so you’ve become fond of it by association. Reminds you a bit of Yoongi and his love for sports and sports anime.

“—one should we start with?”

“Whatever you want,” you answer, because you haven’t been paying a lick of attention and you aren’t sure it matters anyway. Namjoon can talk to a wall on a good day, but he’s an entirely different beast once mundane, innocuous celeb gossip gets involved.

And even though you hadn’t been paying attention, it seems like this was the right thing to say, because Namjoon smiles so wide his dimples crater his face. “Cool. Let’s start with Taryn Manning. Did you see that bizarre—”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who is Taryn Manning?”

Namjoon looks a little dumbstruck. Even Jungkook’s arching an eyebrow at you. “Are you serious? She was in Orange is the New Black and Crossroads.”

“The Britney Spears movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Weird, okay. Continue.”

Your co-host shoots you a very pointed look. “I will, thanks. Anyway, she posted a video on social media talking about this affair she had with a married man. Like, she pulled over on the side of the road to record this. Said she can’t stand the man’s wife because she called her a quote-unquote lunatic.”

“I—huh, thought we weren’t supposed to say that anymore. Alright.”

“But wait, it gets even more bizarre. Listen to this quote—and this is direct. This is a direct quote from the video, I can’t stop thinking about it: ‘Don’t you ever threaten me when your husband came to me to get his butthole licked.’ Can you—”

“What? Namjoon, what in the fuck—”

“It’s crazy, right? She was gonna buy this guy a boat.”

“Namjoon, this is a family show, you can’t just talk about ass-eating unprompted.”

“No it’s not.”

“Well, you still shouldn’t talk about ass-eating unprompted. It’s unbecoming.”

“You’re unbecoming,” Namjoon fires back, because he can’t help it. The words are out of his mouth before he can think. “Sorry, that was out of line.”

You sigh. Know whatever look Jungkook is catching on his camera right now is exasperated and pointed, the corners of your mouth probably tugged up just a hint. “Unbecoming, like I said.” Namjoon scoffs. “Anyway, so this actress was gonna buy this married guy a boat and was eating his ass?”

“Yeah. Apparently it was her friend’s husband? They all went to a Taylor Swift concert together.”

“Jesus, this keeps getting worse. Big year for Hollywood cheaters.”

“It is, right? Cheaters and divorces. Something in the water, I guess.”

“I saw the astrology girlies saying a bunch of planets are in retrograde, so—”

“Can you explain that to me? Like, what does it mean for a planet to be in retrograde? Why is it causing divorces?”

“I don’t know, I’m not an astrology girlie. That’s why I said the astrology girlies. What are your big three, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Your sun, moon, and rising signs.”

“How do I find that out?”

“Ugh,” you intone, “don’t worry about it, I’ll do it myself. What time were you born?”

Namjoon rattles off a time.

You grab your laptop. Pull up the page, type in Namjoon’s date of birth and birthplace, and wait. Then you’re staring at a circle with a bunch of lines in it that also don’t make a lick of sense to you. You roll your lips to keep from laughing and school your voice into something deadly serious. “Bad news: it says you’re a virgin.”

“Virgo,” Namjoon corrects, not taking the bait. “I already knew that.”

You scroll a little further down the page. “Your moon is in Sagittarius. Oh god, listen to this, they’ve got you pegged: ‘The greatest need is to always search for something. In order to feel safe you need a philosophy or belief’—”

“Haaa, that’s not—”

“—’You need to have a goal or mission that gives your life meaning. Your faith must be voluntary and it is a paradox that fighting against dogmas may lead you to other dogmas.’ Yeah, that’s you.”

“That could apply to anyone,” he argues. “There are seven-billion people on this planet; I’d imagine a sizable amount of them would say that also describes them.”

“Hm, sounds like your faith in astrology is not yet voluntary. Did you know you’re a Scorpio rising?”

“No. I’m sure you’re gonna tell me all about it, though.”

You smile. “Correct. ‘People with Scorpio on the Ascendant need to fight against dark and destructive power in their life.’ Is that true?”

“Yeah, you’re the dark and destructive power. You keep sidetracking me and we need to get to the point of the podcast.” He grabs the stack of papers Jungkook had given him. Looks more highlighter than paper, if you’re being honest. “I guess Jungkook thought we needed a lighthearted kind of day.”

“That was nice of him, considering what he gave us last week. I guess we’re allowed to have faith in humanity today.”

To your left, Jungkook scoffs.

“Alright,” Namjoon starts, putting on his Very Serious Podcast Guy voice, “first up we’ve got a question from one of our listeners in Canada. It says, ‘Hi, Piper and Namjoon. I recently agreed to go on a blind date with a friend of a friend. She said he was a bit old-fashioned but really talked him up so I thought I was in good hands—and then he showed up to get me in a ‘67 GTO and exclusively referred to me as doll. He didn’t use my name once. I’m torn, because he was really nice and I had a good time otherwise, but this is weird, right? Should I see him agai—’”

“No,” you interject.

“Can I finish?”

“You don’t have to. This guy sounds greasy.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “And why is that?”

“Ignoring the fact that this guy has arguably one of the lamest classic cars around, he didn’t use their name once? Not once, in all the time they spent together? That’s really disrespectful.”

“Some people are just pet name people,” Namjoon argues.

“With absolute strangers, though? It’s really giving the impression that he didn’t even know it, not to mention some people are uncomfortable with pet names. The whole shtick is super lame.”

“I agree it sounds a bit misguided, but—”

Ignoring Namjoon, you say, “Sorry you had to go on a date with the ghost of less-cool James Dean. Into the garbage he goes.”

And, just like he’s done a million times before, Namjoon rolls his eyes and says, “If you really like this guy and want to see him again, a bit of communication will go a long way. Tell him the pet name made you uncomfortable—if it did—and offer to pick him up for the next date. I don’t think he’s completely destined for the garbage, yet.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t have a license. You probably think a 1967 Pontiac GTO is the pinnacle of romance. That’s probably like picking someone up on a Specialized Aethos to you, eh?”

“That’s a fifteen-thousand dollar bike, I’ll have you know.”

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Ep: #183 - Namjoon is a Virgin

I think Namjoon had the right idea on this one. Sure, the car can be considered lame, but I think a lot of men are deeply insecure and therefore overcompensate when it comes to dating. Women are hard to impress when they have unlimited options. You have to stand out, so I’m glad he advocated for him. Piper can come off like such a misandrist sometimes. (-649) ↳ just shut up bro namjoon would fuckin hate u (+204) ↳ Imagine caring about something like this when they’re getting a cat together 🙄 (+19)

You think about the cat thing for nearly a week.

Adopting a cat is certainly not the worst idea you’ve ever had, and truth be told it’s been a little lonely, living by yourself. No more Yoongi in your space; no more Holly. So, having a new little friend around might do you some good.

It’s just—

It’s a big commitment, and there’s also the dog sitting-shaped elephant in the room. Ending things on good terms means you’re still Yoongi’s second-choice sitter whenever he has to go out of town, and while you love Holly dearly (the two of you had adopted him together, after all), he’s a lot like his father in a lot of ways.

Should I get a cat, you type out, and it’s only been in Yoongi’s inbox a few seconds before the most unflattering picture you’ve ever taken of him is flashing across your screen.

“Are you dying?” you ask, because Yoongi doesn’t call you for much else.

And you already know what his response is going to be. “We’re all dying.”

“Lighten up, Yoongi. One might say being so existentially nihilistic before noon causes wrinkles.”

There’s a split-second pause. “It’s nine p.m.”

“Sure, but it’s before tomorrow’s noon, so it still counts.”

“Whatever. Listen, before you adopt that cat, I need a favor.”

“You going out of town again?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be long, though. A week at the most, five days if I’m lucky.”

“That’s fine, bring him over whenever. Yijeong’s busy?”

This pause is far, far longer. “No,” comes Yoongi’s eventual response, but it’s slow. Unsure. A two-letter word has never taken so long to say in the history of ever. “He’s, uh. Coming with me?”

Oh, you think. This is where your ex awkwardly and hesitantly breaks the news of his new relationship. You’ve known this day was coming, and this is what you get for staying friends with him. “This is a fanfiction plot,” you accuse. “Hot, mysterious man moves into a gaudy apartment complex after ending a long-term relationship and meets his equally-hot and mysterious neighbor and they fall in love.”

“I—that’s not—my apartment is not gaudy.”

“Yes it is. There’s a giant gold bust of a weird bird in the lobby.”

“Weird bird?” he parrots. “It’s a swan.”

“I see you’re not denying the in-love-with-your-neighbor accusations.”

“Am I on trial?” Yoongi retorts, and it’s such a Yoongi thing to say when what he means is, is this okay? He means, are we able to talk about this without it being weird? He means, I won’t ever say as much out loud, but your acceptance means a lot to me, and I’d like for you to give me this.

So you lower your voice and soften the edges because it’s not really something to joke about, and you say, “No, of course you’re not on trial,” and Yoongi knows what you mean. “And if you were, you'd get locked up for fifty years. You can’t lie for shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat, mutters a thanks that is so quiet you almost don’t catch it. “Send me pictures of the cats.”

Later on, once you’re freshly-showered and tucked into bed with a candle and a book (Eloge de l’amour by Alain Badiou at Namjoon’s insistence and request), your phone buzzes with a text from Yoongi—

Yoongi: toddler is a fucking hilarious name for a cat but so is flat Yoongi: it’s a tie for me You: Okay well pick one 🙄 Yoongi: yijeong says get both You: Both???? Is he paying my vet bills? Yoongi: kinda out of line to proposition him for money. flat is also good with dogs, js You: If he’s now being raised by you two, my perfect, well-behaved son is probably long gone. Does he even count as a dog anymore? Yoongi: me and yijeong both say fuck off Yoongi: holly too. he says he doesn’t miss you anymore and he’s not coming over now Yoongi has added Yijeong to the group Yoongi has changed the group name to #ThirdWheelChat Yijeong: Please don’t drag me into this. Also I did not say “fuck off” You have changed the group name to People Who Have Seen Yoongi Naked Yoongi: fuck you

You should’ve known something was going on with Jungkook, because it’d started like this:

(When you and Namjoon started the podcast three years ago, it was in the living room of his apartment.

Surrounded by books and plants. He loved to record in the afternoons back then—Namjoon loved to say it was because of his grad school schedule, but you’ve always suspected he just wanted to preen in the golden hour light, much like he’s doing now.

“Is this really necessary?” Jungkook whines from his spot on the couch. He’s already swindled Namjoon out of two bags of microwavable popcorn and three cans of sparkling water. “It’s a Saturday afternoon; I could be doing something so much more fun than this.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Are you saying this isn’t fun?”

“Yeah. It sucks, actually. This could’ve been an email.”

And because Namjoon is accomplished, mature, and absolutely incapable of not taking Jungkook’s bait, the space between his brows creases as he sends a murderous glare Jungkook’s way. “Stop eating my food, then. And drinking my drinks. And lounging on my couch like that—”

“I’m not lounging,” Jungkook argues.

“You’re manspreading all over the leather!”

“This is how I sit!”

“Well, knock it off! My couch is only for fun and people who think I’m fun!”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “So you fuck on it?”

“What?”

“What other fun things could you possibly do on a couch?”

Namjoon blinks. “Watch… watch a movie?”

Jungkook groans, throws himself backwards against the pillows as if he’s suffering a Victorian ailment. “Jesus. No wonder you can’t score a second date.”

“Okay, that was a little uncalled for. There are a ton of reasons a person might not want a second date, and no one is obligated to go out with me—”

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

You clear your throat. Try to hide your own can of seltzer you’d taken from Namjoon’s fridge in the midst of his and Jungkook’s bickering. “Not trying to be rude, but I have an appointment at the shelter at three. If, y’know. You wouldn’t mind speeding this up a little.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course—”

“Oh, so you’ll speed this up for her but not—”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “She,” he begins, jerking his thumb in your direction, “isn’t needlessly complaining and actually has someplace to be.”)

It was just a quick little rendezvous in Namjoon’s living room to come up with a rough draft for the following month’s episodes. He couldn’t do it over text because he’d fallen down the steps at his office and landed on his ass on the corner of a step and his phone had been in his back pocket. Cracked clean in half. And he couldn’t do it over email because he—rightfully—knew Jungkook would ignore them because he has his inbox set up to send all of Namjoon’s personal emails to the trash.

But Jungkook holds onto things like that. Grudges. Loves to let Namjoon think bygones are bygones and pop up a few days later with some evil scheme. Hence:

“What is this?”

Jungkook smirks. Rocks back on his heels. “It’s fanfiction.”

“I can see that, but… why?”

This is where Jungkook shines: the ominous, cheshire cat grin; the aw, shucks demeanor that gaslights Namjoon into thinking Jungkook couldn’t possibly be fucking with him. “Well, you were having trouble coming up with ideas for episodes, and there’s an email in there from someone whose partner reads really expli—”

“Jungkook, this is fanfiction about me.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Of all the weird shit you’ve seen on the internet (and there’s been a lot), fanfiction of people you know—your friends—was something you’d managed to escape. Probably by virtue of not knowing anyone famous enough to warrant fanfiction being written about them.

But you should’ve known. You really, really should’ve known.

“Oh my god?”

You’re not sure who says it. Could be you or Namjoon, but the sentiment is the same. He mouths a what the fuck at you that’s met with a shrug. You’re in uncharted territory now, too. “Where did you even find this?” you ask, taking the stack of papers from Namjoon. “And why did you print it out?”

“Because I’m going to track down whoever wrote it and get them to autograph it. Then I’m going to buy a nice frame and hang it on the wall behind him, so we never forget this historical moment in Place Him Gently in the Garbage lore.”

“It’s a podcast,” Namjoon deadpans, “how can it have lore? And how much lore can there possibly be?”

“It’s the internet,” you concede. “The lore possibilities are endless. Don’t tempt them.”

Jungkook nods sagely, well-versed in the degeneracy of the internet. “Yeah, that’s how you end up with shit like 4chan.”

“4chan? There’s Space Jam porn on there.”

As the youngest, all Jungkook can do is roll his eyes. “Sometimes explaining this shit to you feels like trying to teach old people how to rotate PDFs—”

Namjoon scoffs. “I’m not that bad. I know how to rotate a PDF.”

Wow, Jungkook mouths. “Anyway, back to the fanfiction—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Namjoon interjects. He looks at you. “It’s weird, right? Like, it’s weird that people have written this about us?”

About us.

Your scope of the world narrows to the size of a pinhead. It’d just been about Namjoon before. This is fanfiction about me, he’d said, and you hadn’t been included in that. Now it’s written about us and you’re included.

“I—what?”

“It’s about us,” Namjoon repeats.

Jungkook rolls his lips. “It’s about the two of you fucking, to be specific.”

“Can you not—”

“Fucking a lot,” Jungkook continues. “So much fucking.”

Namjoon looks at you, and it’s all you can do to keep from laughing. The look on his face is pure bewilderment, both that Jungkook has cooked up this idea and is hell-bent on executing it and that he remains employed. And maybe it’s a little bit of nerves, too, because neither of you are ignorant of the risks. Reading fanfiction about yourselves—about the two of you as a couple, specifically, or at least two people who have sex—is weird. Not something you can unread.

And maybe it’s because you’re so determined to not make it weird that you send Namjoon a cheeky, exaggerated wink, shrug your shoulders, and say, “I’ll need a couple drinks, but I’m down.”

Jungkook throws his head back and cackles wildly, and that look of bewilderment on Namjoon’s face morphs into something else. Trepidation, maybe; definitely disbelief, because sometimes he lets himself get swept away in Jungkook’s schemes, but it’s rare that you follow suit.

As Jungkook continues to laugh, you wonder if you should’ve said no.

Namjoon has two stipulations: the two of you have to film the episode completely alone, and he, too, needs to be a little drunk.

The latter? Piece of cake, considering Namjoon has become some sort of whiskey aficionado in recent years. His drinking is streamlined and to the point—he knows exactly how much and what to drink to get him where he wants to be. You can’t say he isn’t efficient.

The former, though? Borderline impossible. From the second Namjoon states his terms, Jungkook is having none of it. Argues that he’s the one who found the story and the one who cleared it with the author, so he deserves to witness the fruits of his labor.

“No,” Namjoon repeats for the nth time, “no way. I’ll barely be able to do this with just her, let alone both of you.”

And that—that doesn’t bother you, right? You force a laugh, because why would it bother you?

There are few secrets between you and Namjoon, except your respective sex lives have been staunchly off-limits. Namjoon could be a virgin for all you know, and as you study him—the way he keeps bobbing his leg, the slight shake in his hands—you wonder if that’s the reason he’s being so weird about this.

It’s just a story.

Fiction.

Most people don’t have to worry about someone writing stories about them fucking their friends. If they do, you reckon even less actually read them. So, sure, it’s a little strange, but people from all over the world send in stranger stuff all the time, don’t they? It’s literally the reason you’re in this predicament.

Eventually Jungkook agrees. His whining has gotten him nowhere, so he just throws up his hands. Posts a cryptic little “u guys won’t believe what the next patreon ep is lmao” that sends the internet into a frenzy. Doubles your Patreon numbers almost immediately, and both you and Namjoon do a good job of pretending the pressure isn’t overwhelming.

Jesus. You have to read explicit fanfiction about yourselves. On camera.

Namjoon gets caught up with work and isn’t available until the weekend, so you’re forced to sit with the nerves for a few days. Not too bad at first, but you’re nearly coming out of your skin by Thursday with the need to know. You’re well-versed in the world of fanfiction, but this is fanfiction about you: your name, your likeness, maybe even your personality.

What will they know of Namjoon, though?

Will they get it right, the way he looks with his jaw clenched? How impossibly deep his voice can go, both when it’s raspy with sleep and when he’s fully at ease? Will the Namjoon in the story be closer to the Namjoon you know, or the version of himself he presents to the public?

And you’ve known him a long time—long enough that there are few secrets between you, but you don’t know the most intimate parts. All the parts the internet loves to speculate on. All the little gaps that, apparently, need to be filled in by fanfiction.

Will they know what Namjoon looks like when he gets off?

No, you scold yourself, jerking awkwardly like you’ve been burned, and neither will you.

Because you are not going to think about this. Your thoughts are not going to go there. Namjoon is your friend, and you’ve listened to him scold an endless amount of men on the podcast for exactly this behavior. Sexualizing their friends. You’re not going to do it, too.

Maybe that’s why you’re kind of seeing double when it comes time to record. Namjoon needed an extra shot and offered you one as well. You’d necked it without a second thought and now you’re here, trying to ignore the slight tilt of the room as Namjoon adjusts the camera.

“How’s the shot look?” he asks, gesturing vaguely behind him at his laptop screen because Jungkook had refused to lend you his fancy cameras if he wasn’t allowed to be involved.

It’s a completely normal question.

It’s a question you’ve asked and answered a million times.

Except—there’s something horribly distracting about Namjoon in this moment. The outline of his back muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. The way the sleeves are tight around his biceps. He’s always been a gym rat, always carries around a protein shake that smells and looks completely foul, but you can’t remember it ever being this obvious.

And you take too long to answer, because Namjoon straightens up just enough to send you a concerned look. Which does not help. You are not imagining what else might cause his brows to pinch like that, what might have his lips parting, have sweat dotting his hairline.

You swallow. Hard.

“Looks fine,” you manage to say. He’s still staring. Are you on fire? You feel like you’re on fire, which would make sense. Would explain Namjoon’s sweating and concerned stare and the fact that he cannot stop staring at you. “Maybe a tiny bit to the right if we’re being picky,” you tack on, hoping it’ll break whatever spell the two of you are ensnared in.

It works. “To the—the right, yeah, makes sense,” he rambles.

He moves it an inch to the left.

—

Things are tense, to say the least.

Recording hasn’t been this awkward since your first episode, or maybe ever. You’re sat across from one another like you always are, and usually Namjoon would be making quip after quip by now, talking endlessly until Jungkook shushed him long enough to get the intro filmed. Now, there’s just silence.

“Should we…?” Namjoon startles. Bangs his knee on the underside of the table and drops a string of curses. “Sorry, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he says, cutting you off. He gestures vaguely toward the camera. “I’ll just… yeah.”

Showtime.

You wipe your hands on your jeans, unsure of when they got so damp. Unsure of when you’d grown so nervous, too, because you’d been fine an hour ago. Had strolled in with two cups of tea and a little too much confidence, giddy at what you were about to do.

Maybe the nerves had shown up alongside the alcohol. This sounds reasonable, and you do not, under any circumstance or for any reason, think about Namjoon’s back. Or his biceps.

Namjoon makes it through the intro, dimples deep and wide as he smiles, and you also don’t think about the way his voice cracks and gets a little breathy when he introduces you. It’s only because he’d been drinking, and the flush on his cheeks attests to that. The same flush that creeps down his neck, still a little sweaty; disappears beneath the hemline of his shirt.

“—Jungkook had. Right, Piper?”

Now it’s your turn to startle, and there’s not much you can do to hide the obvious except ask Namjoon to redo the shot. Because it’s bad enough the internet already overanalyzes every move you make, every word choice, every instance you’ve stared at Namjoon a second longer than they thought you would—this is a blatant display of… affectedness.

“Sorry,” you say, “I wasn't paying attention. Can we redo it?”

You’re expecting a playful scolding. A ha ha, get it together, because that’s what you usually get. But there’s nothing aside from Namjoon studying you and nodding. Asking if you’re okay. Saying, “Is this—this is weird, right? Is it too weird? Maybe we shouldn’t—”

An out. Namjoon is giving you an out, and you should take it, you know you should take it, so there’s absolutely no reason at all you shake your head and say, “No, no, it’s fine! I think I’m just a little, uh. Drunk?”

“Are you sure? We can—”

“It’s fine, Joon,” you insist. “Besides, it’ll be good content, right?”

“Good content,” he parrots. “Yeah, for sure.” He fidgets in his seat, runs his hands down the span of his thighs. Very, very thick thighs. “I’ll grab us some water.”

You faceplant onto the table as soon as he’s out of the room. When did his thighs get so thick?

But the water helps. Cures whatever strange, insatiable thirst has come over you, because you feel much more human after a few glasses. Less drunk, too, which makes sense. Yoongi could barely escape your drunken, horny wrath when the two of you were together, so you chalk it up to a Pavlovian response.

Namjoon does the intro again. Introduces you strong and steady, not a hint of nerves, and explains, with a fresh blush taking over his upper body, what the episode’s going to be about. “Someone wrote fanfiction about us,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, pretty explicit. Jungkook thought it’d be funny if we read it.”

You snort. “He might get fired, depending on how this goes.”

“He should get fired regardless,” Namjoon deadpans. “Anyway, we have permission from the author to read this so don’t come after us, and, as always, we’ll put all the credits in the video description.”

“Special shoutout to Jungkook, though, who was not allowed to be here with us for this momentous occasion.”

Namjoon laughs. “I’m sure he’s having plenty of fun at home.” You both pause. “That’s not—I’m not implying anything with that! I just meant—you know, like. He’s hanging out and enjoying his day off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Moving on. I have two copies of this. Do you want your own?”

You grin, wicked and wide. “Nah, just read it to me.”

“Making me do all the work,” he huffs. “Typical.”

“There’s a stack of papers in front of you that might say otherwise.”

It’s clear you catch him off-guard. He cocks an eyebrow, opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a goldfish. An obvious question sits on the tip of his tongue: You think you’d be in charge? Instead he coughs, jerks his head to the side, and says, “I guess we’ll see.”

It sounds like a challenge.

Thirty seconds is all you get before Namjoon’s shuffling his stack of papers and clearing his throat. Asking if you’re ready and jumping right into it once you say you are. Reads the first few lines like they’re some old lecture notes, and they’re conservative and safe-for-work enough that you start to relax.

And then Namjoon reads, “A louder one wonders if Namjoon is a pet name person—if he’d call her ‘honey,’ or ‘gummy bear,’ ‘babe,’ or ‘baby,’” and you choke.

“Gummy bear?”

Namjoon laughs along with you—the weird one that almost sounds like a dog panting. “You want me to call you gummy bear?”

“I want you to call me a Lyft,” you snark. “I’m leaving.”

He continues:

And that’s how it starts, wandering thoughts, wandering fingers—the first time Piper comes to the thought of Namjoon calling her baby, pushing inside her, showing her that he definitely doesn’t beg, but she does… Well, she’s a little ashamed. She’s apparently got a reputation to maintain, anyway, not to mention a friendship.

His eyes leave the paper and lock onto you. “Or maybe you’d prefer baby?”

“Fuck off.”

Weeks after that first time, it’s become a habit, thinking about Namjoon as something more than a friend. It’s confusing and a little mortifying and it’s starting to affect her in ways she hadn’t expected. When they record, she feels fidgety—she’s jumpy when he gets close, has all the stupid obvious tells of an unwanted crush: her breath hitches when he whispers (why the fuck is he whispering in her ear, anyway? Doesn’t he know what that does to a person?) inside jokes to her so Jungkook can’t hear, her heart rate spikes when their fingers accidentally brush, she feels itchy and hot and a little embarrassed whenever he holds eye contact with her. It’s terrible, and it’s only made worse by the way he’s doing all of those things more than usual. Or, at least she thinks he is, thinks she’s not imagining the way his eyes linger on her more than she can remember happening before or the way she’s caught him staring at her lips when she chews on the end of her pencil mindlessly.

You’ve completely forgotten how to breathe.

Namjoon’s staring again. You need to salvage this. He’s only on paragraph three and you’re already squirming in your chair and imagining things that are not appropriate. So you roll your lips, return his teasing. “Well? Do you stare at my lips?”

It works. “No,” he scowls.

“You sure?” you joke, morphing your face into something half-pout, half-duck face.

“We’re never gonna finish this if you keep making comments.”

“You started it,” you point out. “Go on, then.”

There’s some dialogue. Some prose that hits way too close to home, has you wondering who on earth wrote this and how they plucked every single thought from deep within your psyche. A pang of fear that maybe you haven’t been as subtle as you’d thought all these years. A moment to confirm to yourself that, no, you haven’t been harboring a secret, deeply-buried crush on Namjoon.

Then he reads—

And then he kisses her. It’s greedy and hot, his lips like a branding iron. She moans a little against her better judgment when he licks at the seam of her mouth, and in return, she can feel Namjoon’s lips curve into a smile against her own. It’s better than she’d been imagining it, really. He’s a good kisser—firm at the right times, soft when she needs it, careful but not cautious. He holds her jaw with one hand and keeps her right where he wants her beneath him (as if she’d want to move, anyway). When their lips finally part, he rests his forehead on hers. It’s intimate in a way she hadn’t expected, and he looks at her as if she’s the answer to every question. Finally, he whispers, “What’re we doing, Piper?” His lips are still wet and pink and a little swollen from kissing, and she barely hears the question—she’s too busy thinking about kissing him again, about pulling his plump bottom lip between her teeth, teasing and… “Kissing,” she says finally. “What do you want?” he asks, sinking to his knees in front of her. And if that alone isn’t an answer to his question… “Whatever you’re willing to give,” she replies. It feels like she’s wanted this forever, this and so much more. Once she got the idea in her head, it’s hard to know if she ever felt differently, ever truly thought they could just be friends. Or, if in the back of her mind, in the dark corners that she never lets see daylight, she always knew she wanted Namjoon. Always knew she loved him.

—and everything goes right out the fucking window.

Namjoon sits with those words for a moment. Scans the paper in his hands and frowns a little when he confirms what you already know. “The rest is, uh. Porn.”

“That is why we’re here.”

“Last chance to back out.”

“I’m not scared,” you lie. “Are you? You’re the one who keeps stalling.”

He huffs. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he retorts, and then nothing is all that funny anymore.

Because Namjoon was right: the rest is straight-up porn. He’s barely able to read the part where he goes down on you with a straight face, turning a deep shade of crimson. Stutters through the part where you pull his hair, and that is not something you needed to know about your friend. You think he loses his grasp of language entirely when he reads, “When he slides a long finger into her and brushes past her most sensitive spot, she arches into him and lets his name fall from her lips in a soft cry. Piper, notorious skeptic, is a babbling, trembling mess as she gets closer to her orgasm,” because all the words are garbled together, producing nothing but gibberish. You think he’s ready to keel over and die when he reads, “Namjoon pulls away briefly, lips slick with her juices, and licks over his top one, pausing to tell her how good she tastes before he dives back in.”

“That was nice of them to include. I appreciate their attention to detail in regards to my personal hygiene.”

“This is so embarrassing,” he whines.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Gimme. I’ll finish it.” He hands over the papers immediately.

Except you regret it immediately. The words you’re staring at are not words you ever thought you’d read or recite in your entire life. Not even for a million dollars. “Oh,” you say instead.

“See? Not as easy as it looks.”

“This is really embarrassing,” you confirm. “I might need another shot.”

“Y-yeah. Alcohol sounds good.”

Namjoon staggers forward obligingly, looks completely fucked out and pliant, willing to do whatever she asks. She remembers the sounds he made when she pulled his hair, wonders if he likes being bossed around, if he wants her to tell him what to do, to be a little mean to him. Maybe it’s different from her dreams, maybe he will beg her. She wants him so badly, she’d do anything for him. So, she pulls his briefs down to expose his absurdly large member, already mostly hard, and slaps it. Gently at first to see how he’ll react, and when he shudders and jerks his hips, she does it again, a little harder. “Look at you,” she whispers, “such a needy boy.” He whimpers at that, eyes pleading. “Please, Piper…” he whines. “Please what?” “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. She wants to, wants him so much, wants to feel him stretch her open, and from the looks of his cock, thick and long and drooling with precum, he could. “Should I?” she asks. She musters all her confidence to keep the condescending tone up. It feels wrong given how desperate she is to get him inside her, but it also seems to be getting him worked up and equally as desperate. “Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?” Namjoon’s cock twitches, and he begs, “I—I’ll fuck you so good, Piper…. I know how, I promise. Just… please?”

“Oh my god,” the two of you say in unison.

You so badly want to ask if this is biographical. How Namjoon feels about a little degradation; what he’d do if someone actually called his cock stupid. Ifsomeone has called his cock stupid. You dare a glance at him and conclude that someone’s had to. Namjoon just has that kind of energy.

But you can’t ask because it’d be weird, so you keep reading.

“How do you want me?” she asks softly when their lips part. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’s processing all the possible options out of everything he’s considered. And then it occurs to her. “Have you imagined this before? Thought about how you’d fuck me?” she teases him as she stands, stepping into him. Piper pushes one hand through his hair, brushing it back off of his forehead and wraps her other around his dick, squeezing a little for emphasis on her words. “Yes,” he groans as she strokes him, thumbing at the head of his cock. “Tell me what you want, then. Want me on all fours for you? Want me to show you how it’s done, to let you lay back and ride you so you don’t have to put in any work?” Namjoon’s breathing is getting heavy, pupils blown wider with each suggestion.

“I told you!” you shriek, laughing in between the words. “I told you I’d…” And then your gloating tapers off, because what happens next has your brain malfunctioning.

“All of that,” he whines as she lets go of his hair and brings her hand down to run a fingertip over his perineum. “Want all of that. Want to bend you over the table and fuck you right here. Hear your sounds in the microphone.” Even in her dirtiest thoughts about him, she hadn’t considered the microphone, hadn’t considered recording it. When she thinks about it though, it makes sense. Namjoon is exactly the kind of person that would get off to someone’s voice. So, she does. She makes a show of turning around and slowly bending over the table, sliding her upper body across it carefully until she can reach her microphone and turn it on. When she says into it, “What’re you waiting for?” she sees over her shoulder the way that Namjoon shivers.

This is… not good. You’re never going to be able to look at a microphone the same way, which is extremely not good for a person who supplements their income with a very popular podcast that requires them to speak into a microphone for extended periods of time.

This is very, very bad.

Namjoon must be thinking the same, because he lets out a strangled a-haaa that’s less of a laugh and more a plea to God, the gods, the entire gamut of higher powers that might be able to save him. No one’s going to, you think, staring down at the paper again. This godless piece of fanfiction will be preserved on the internet forever, will be seared into your mind forever, and no amount of praying is going to erase it.

“I should, uh. Just read the rest, yeah? Get it over with?”

“Mhm. Yep. Yes, please.”

Don’t say please, you almost say. You can’t take it; not after what you’ve just read.

So you put on a show. Steel your expression and your nerves and take it seriously. Use voices and sound effects and desperately try to stave off the awkwardness you know is inevitable because a smut fic is probably only going to end one way, and that’s with you acting out Namjoon having an orgasm.

Maybe you’ll have another one, too, if the author is nice.

It’s sweet, she thinks, the way he’s easy for her, takes his time with her. Strokes his fingertips along her sides and kisses the back of her neck reverently. As much as she loves it, part of her hopes he’s not always like this—hopes he’ll give as good as he takes, hopes he’ll put her in her place. She can feel his cock hard against the cleft of her ass, not even inside her yet, and still, she thinks about next time and the time after that. “Still okay?” He breathes into her ear as his tip rubs against her cunt. “Yeah—want you, Joon.” “Never thought I’d hear you say those words.” “I never thought you’d record them,” she teases, eyes glancing up to the flashing light showing the mic picking up all of this as he starts his slow slide into her. Piper falls even further forward when he bottoms out, letting her forehead rest on the table. He’s whispering filth in her ear, about how he has something to prove, how she’ll never want anyone after this, how no one can fuck her the way he does. She hates that he’s right. Each stroke brings a new sensation: sparklers, butterflies, nerve endings on fire as he fucks into her and licks and sucks at her neck, her shoulders, her ear. Piper can’t even think, and this is what people mean when they talk about being fucked stupid, she decides. It’s perfect. Every time she thinks she’s getting close again, he changes something: fucks her a little shallower, moves his hips just a little, slows down, speeds up… It’s driving her crazy. “Come on,” she whines. “I’m so close…” At least she can tell he is, too. No longer able to sustain the dirty talk, he’s breathing heavily, letting out broken moans and sighs of her name. He’s moving rhythmically now, thrusts consistently faster. “Oh, fuck, Piper,” he groans, “Gonna cum.” One of his hands finds her clit and he rubs careful circles over her, bringing her to her peak along with him, no more teasing. When she comes, it’s with a loud moan into the studio mic, and that seems to be what tips Namjoon over the edge, too. His hips stutter into hers as he comes, her cunt clenching around him for what feels like forever.

You deserve an award, you think. An Oscar. You didn’t even groan when you had to read the word “cunt,” and that’s a feat in and of itself.

“Is it over?” Namjoon asks, words muffled by the hands covering his face.

“Not quite,” you answer. “There’s some aftercare, and at the end you ask if I’ll piss on you.”

Namjoon gags. “I asked you what—”

“Today’s episode has been brought to you by Stamps-dot-com—”

HOLY SHIT THE NEW PATREON EPISODE???????? Posted by u/pod-shipper 4 minutes ago NO WAY. NOOOOOOO FUCKING WAY DUDE THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY THEY DID THIS AS AN ACTUAL EPISODE WHAT THE FUCK WHAT HTE FUCK WHAT EHTU FKF DFGLKDG;L (+705) I wasn’t sure if they were messing around before, and I was quite critical of the “shippers,” but now I’m pretty convinced. (+423) ↳ we’ve been telling y’all for YEARS 😤 (+197) ↳ Glad you’ve seen the light, u/RandomAcorn2058! (+5) ↳ ugh. they weren’t messing around before and they aren’t messing around now. do you guys not listen to what they say? namjoon’s been dating, and piper got out of a six-year relationship just over a year ago. if they’ve had something going on for “years” that means they’re both cheaters, and that’s a really shitty thing to assume about them. not to mention it makes the entire point of the podcast moot. (-63) Why do you guys think Jungkook “wasn’t allowed” to be there? (+314) ↳ So they could fuck lmao it’s so obvious (+329) ↳ because it’s awkward af? would you wanna read porn about yourself w all your coworkers in the room? (+2) ↳ the “it’s awkward” excuse is sooooo lame he’s the one who found it and is the one who edited the episode, he’s gonna see it regardless. (+15) ↳ Tbh I’m more curious about how he even found it to begin with? Do they have a throuple thing going on? Like, why was he looking for smut fic about his bosses? (+38)

You do not get through recording unscathed.

You are very scathed. Perhaps the most scathed a person has ever been.

Jungkook texts the group chat sporadically throughout the week, cracking jokes and making memes at your and Namjoon’s expense which is par for the course and shouldn’t have you off-kilter, but something inside you feels deeply wrong. Feels like someone’s given you devastating news; feels like it used to back in uni when you knew you’d failed an exam and were just waiting to see how badly.

It both helps and doesn’t that the internet is so invested. All the clips Jungkook keeps posting have re-doubled your Patreon numbers, and jumping up a tax bracket never hurt anyone, you included. But all of those jokes and memes largely went unanswered by both you and Namjoon, still too close to the incident to find the humor in it from the other side.

The two of you had sex.

Not literally, of course, but you figure you might as well have with the way you’re feeling. The way you’re avoiding one another. Someone wrote a story about the two of you having sex and you both read it and something about that, days later, feels really fucking unsettling.

In a bad way? You aren’t sure. It’s not like you’re mad or upset or any other synonym. You just feel… off. Itchy from the inside out, and that’s far from the norm in your and Namjoon’s friendship. In all the years you’ve known one another, you’ve never once avoided each other, including the time you’d set him up with a close friend and he showed up 45 minutes late to their date and ghosted after.

(Unsurprisingly, that friendship had not lasted.)

Maybe it’s because Yoongi had always been there as a buffer. You aren’t of the belief that men and women cannot be platonic friends, but being in a years-long committed relationship nixed a lot of awkward interactions and assumptions off the bat. Even Namjoon had known Yoongi first. Had introduced himself to you in your shared 100-level psych course with a, “Hey, you’re Min Yoongi’s girlfriend, right?” because they ran in the same underground circles and Namjoon had idolized him from afar for years.

Pretty fucked up, then, that Yoongi’s off in Los Angeles with his hot new boyfriend and you’re on your couch, Holly at your feet, pointedly ignoring your texts.

“I’m gonna get a cat,” you say to the dog, trying to redirect his attention when he starts chewing on your sock again. Holly doesn’t offer any input, of course, and he’s a lot like his father in that way. “I can’t believe you have a stepfather. You’re a proper child of divorce now, Min Holly.”

There are a pile of unread texts you continue to ignore in lieu of showing Holly pictures of adoptable cats. A few more memes from Jungkook, one from Namjoon’s new phone asking to move the recording date a few days because “something came up at work,” one from the food delivery service you admittedly use too much offering 10% off your next order, and two from Yoongi. This reminded me of you, the first one says beneath a picture of an ice cream cone on the ground, and another one of him holding a water gun that says send me a picture of my son or else.

You eventually reply back with a picture of your middle finger, Holly nothing but a blurred brown blob in the corner of the frame.

That’s how it goes for the better part of a week. Namjoon’s work issue lasts four days. He doesn’t offer an explanation and you don’t ask for one, you just wait for the all-clear text and try to quiet the nerves once you get it.

You’ve never been nervous to see Namjoon before.

The more popular the podcast became, the more money rolled in. The more money that rolled in, the more you could afford nicer things. That meant going from recording in Namjoon’s living room to a bona fide office space. Third floor, an expanse of windows and natural light, thirty-five minute commute by train.

Today, it feels more like thirty-five seconds.

You can hear Jungkook’s witch cackle from the stairwell, and your mind fills in the blanks of Namjoon’s exasperated sigh. It helps, your brain reminding you that you know these people. You know this is Jungkook’s late gym day, so he’ll be in a pair of sweats and a hoodie that drowns his frame. You know that when Namjoon has work issues and feels like an inconvenience, he always shows up with two boxes of baked goods from the bakery near his place, and you know both of them will save the best donut for you.

So you walk in and Jungkook’s in a hoodie and sweats just like you expect him to be, and there are two boxes of baked goods next to the coffee machine. Both of them say hello and wave and, for all intents and purposes, everything is normal.

Except it isn’t.

Because Namjoon looks… different.

Not in a bad way. Not in a bad way. He almost always dresses nicely, always looks polished and put-together, usually because he’s either going to or coming from campus—fitted shirts, either of the tee or dress variety, and earth-toned cardigans; tailored trousers that are sometimes corduroy; polished loafers. Sometimes, if he’s feeling extra casual, a stark white pair of tennis shoes.

Today, he wears none of those things.

No, today torture comes in the form of form-fitting jeans and a t-shirt a little oversized so he can roll the sleeves. His hair is brushed back off his face instead of parted down the middle. He’s wearing gold jewelry that glints in the sun. A pair of off-white Converse high-tops. And, much to your horror, he’s also wearing his glasses.

According to the internet, Kim Namjoon is peak husband material, which you can usually ignore, but not when he’s wearing glasses.

You avert your gaze, convinced you’ll burst into flames if you stare too long, not to mention Jungkook will notice and that’s a ribbing you’d rather die than take. So you avert your gaze and pointedly ignore Namjoon, who’s talking about his work crisis to no one in particular. Something about a co-worker going on an unexpectedly early paternity leave, and Namjoon being asked to cover some of his courses until they could find a more permanent fix.

Jungkook asks a question you don’t catch. Because paternity leave means his co-worker and his partner had a baby, presumably via old-fashioned methods, and it’s not a direct mention of sex but it’s close enough to send you into a coughing fit you have to blame on your donut. Neither of them buy it, but Namjoon is a good enough person to look genuinely concerned. Reaches out, probably to slap your back, but the thought of him touching you is just… too much.

So he barely gets out an, “Are you o—” before you choke down whatever’s left in your mouth and cut him off with a, “Yep, all good!” before you’re scurrying off to the opposite side of the room like a little rat.

It doesn’t get any better.

Both of you are so stilted and awkward during recording that Jungkook has to be the voice of reason and call it, suggest trying again tomorrow. Luckily he has enough b-side stuff he can release if need be, Namjoon’s work emergency providing a decent cover, and he sends the two of you home for the afternoon with all the exasperation and incredulity of a disappointed parent.

Thirty-five minutes back home.

Thirty-five minutes to sit in the embarrassment of not being able to do your job. Thirty-five minutes to catastrophize and wonder what you’re going to do if you can’t get it together. Namjoon will keep the podcast, of course; you’ll be replaced with someone else. Maybe someone less cynical, maybe someone more, but undoubtedly a man. After this mess, you can’t imagine Namjoon would want another female co-host.

But as embarrassed as you are, your traitorous brain keeps thinking about Namjoon.

Thirty-five minutes to think about his glasses and his rolled-up sleeves and the way the denim of his jeans contoured perfectly to his thighs. Thirty-five minutes to think about, “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. Thirty-five minutes to squeeze your thighs together and overanalyze the way he stumbled over his words today; how he could barely make eye contact. Thirty-five minutes to draft a dozen resignation texts and delete them all.

You groan, head thunking against the train window. You’ll take a cold shower as soon as you get home.

That’ll cure you.

You get home and walk Holly so long he gives up halfway through and you have to carry him back to your apartment. You take a cold shower and actually find it pleasant once the initial shock wears off, so it doesn’t work to keep all your rogue Namjoon thoughts at bay. You make a simple dinner and don’t think about Namjoon sitting you on the counter and having his way with you. You tuck yourself into bed far too early and consider going back to therapy, because clearly something very, very bad has happened to your psyche.

Needless to say, nothing cures you.

But it’s a new day, and you’re determined to get your shit together. Yesterday was a fluke, because you’re so normal and so capable of being in the same room as Kim Namjoon.

Except—you’re not.

Jungkook’s there when you arrive, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Barely looks up at you to say hello, and barely returns it when you do. You double-check the time, because you can count on two fingers the amount of times you’ve shown up and Namjoon wasn’t already there, jotting down extensively-detailed notes, circling and highlighting and chasing down Jungkook to ask questions.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Dunno. Not here.”

You roll your eyes. “Super helpful, thanks.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes right back. “You don’t pay me enough to also be his handler.”

You bite your tongue. Arguing with Jungkook means you’ve already lost the war. Not worth it. But it still eases your worries a bit that he doesn’t know any more than you do. That Namjoon hadn’t only texted him to say why he was running late because he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—talk to you.

So you wait. And you wait and you wait and you wait. Jungkook lets you talk to people on his dating apps and tells you about his new gym routine until your eyes are glazing over. Orders food delivery for the two of you because he gets hungry after an hour and had already eaten what was left of the snacks before you arrived. Cracks a joke that isn’t really a joke about calling the police, because Namjoon still hasn’t shown up and he hasn’t said anything and none of your texts are showing as delivered.

You’re halfway to hour two when the office door bursts open and Namjoon stumbles through, soaked with sweat and stammering over apologies.

“I am so sor—I broke my phone again so my alarm never went off and then I missed my bus? And apparently they’re not running the regular bus schedule today so the next one was a half-hour wait, but then I…”

You don’t catch the rest, because Namjoon is covered in sweat and breathing heavily and a week ago you could’ve survived this. A week ago you would’ve cracked a joke and handed him a towel and told him to get to work. A week ago you would not have been paralyzed in your seat, transfixed on the sweat rolling down the side of his neck.

You are fucked beyond belief.

Jungkook elbows you in the ribs, bringing you back to reality. “...even paying attention?” You startle, face warming in embarrassment. Namjoon still isn’t looking at you. “This is so sad to watch,” Jungkook mumbles, and thankfully it’s only loud enough for you to hear. “Like some stupid shit you only see in nature documentaries.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that, now can you?

But you’re a professional above all, so you hum an acknowledgment and take your regular seat. Pointedly ignore Jungkook. Wait for Namjoon to assume his position as well, and you’re surprised to see the space in front of him empty. No notes. No script. There’s just… nothing.

“Are you okay?” you ask, gesturing to the space in front of him when he seems confused. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a stack of notes in front of you.”

“I forgot them.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that, either.”

Your tone is light and airy, not at all accusing or confrontational, but Namjoon’s jaw clenches nonetheless. He scoffs, fires a shitty little, “Were you not paying attention when I was talking about what a horrible fucking morning I’ve had?” at you that makes even Jungkook flinch. A few moments of stunned silence, and then, “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, that was rude—”

“Yeah, it was,” you agree, and all of a sudden you feel too big for your body. Feel like there are ants beneath your skin, feel like everything is wrong, and you don’t want to be here anymore. “It’s fine. Let’s just—”

Namjoon looks like he wants to argue, but he just sighs and says, “I—yeah, okay.”

This is where Namjoon would usually launch into the intro, a dimpled smile already plastered on his face that’d drop as he discussed another failed first date with that brand of self-deprecation that makes him so endearing. This is where he’d say what have you been up to, Pipe, and you’d try not to groan because how hard could it possibly be to add one more letter, another syllable, but Namjoon seems incapable of it. This is the part that, for three years, has been seamless and easy and instinctual, just two friends having a conversation.

There’s a red light on your microphones that indicates you’re recording. It’s on and it mocks you, because Namjoon is not doing the intro or telling you about a failed date. He doesn’t use that cringey nickname. He doesn’t say anything at all. His mouth opens and shuts and no words come out. What’s worse is that you know exactly why he can’t speak, because you’re thinking about it, too.

“So, uh,” you begin, and Jungkook makes a gagging sound from behind you. “Come here often?”

Namjoon ignores you. “Right, right, the intro…” He sucks in a breath. “Welcome back to another episode of Put Him in the Trash, I’m—”

“Joon—”

“Namjoon, and my co-host here is—”

“Joon, that’s not—”

“Piper. Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“That’s not the name of our podcast.”

“Huh?”

“You said Put Him in the Trash.” Namjoon just blinks. “It’s Place Him Gently in the Garbage.”

“Is it? Since when?”

“Since forever?”

He looks at Jungkook, who is hiding behind his hands. “Is she right?”

A beat of silence. “I can’t do this,” he half-shouts, half-whines. “Are you two going to be like this forever? Because if you are, I’m quitting. I’m so serious. I’m gonna quit. I can’t take it anymore. The two of you are insufferable.” Another beat of silence, before Jungkook stands at full height and lords over you and Namjoon. “Forget today. Just go home and try again on Monday. This is so—I’m seriously gonna quit.”

Yoongi comes on Saturday afternoon to pick up Holly.

Yijeong isn’t with him, which is almost disappointing. Now that he’s dating again, you were looking forward to seeing just how awkward it could get with the three of you in the same room, but he looks good. Refreshed. The trip clearly did a world of good for him, and you can’t even bring yourself to crack a joke at his expense.

He, however, has no such hang-ups. “You look like shit.”

“Weird way to say thank you.” You click your tongue and look down at Holly. “Do you see how your father treats me? You should bite him.”

“My son would never. But also, thank you.” He flops onto the sofa. “You do look like shit, though. You wanna talk about it?”

“Not with you, preferably.”

“Oh, gross, is it a dating thing, then?”

“I—no.” You pause. It’s not a dating thing, but you still feel like you’ve got motion sickness whenever you think about it. How would you even begin to explain this to Yoongi, anyway? Someone wrote a porn fic about me and Namjoon. You remember Namjoon, right? Namjoon, that I’ve known and have been friends with since college. Yeah, that Namjoon. Anyway, someone wrote fanfiction about us having sex, and it fucked me up so bad I can no longer be in the same room as him.

No fucking way.

“You look like you’re holding in a fart.”

“You know, I’m getting really sick of you. Did you just come here to insult me?”

He snorts, but his smirk dissipates a few seconds later, a familiar seriousness filling the void. “We’re okay, right? Was the Yijeong thing too soon?”

“No,” you answer immediately, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “We’re fine, and if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.” He still looks doubtful. “You want me to start singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ or something? It’s just… weird work stuff.”

“Depends. Are you singing the Dolly Parton or Whitney version? And real work or podcast work?”

“Podcast work, and obviously the Whitney version.”

Yoongi seems surprised by this, eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe. “Like, the podcast with Namjoon?” He presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek when you nod your head. “Not gonna lie, I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Like I said, it’s weird. It wasn’t, like, an argument or anything.”

“How weird?”

“You’re so fake, Min Yoongi. You act like you’re so distinguished and above drama, but really you’re just as hungry for gossip as the rest of us.”

He shrugs. “I’m not denying it.”

God help you, you’re going to rip off the band-aid. “Someone… Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Someone… wrote? Fanfiction? About us.”

“About you and Namjoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god—”

“About us… uh. Having sex? Specifically.”

“Oh my god—”

“Jungkook found it and thought it’d be funny if we read it for an episode.”

“Oh my god?”

“So we did? And it was really weird, which I expected, because I’ve known Namjoon for a long time, and I never, ever thought about having sex with him because we were together and me and Namjoon are friends, so yeah, it was fucking weird. But now… I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it? And now we can’t even be in the same room as one another.” Yoongi is a concerning shade of red. “So our show is gonna get canceled, because we can only release b-side stuff for so long until people realize something’s up, and it was Namjoon’s podcast to begin with so obviously I’ll get fired—”

“Oh my god, you want to fuck Namjoon.”

Yoongi sounds like a strangled cat when he says this, which does not help the way you feel like you’ve been hit square in the face with a frying pan. “No,” you argue, though it sounds more like a question. You do not want to fuck Namjoon. “No, no. No. It’s just because it was weird.”

“Did you forget I dated you for six years? I know what you look like when you want to fuck someone.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t be weird if someone wrote fanfiction about you fucking your friend?”

“Not if I didn’t actually want to fuck them, no.”

“You’re a liar. Get your dog and get out of my apartment.”

Yoongi laughs as he stands. Pats you on the back in the most condescending way you’ve ever had someone pat you on the back. “Let me know how it goes. No need to give me credit for your moment of horny clarity.”

Min Yoongi is a bastard.

Unfortunately, as you come to find out, he’s also a correct bastard.

You want to fuck Namjoon.

Which is… not great, you have to admit, considering he can barely stand to be around you, so you take another cold shower and decide you’re going to take this to your grave. You’re going to spend the rest of the weekend getting your shit together, and you’re going to show up on Monday and be a consummate professional. You’re going to look at Namjoon and say, ha ha, isn’t it so funny someone thought we would have sex? I don’t think about it at all because I am so cool and normal about it.

You’ve got it all planned out. You’re going to show up fifteen minutes early with your own box of pastries. You’re going to look nice, if not a little pretentious—maybe a nice sweater. You’re going to be prepared with notes of your own. You might even be nice to the villain of the week so Namjoon doesn’t have to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh at you.

And then someone knocks on your door.

You find Namjoon on the other side, and all your plans immediately go to shit.

Has he always been this tall? You can’t remember. You can’t remember a lot of things, including how to speak, because Yoongi had launched you into a crisis of epic proportions and now here’s the source of it, standing right in front of you. With all of his… height. And thighs. And that heady, musky cologne he always wears, that you can still smell now even though there’s an unfortunate amount of distance between you.

“Uh, hi.”

You blink. “Hi,” you parrot, and it’s a little insulting how one single word seems to have sucked up all of your brainpower. “Namjoon,” you tack on, not awkward at all.

“Sorry to just show up,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. Very bad idea; makes his biceps bulge. You barely swallow your whimper. “It’s just—my phone’s still broken, and it felt bad leaving things how we did? So I was hoping we could talk.”

Talk. Namjoon wants to talk to you. Normally: not a problem. Currently: big problem. You manage a nod, open the door wider to let him in, and you don’t think about how jarring it is to have Namjoon in your space. You don’t think about how your legs feel like jelly all of a sudden, or what it’d be like if Namjoon bent you over the couch, or the kitchen counter, or the—

You cough. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, sure. Maybe just some water if you have it.”

If you have it. What kind of person doesn’t have water? But you tell him to make himself comfortable and get him some anyway, and you mull too long over the size of the glass. Ultimately decide on a smaller one, because if things get unbearably awkward you can excuse yourself to the kitchen to get more.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” Namjoon says from the living room, and when you look up he’s sorting through a stack of books near the window. Some he’d lent you months ago, notes jotted in the corners, sticky notes in the shape of sea animals on important pages. “You ever wind up reading this?”

The Idiot. Namjoon had raved about it when he was in the midst of his 19th century Russian phase, right after he’d read a bunch of Tolstoy and Pushkin. You shake your head—though, judging from the title, you wonder if someone hadn’t written your biography.

“It’s good. If you have the time, you should definitely give it a shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, handing over his water. You take a seat in an armchair, pull your knees to your chest. Namjoon’s still looking through your books, isn’t looking at you, so it feels safe to say, “You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” He moves to sit on the floor, massive thighs spreading until he’s comfortable. Thank god he can’t see the look on your face. “I just wanted to make sure we’re alright. Things have felt pretty weird since we filmed the, uh.” He coughs. “Thing.”

“Right, yeah.” You realize he’s waiting for an answer, and you offer up a very rushed, “We’re fine, Joon.”

“Are you sure?”

Yeah, you’re sure: sure you absolutely cannot be having this conversation in the safety and sanctity of your own home. It’s tainted now, contaminated by all your uncontrolled horny thoughts about the man in front of you. You’ll have to fumigate. Might have to pick up and move, actually, or call an exorcist.

“I’m sure,” you assure him. “The… thing… was weird, but it’s fine. Temporary.”

“Do you think we shouldn’t have done it?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because, in isolation, reading a porn fic about yourselves wasn’t a big deal. No one got hurt. Everyone who needed to be consulted was consulted. The episode made the two of you a lot of money, and Jungkook even promised to send some of it to the author, so your bases are beyond covered.

So, should you have done it? There wasn’t a good enough reason not to, because the story itself was never the problem.

The problem is staring you right in the face. It’s sitting on your floor, a book cracked in half at the spine and forgotten in his lap. The problem is looking at you like you hold all the answers to the universe’s secrets, and it’s no small thing to be looked at like that. The problem is that Namjoon is looking at you like that from across the room but you’re wondering what it’d look like from on top of you.

The problem is that you’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, have known him even longer, and you’ve just realized today that you want to have sex with him.

And you can’t say that, can you, because Namjoon came here to fix things which really does not lend itself to a hookup. Namjoon cares about your friendship and your working relationship so much he came here to try and salvage it, so you’re going to keep your mouth shut. You’re going to say, “I think it’s okay that we did,” and leave it at that. Because it is okay.

Because you’re the problem.

It feels like a small victory when Namjoon sags in relief. When he exhales and says, “Okay, good, because I think so, too.”

“It made us a lot of money,” you tack on.

Namjoon’s eyes widen as he laughs. “Right? Like, that was almost too much money. Just to watch us read porn?”

“About ourselves. I think that was the selling point.”

He stands. You do, too. “Never thought I’d be doing that,” he says, returning the book to where it belongs. “Definitely the most embarrassing thing I’ve done for money.”

“Being a man with a podcast wasn’t embarrassing enough?”

He snorts. Gets closer to the door. “Hey now.” You’re going to survive this. “Thanks for entertaining me, by the way. For a second there I was really worried we’d fucked it all up.”

Just the ending. Just one more thing to say and you’ll be done with this, and then you can take your third cold shower in recent memory and triple text Yoongi with a full-fledged mental breakdown. Maybe he’ll bring Holly back and you can register him as your emotional support animal.

And Namjoon must sense the awkwardness that’s crept back in, because he tries to cover it with a joke. Says, “Haaa, like you’d actually piss on me, right?”

Except it sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles.

It’s no wonder you mishear him.

Because he says like you’d actually piss on me but you hear like you’d actually kiss me, and there isn’t a universe that exists in which the following makes sense: you, stunned into silence in the doorframe, Namjoon saying his goodbyes, you thinking fuck it, last chance and saying, “Yeah, I’d kiss you.”

Namjoon stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

Your entire body is on fire. “Is, uh. Is that not what you said?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore what I said.”

“I’d argue that it does, for the sake of my digni—”

“You’d kiss me?” Namjoon… doesn’t look put off of the idea, which is surely a point in your favor. Interesting to note that his diction is crystal clear, now. Bastard. “You’d kiss me right now?”

There’s also no explanation for the way you say: “It’s only been an option for ten seconds and you’re already begging for it?”

You’d say there’s no explanation for the way Namjoon’s jaw clenches, the way he repeats I don’t beg for anything, but maybe the simple fact is: the two of you want to fuck each other. And, judging from the way Namjoon crowds your space, keeps dropping his gaze to your mouth, it seems very likely to happen.

All that fixating you’d done on Namjoon’s thighs was wasted, you think, as you take in the shape of his mouth. His lips. The way his tongue darts out to run along the bottom at the last second before he reaches out, tilts your head up, and finally presses his mouth to yours.

And you’ve got to laugh, because no piece of written fiction could ever accurately portray what it feels like. How soft his lips are. The way he touches you—gentle, but still dominant enough to have you moving the way he wants, have you backing up into your apartment so he can smile against your mouth as he closes the door behind him.

No piece of fiction would get it right, the way you’re unsteady on your feet, breathless at the way Namjoon’s kissing you. How he only breaks apart long enough to ask where do you want me in that throaty, deep voice of his. How you’re so overwhelmed you can’t decide: unsure if you want to waste the time it’d take to get to your bedroom, but if it’s only going to happen once, wanting to make it count.

So you decide to risk it. Plant your hands in the middle of his exceptionally broad chest and push him in the direction of the hallway, and if the two of you can’t wait, can’t control yourselves, well.

But the story had gotten one thing right: Namjoon does kiss like a branding iron, hot and greedy. Namjoon kisses you like there’s nothing else he wants to do in this lifetime, and it makes you dizzy. Has you off-kilter, stumbling into the wall as you try to remember where the fuck your bedroom is and why it’s so far. Just like the fictional version of you, you also moan when he licks into your mouth.

“Should I do it the way we did in the fic?” Namjoon asks as the two of you cross the threshold into your bedroom, a cheeky grin on his face. “Do it like this?” he questions, pushing you gently until you’re on the back in the middle of your bed, chest heaving as you lift your head to look at him.

Namjoon is so, so big from where you lay, just hovering at the foot of your bed. Cheeks ruddy, bulge prominent. “What’d you say you wanted?”

Takes a second to remember how to breathe, let alone what you’d read. What do you want, Namjoon had asked, right before he’d sank to his knees in front of you. “Whatever you’re willing to give,” you answer.

Namjoon smiles. Puts one knee on the bed, and the way it dips beneath his weight is unsettling. Why does he have to be so fucking large. “That’s right, baby.” Christ, you think, because there’s another thing that fic had gotten right. No one on earth would be immune to Namjoon calling them baby in that tone of voice.

The riposte biting at the back of your teeth gets swallowed whole as Namjoon grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed. “May I?” he asks, hands poised above the waistline of your leggings. You nod, and Namjoon drags down your underwear with them. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans, awe creeping into the edge of his words.

“You want me to do it the same way? Hm? You’re being awfully quiet; thought you were giving me shit about being the one in charge,” he chides.

Because you’re short-circuiting. Namjoon’s on his knees, just like you’d envisioned, and his mouth is dangerously close to your cunt. How can you be expected to think and speak under these conditions? But if Namjoon can find the brainpower to be a bastard, so can you, because what you’d read and the way he’d reacted can both never be forgotten. So you thread your hands into his hair and pull. The resulting moan is enough to sustain you for years.

“Are you gonna keep running your mouth, or are you gonna make me come on it?”

He blinks. “Jesus Christ.”

There’s precedent. Fictional Namjoon ate you out like a man starved, like he couldn’t get enough. Had fictional you writhing and insatiable, so it’s a lot to live up to, but it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He hesitates for only a second, giving you one last chance to back out before the two of you set every last boundary on fire, and then he’s settling between your thighs and making you see stars.

Now you know what it’s like. Now you don’t have to rely on fiction, and it doesn’t matter because it’d never compare to the way Namjoon feels as he works to bring you to your ruin. The way he flattens his tongue to lick long, thick stripes; the way his lips suction around your clit. The way it feels when he groans against your core. The way he says, “Fuck, you do taste good,” like that’s a completely normal thing to say. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to you.

But you need more and Namjoon knows it. His mouth doesn’t leave your cunt for a second, but his fingers find your mouth, so you put on a show. Wrap your lips around them, suck on them the way he’s doing to you, make sure they’re slick. Namjoon groans again, doubles his efforts. Slides one thick finger inside of you and barely lets you adjust before he’s adding a second.

In an embarrassingly short amount of time, Namjoon has you unraveling. Presses incessantly on a spot that has your vision whiting out. Has you trembling, a little panicked as you say, “Joon, fuck—Namjoon, wait—” as it builds and builds and builds.

You might black out for a second, because you come to and Namjoon looks… stunned. He looks like he can’t believe any of what just happened, and you blink a few times, try to come back into your body, and when you regain enough consciousness, you’re extremely aware of the large wet patch beneath you.

“Um—”

“Holy shit.”

“Namjoon, that’s not—that’s embarrassing—can you grab a—”

He shuts you up with a kiss. Presses the taste of you into your skin, and all those silly protests die in your throat, because if Namjoon was needy before, he’s desperate now. Covers your body with his own, hips dipping down low enough to press his erection into the juncture of your thigh, and the weight of him is delicious. Has you fisting the fabric of his t-shirt to pull him closer, has you pulling it over his head, his pants following. Has your hands skimming down every thick part of his body until you reach his cock, hard and aching and slick with pre-cum.

“I need to suck you off later,” you say, done with overthinking. Time to just be honest, and Kim Namjoon has a dick you need to feel down your throat. “Remind me.”

He whines, thrusts into your hand a little harder. “How could I forget that?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t know if this would be the only time,” you answer. “Did you bring a condom?” Namjoon nods, fetches one from his wallet and rolls it on.

He hovers above you again. Looks nervous, all of a sudden, like he can’t tell his lefts from his rights. All out of sorts. You’re about to tell him it’s fine, you don’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, don’t have to do anything at all, when he says, “It doesn’t have to be.” You just stare. “The only time.”

There’s a conversation to be had. You know that. Both of you clearly have feelings you need to talk about and sort out, but you reckon they can wait. They’ll still be there in the afterglow, in the morning. So you nod, say okay, Joon, and kiss away the insecurities that still linger.

You think about the fic. Think maybe Namjoon would appreciate it if you cracked a stupid joke, just like he’d tried to do earlier. “Has anyone ever called your cock stupid?”

He laughs, breath fanning against your skin. “No. Wanna try it and see what happens?”

Might as well. You try to remember the exaggerated tone of voice you’d used. Repeat the line—“Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”—and wait.

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

Namjoon swallows thickly. “I, um. Unfortunately, I think that really works for me.” You laugh. Pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist as he starts to move against you. Has jokes of his own. “Please. Please let me fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, laugh tapering into a giggle. “Do you know how?” Namjoon nods, looking all too much like a puppy eager to please its owner. “Do you promise?” He nods again. “Okay. Okay, come here.”

You expect him to move fast; expect the first time to be frenzied and a little awkward. It isn’t. Namjoon lines himself up and pushes the smallest bit inside, and then he’s leaning down to kiss you. Threads your fingers together, squeezes your hand. Pushes further inside and mumbles praise just beneath your ear.

It’s dizzying, the amount of care Namjoon handles you with. How soft he is. Does nothing to ease the discomfort of the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, but he talks you through it. Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look. Spills a lot of words you’d probably be embarrassed to hear and he’d be embarrassed to say if this was any other time, but in the heat of the moment it all just works to unravel you faster.

He bottoms out. “Okay?” he asks, and you’re rewarded with a dimpled smile when you say you are. Namjoon is a devastating kind of beautiful.

But, as he gives you time to adjust and you give him the all-clear, he also fucks like a demon. What once was hand-holding is now your wrists pinned to the bed, your body caged beneath him as he rolls his hips at a pace that has your eyes rolling back into your head. You’ve been deceived. Lured into a false sense of security.

It’s almost a shame this isn’t being recorded, because you want to memorize all the sounds Namjoon’s making. Want to hear them for the rest of your life. Don’t want anyone else to be the reason he sounds like this, and as he ups his pace and presses his lips to your neck, you don’t want to sound like this because of anyone else, either.

Maybe one of those times in the future, you can talk him into it.

Namjoon reaches down, rubs circles into your clit. Every time you think you might be close, he pulls his hand away, smiles like the devil. You let him have his fun for a while, let him think you’re keen to lie back and take it, and then you tighten your legs around his waist and flip him onto his back.

He doesn’t think it’s very funny. Looks up at you all bewildered. “What’re you—”

“You were taking too long,” you snark. “Figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”

“Yeah? Shit,” he says as you begin to move. “Fuck, baby, like that. Ride me just like that.”

You do. Don’t change a thing, because Namjoon’s cock is long and thick enough to hit exactly where you need it to. You can feel yourself clenching, feel yourself getting wetter, and the sight of Namjoon beneath you does nothing to stave off the inevitable. He looks even better than you’d imagined: skin flushed, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, sweat-slick. You want to make him cry. Want to give him the entire world. You will.

Namjoon thrusts at the same time you roll your hips, and that’s what does it. Has you crying out, has stars flashing behind your eyelids. Has you saying fuck, fuck, fuck as he drives you over the edge for the second time. Has you on the brink of oversensitive as he thrusts a few more times to chase his own end, almost delirious at the way Namjoon moans as he spills into the condom.

Has you swooning, just a bit, at the dopey way Namjoon smiles at you, eyes half-lidded and crinkled at the corners.

“Was that okay?”

You snort. “Yeah, I’d say it was decent.”

“Maybe next time you could pee on me,” he jokes.

You whack him on the chest. “Sure. Or we could record it.”

Has you a little shocked at the way his cock twitches inside of you at the mention of it.

On Monday, you don’t wear a pretentious sweater.

When you stroll in, Jungkook’s already got the best donut shoved halfway into his mouth because he’s a shithead. He eyes you warily, probably hoping with all his hope that you spent the weekend finding God and getting your shit together.

And then he realizes you’ve got on Namjoon’s hoodie and he nearly chokes to death.

“What the fuck are you wearing—”

Namjoon appears at that very moment, and it’s so hard not to take credit for the way he’s glowing, the dazed smile on his face. But Jungkook notices, because Jungkook notices everything, and his gaze darts between the two of you: your hoodie, Namjoon’s face, your face. He opens his mouth, something inappropriate bound to spill out, but Namjoon beats him to the punch. “Ready?” he asks you, and you nod.

It’s seamless.

No hiccups, no awkward stuttering. Namjoon gets through the intro without a hitch, and it feels exactly like it used to. Just two friends having a conversation. It’s obvious Jungkook still wants to say something, but after suffering through last week, he stays quiet lest he makes it worse and sends the two of you back to the bad place.

“How was your weekend, Pipe? Do anything fun?” Namjoon rolls his lips, tries not to laugh.

So you play along. “No, not really, just some dog sitting. How about you?”

“Oh, you know me. Had another first date on Saturday.”

“Did you? How’d it go?”

“Perfect.”

It’s a blessing Jungkook isn’t filming this, because your eyebrows raise so far they nearly disappear from your face altogether. There isn’t even a hint of hesitation in Namjoon’s voice, and although you would’ve described it the same way, hearing him say it with such conviction has you a little stunned. “Wow. You gonna see her again?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, sharing a private smile with you. “I think I am.”

who the FUCK is namjoon dating Posted by u/pod-shipper 7 minutes ago This has honestly ruined my entire day. I thought all the stories he told about dating were a bit… Like, what kind of guy has a podcast about relationships but can’t seem to be in one? But you could just HEAR it in his voice how much he likes this woman he went on a date with over the weekend and I’m sick to my stomach. (+2195) ↳ bro you and me both 😭 i genuinely thought him and piper had something going on fr (+1302) ↳ Seriously might stop listening because of this! Any woman with self-respect would never let their partner host a podcast with someone they’re obviously in love with. If he gets serious with this woman, Piper will be gone within 6 months, mark my words. (+927) ↳ I wouldn’t worry about it too much! My cousin works at a really nice restaurant in the same city Namjoon lives in, and she said she saw this “date” on Saturday and that it wasn’t anything serious. (+788) ↳ Piper got a cat and Namjoon finally got a second date. Face it, it’s over. (+325) ↳ cannot believe him and piper aren’t dating.. do you think i should delete all my tiktok edits? (+4) ↳ this is unhinged lmfao i thought y’all hated piper? you’re in here bitching abt her being a “misandrist” every week and now ur gonna stop listening bc namjoon isn’t dating her? pick a lane and stay in it (-64)

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, and reblogs/shares are always welcome! I appreciate you very much~ ♡

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lazystar · 5 months

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Dear my babes with jiggly bellies/thighs/etc,

That shit is fucking hot. I don’t care what anyone else says. Your soft, squish worthy body is sexy as hell. I, for one, like having a belly to grab when I’m…

Anyway, that’s beside the point. Don’t be ashamed of the way your chubby body moves cause, I promise you, you’re a baddie 💜

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lazystar · 5 months

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WHEEZING ALSNMDD

BF!STRAY KIDS FINDING OUT THEY'RE NOT YOUR SPOTIFY WRAPPED TOP ARTIST / ot8 x gn!reader

hi! i hope you're doing great guys! btw i'm NOT SPONSORED (i wish i was tho) i just really love spotify wrapped😔so i kinda got inspired teehee

GENRE | lil' goofy

WARNINGS | idk?? nothing??

MASTERLIST

btw i love that video with felix when he talked about taylor swift and he fr called her sunbaenim lol. also tswizzle is actually my top artist and then it's blackpink, nct 127, skz and jisoo <3 feel free to share your top in the replies!

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lazystar · 5 months

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i laughed i cried i blushed 11/10

kim mingyu’s (unhelpful) guide to losing your virginity

❝ you’re telling me that you, Miss Dick Repellent, had sex with Captain Chastity By Choice over here. ❞

PAIRING ▸ kim mingyu x fem!reader

GENRES ▸ smut, fluff, humor, college au, best friends to lovers au, friends with benefits au

WARNINGS ▸ profanity, alcohol consumption, rated m for mingyu, slow burn, he fell first but she fell harder but then he tripped and ate shit, probably the most self-indulgent thing i’ve written, mingyu and mc are both virgins, sexual content, sexual tension, protected and unprotected sex (i would not advise doing the latter), lots of teasing and banter, oral (f. and m. receiving), fingering, wall sex, couch sex, public sex, mingyu discovers what pasties are, soonyoung orders 20 connect fours, they are avid enjoyers of the barbie movies

SUMMARY ▸ after accidentally telling your friends that kim mingyu took your virginity (he didn’t), you’re shocked when he proposes to relieve you of the fabled v-card for good (he does).

PLAYLIST ▸ perfect by one direction • spell by niki • fatal flaw by ellise • give me a kiss by lolo zouaï • step? by bibi

WORD COUNT ▸ 31,273 words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ someone (fia) once told me i write too many college aus. i said yeah ur right. and i’m gonna do it again

“BIRDS AND BEES CANNOT PHYSICALLY FUCK.”

You sounded more distressed than informative while you were trying to reason with your longtime best friend, Kim Mingyu. He, on the other hand, appeared visibly worked up over this childish level of argument you two were having.

“It is a metaphor,” he said. “Everyone knows birds and bees aren’t screwing each other up in the trees.”

You still couldn’t wrap your head around it. Hours ago, you had fucked yourself over after Kwon Soonyoung had casually brought up the topic of body counts. After everyone in your friend group went around listing theirs (Soonyoung: 3; Jungwoo: 3; Minghao: 2; Vernon: 5), you accidentally blurted out that your body count actually existed—one, to be exact.

This was a problem because, to everyone’s prior knowledge, you were a virgin.

Keep reading

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lazystar · 6 months

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nah fr

I love angsty fics, I really do.

But not "my dog died" or "I feel insecure" kinda angst. I'm talking about the cheating, the break up, the suffering, the tears, the begging, the pining, the stalking, the obsession UGHHHH, love me a fic where he fucked up and now has to do the most to get her back, it gives me a serotonin boost

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lazystar · 6 months

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this was so good

Young God | L.DH (M)

SYNOPSIS: desperation had this funny way of skewing one’s perception, and since you were, in fact, way past the point of desperation, it wasn’t a surprise that you jumped the gun without even questioning the absurdly cheap rent price of the seemingly perfect apartment unit. What you failed to consider was the reason why it didn't cost you and arm and a legand it soon came in the form of an incubus in your bathroom belting his heart out on a Sunday morning.

(alternatively: in which you were essentially scammed into cohabiting with a ridiculously clingy demon that lives off of sex. It could be worse. At least he staved off from sucking your soul out in exchange of you sucking something else—among other things).

GENRE: supernatural, urban fantasy, college au, slice of life, humor, rom-com, crack treated seriously, fluff, smut (full warnings under the cut! Please read them).

WORD COUNT: 35K

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. incubus!hyuck, afab!human!reader, mild horror elements, mild blood and gore, crude language and jokes, some lore sprinkled here and there, none of these people have brain-to-mouth filters, bickering (as a love language or foreplay. you decide), egregious use of the em dash, cooking as a love language, wet dreams, dry-humping, handjobs, oral sex, face-fucking, masturbation, Jaemin, mild allusions to exhibitionism, mentions of edging, squirting, mc gets a little roughed up by another demon, hyuck kills said demon (as he should). unprotected sex (please practice safe sex unlike these two), creampie, tentacles (LISTEN. it’s not that bad I promise! They’re more like glorified ropes made of smoke if anything, but if you’re uncomfy with the idea but still want to read until the end, the passage starts at “Oh that feels weird” and ends with “You weren’t lying when you said you could take it,”)

NOTE: i fought hyuck-shaped demons writing this fic so please please pleaseeee lemme know what you think! do not let the warnings fool you, this is actually cuter and funnier than it should be despite the sexual undertones lmao 😭 All this came to life from pure self-indulgence and some of the dialogues that startled me awake on most of my nights lol.

PLAYLIST: Young God by Halsey — Eyes Roll by (G)I-DLE — Pretzel (♡) by NCT Dream — Galipette (BIBI Remix) by Lolo Zouaï and BIBI — Sunshine Of Your Love by Cream —Tastes So Good — Sabrina Claudio

“I’m the king of everything and oh my tongue is a weapon. There’s a light in the crack that’s separating your thighs and if you wanna go to heaven, you should fuck me tonight.” — Young God by Halsey

The first red flag you should have picked up on was the ridiculously cheap rent price.

Which, given the circumstances, was almost unheard of in the current hellish state of the economy, and being part of the lower income bracket. Safe to say you were this close to ripping your own hair out when you were notified of your rent’s increase in price. You could barely afford it and you sure as hell won't be able to now.

Life simply picked its favorites and it was unfortunate that you weren’t part of the silver-spooned minority playing the life game on ‘very easy’ mode. Thus began a very desperate search for a place. A dorm? Apartment? Bedspace? Literally anything. Hell, you’d even consider coach-surfing! You weren’t picky, and you sure as Hell weren’t in the position to demand even an ounce of luxury anyway.

So long as you had a roof above your head, you’d take anything.

Though it seemed that the level of desperation rolling off of you in waves was enough to take some sort of effect.

You had no clue what exactly you should call it (divine intervention?), but perhaps there was little power from projecting your urgency along with the rest of the piled up negativity onto the world to the point it pitied you; listened to your misery that a few days later, right when you were on the precipice of calling it quits and leaving your life in the hands of God, a miracle disguised as one of your classmates for an elective brought up a fairly recent vacancy from her apartment complex.

“If it’s anything like the unit Chaewon and I have, I think you’ll like it.” Yunjin reassured, smiling down at you from her perch on the desk. “Plus, it would be nice to have a familiar face around.”

Worrying about whether the place would fit your tastes or not was the last thing on your mind when you were a breath away from filing bankruptcy (could you even afford that?) It had come to a point where you’d be open to anything that all inhibitions and the ever present skepticism you’d usually have hanging around your head were promptly thrown out of the window because:

Huh Yunjin was not only a classmate, but also a friend.

Biases were a thing, so anything Yunjin said was deemed credible on all accounts by you.

You. Were. Desperate. Did you mention that?

And—look, desperation does funny things to your mind. Skewing your perception, for example, or maybe it was a thing exclusive to you because who lets themselves be labeled as ‘colorblind’ (theoretically) after mistaking firetruck red from verdant green?

The answer: you, duh. Though in your defense, promising anyone with a price that affordable would immediately have them fold, never mind the possible consequences that could follow.

Humans were fickle. Humans were simple as they were complex. Temptation came easiest to those who were in a near hopeless state, and you were very human to your core, stepping out of the lecture hall with Yunjin’s landlord’s phone number saved to your list of contacts, feeling heaps lighter than you did this morning.

Statistics showed that it was less likely for women to be colorblind.

It was also said that women were able to identify more colors than men, so it was quite telling that you’ve managed to consistently ignore every single glaring red-flag so far. Might as well be part of the statistics if this keeps up. Theoretically speaking.

(Family history made it impossible for you to have it. Your recognition of colors was no less than perfect. It was just a ‘you’ problem. Not to mention the non-existent survival instinct).

Though, there were some details that really made you think. And by some, you meant your landlord—correction, landlady, as Ms. Hong chided over the phone.

Ms. Hong was a woman well in her mid forties with a taste for anything glamorous. Slender fingers adorned with rings made of gold and wrists chained with the same metal among a few silver glimmering pieces. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary when polite greetings weaved seamlessly into pleasant small-talk, lasting long enough until you brought up the newly available apartment unit. Things took an odd turn then, with Ms. Hong skirting around, hesitant and vague when it came to answering your questions about the apartment.

It was all sorts of strange, now that you thought about it. Unlike Ms. Hong, your previous landlords had the tendency to overcompensate for the lackluster charm of their apartments. Promising to improve whatever that needed to be improved and then downplaying all the current issues that could have been classified as a health violation. All for the sake of milking you dry of your savings.

On that note, you couldn’t exactly tell if Ms. Hong even wanted to rent out the unit or not. You were no stranger to money-hungry landlords who would jump at the opportunity, yet the older woman’s tone was rather gravely when she listed down the possible expenses. Her lack of enthusiasm was becoming a bit too disconcerting, to say the least, that you had to cut her off from her tangent as soon as you felt the agitation creep up, emphasizing how this was a matter of life and death for you.

Begging would have been your last trump card if the landlady didn’t budge, but it seemed that the trembling in your voice finally shook her out of whatever bizarre headspace she was in that the sudden emergence of charisma that could belong to a representative trying to scam you into joining a pyramid scheme was strangely comforting.

That was another thing that flew over your head: the complete 180 in demeanor, completely blinded by Ms. Hong’s eagerness having you view the unit at your earliest convenience.

Ten AM on Sunday morning.

That was your earliest convenience. Also your day-off and the one of many chances spent rotting away on an equally rotting mattress. It was a way to relax, but if it meant you’d be (hopefully) parting ways with your current shitty apartment and the shitty mattress that came with it, then by all means you could forget pretending to not exist for a few hours.

Though you couldn’t say you were optimistic. With your renting history, optimism had no room in your life when all you were left with was disappointment from the barely decent rooms you’ve been in and for sure, Ms. Hong would do just the same. It really wouldn’t be the first time. Certainly wouldn’t be the last either.

By some unexplained miracle, the outcome was quite the contrary, actually, and for the first time in your adult life, you were starting to see the light at the end of the longest tunnel you have ever been in.

Citrus and vanilla.

That particular scent was what greeted you first as you stepped into the unit which was a thousand times better than what horrors you were used to and you thought it fit the earthy palette of cream, beige and green. The most surprising thing was that the unit looked to be fully furnished right from the kitchen to the bedroom and lord—the mattress was actually so comfortable that it took a lot of your self-control and the reminder of your (future) landlady waiting to not actually fall asleep.

But it wouldn’t hurt to indulge yourself a little, now would it?

Rolling over, you press your face into the linen sheets, humming in delight at the pleasant waft of freshly dried laundry. It smelt like home, It felt like home and you would definitely regret passing up the opportunity of moving here.

Years of hopping from one place to another, you never had the chance to feel at home. Not when your mind was a permanent whirlwind of worries that just didn’t seem to end no matter how much you tried to deal with them. It hasn’t entirely stopped, but you liked to think you were getting better at keeping them at bay.

One thing that caught your interest was that the sweet and tangy scent was particularly strong here. It wasn’t unpleasant, but a little overwhelming, wrinkling your nose at the intensity of vanilla. The came the strong urge to look to your right and there you saw a candle in a glass jar burning away on the end table

Huh, you never noticed that on your way in.

Ms. Hong sure knew how to give a warm welcome, a scented candle of all things. Although you weren’t exactly a fan of the smokey smell that would later stick to your hair and clothes, you appreciated the small gesture nonetheless. And sweet as it was, you were more cautious than to prolong your gratitude.

Risking the possibility of burning the entire unit before you could even sign the lease was the last thing you wanted and without thinking, you blew the flame out.

There was no time to doubt. This was—”everything I’ve been looking for.”

Ms. Hong blinked as you emerged from the inside.

“I’ll take it, but are you serious about the price? It’s fully furnished. Decorated beautifully too.”

All the cool nonchalance the woman displayed prior disappeared in an instant, standing tall and stiff as you watched her open and close her mouth before settling on a croaky, “come again?”

The reaction was strange, but you answered anyway. “It’s fully furnished,” you repeated. “Wouldn’t that, like, increase my rent?”

“What do you—what does it look like in there?”

“Something close to what you’d see on Architectural Digest,” you joked then went into detail about how everything seemed to fit the Pinterest board you’ve made—affectionately named ‘home <3’—and kept on updating since freshman year. It was a little eerie, now that you think about it. How the unit was catered specifically to your tastes.

It was comfortable and cozy. Cozy in a way that screamed slow Sundays of melting your brain with soap operas and endless looping of your daily music playlist to your heart's content. Comfortable in a sense where you wouldn’t mind being cooped up in here for hours on end.

Like you’ve said, it was no doubt everything you wanted in a home.

Though a part of you was a little rattled by how spooked Ms. Hong appeared. A mass of emotions crossed her face as you talked until her expression flattened into something unreadable, remaining tense with her posture despite the smile pulling at the corners of her full mouth.

“Are you okay, Ms. Hong?” You asked anyway. You figured it would give you brownie points, showing a little bit of concern. There could be some advantages to being the favorite tenant.

“Yes, yes!” She waved you off. “Nothing to worry about. I was just a little nervous that you wouldn’t like the place. Clearly, I thought wrong.” Ms. Hong laughed, maybe a little forced, but your spirits were too high for you to overthink it.

“Honestly? I wasn’t expecting much, but I love it! I would move in today if I could, but I still have to pack.” Not that you had much to begin with when the apartment had what you needed. Furniture wise, but you still had your personal belongings and it was close to sunset too.

Ms. Hong nodded solemnly, tilting her head appearing thoughtful. “Good… good. And you’re absolutely certain that you want to move in?”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

Going the poetic route seemed to be enough for Ms. Hong, wasting no time guiding you into her office to take care of the paperwork. The price remained the same, even with your insistence of increasing it for the sake of fairness, but your landlady (for real this time!) wasn’t having it and silently handed over the keys with a keychain where ‘66’ was inscribed on the golden plate, matching what was drilled into the paneled door.

You still couldn’t believe it, really. That you’ve managed to score a charming place within your price range and if the mixture of happiness and relief wasn’t already obvious enough from your cheek-aching smile alone, Ms. Hong didn’t dare comment on it, other than the amused huff she let out, watching you shake in anticipation.

Excitement was a rare emotion to feel these days, not when the weight of college and your part-time job rested on your shoulders, and maybe it was that very reason why the said excitement easily bled into the questions your landlady had the patience to answer. You’ve never felt this light in a long time and something about the twinkle in Ms. Hong’s eyes said that she understood just as much.

However, the sentiment soon faded as quick as it came; you would have missed it if it weren’t for Ms. Hong calling out your name.

“Do me a favor, would you, honey?”

“Sure,” You looked over your shoulder, gaze inquisitive as the door handle twisted. The woman’s face was drawn into something serious, hands folded properly on her desk. “What is it?”

“Be careful.”

You would have laughed if it weren’t for the intensity in her eyes, and with how she spoke, it left no openings for a light joke. Two words that should have been taken at face value felt like there was more to it. You just didn’t know what.

Perhaps it was a customary thing. A reminder to each of her tenants to not cause trouble for her or anyone? Yeah, that could be it.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Third time was definitely not the charm because how could you miss another clear warning? Ms. Hong’s nails were red too for fuck’s sake! That should have counted for something!

In your defense, with how well the first week was in apartment 66, no one could blame the carefree attitude now that you had a place that was safe and didn’t check every health violation by the book. Inviting friends over was easier, now that you didn’t have to feel sorry for yourself and your visitors for subjecting them to lounge in a barely habitable space.

Yunjin seemed very proud of herself, being the very reason why you were even here in the first place and she truly deserved the extra volume of wine poured into her glass, much to Chaewon’s chagrin. She quickly perked up when you offered her a variety of sweet treats you got on sale, thanking you with a smile just as sweet.

It felt liberating to come home to a place that exuded the warmth you needed right after a long, grueling day of academics and your shift at the hotpot restaurant a few blocks away from campus.

Other than your bed, the couch was another place where you’d occasionally try your very hardest to melt into and not think about your existence. If you wanted to be more productive, the small balcony you transformed into a mini nursery for herbs and smaller fruits and vegetables was there to keep you busy. The little gardening hobby went hand-in-hand with the nice kitchenette. You finally had enough space to dance around amidst the prepping and cooking you had to do.

You were, quite literally, living the life.

Life has never tasted so sweet and it took only a week at most to make it look like you had your life together; as if you were one of those people on Tiktok who seemingly had their lives figured out based on their minute-long vlogs.

However, there was clearly a time limit to your peace, it being violently ripped away from you as the second week came around. Then did you start experiencing… things.

Strange things, to be exact and it took a lot to scare you.

There were a multitude of things to be frightened of for sure, but you were someone who’d been able to grow some resistance to them as you got older; thought that it’d be a waste to grow wary of the things that would normally creep people out, living alone. It wasn’t in your nature. Not when you miraculously survived being on your own so far, so what was left for you to be scared of?

That was what past-you would have said but for some reason, the world had this unwavering fixation on going against whatever you stood for because this current situation was an entirely different ballpark.

And not finding any scientific explanation to back up the sudden disturbance in apartment 66 was what scared you.

Sure, the smart thing was to raise it as a concern to your landlady, but when it came to weighing your options, you didn’t think the gripes and concerns for the place would be serious enough to be a problem for Ms. Hong to solve. Especially when it wasn’t exactly a maintenance issue.

Let’s be real here, do you think Ms. Hong would be able to do something about the things that go bump in the night? No. You wouldn’t think so. Unless she was able to shapeshift into a cat, going after the rat behind all the thudding, creaking and annoying scratching that woke you up in the middle of the night.

(You realized how utterly insane that train of thought sounded, so that was immediately scratched off. Shapeshifting? Really? That’s one way of letting someone assume you were high on something).

Normally, these hiccups were menial enough to ignore, rolling over to the cooler side of bed and quickly knocking out. Being a nightly problem? It’s a miracle you hadn’t torn down the dry walls yourself to look for the rats and deal with them. Only, you didn’t think the little critters were capable of producing such loud footsteps.

And that wasn’t even the last of it.

Things disappearing and then reappearing at the weirdest of places—house keys in the toilet sink, phone in the microwave and, mortifyingly enough, panties in the cupboards, to which has happened on multiple occasions, leaving you more irritated than scared, actually.

(There were some times where it had been useful though. Like when you were running late to first period and, lo and behold, your house keys and phone were waiting for you on the little nook just beside the door. Or having a fresh pair of socks laid out innocently next to your sneakers. Little things for your convenience for sure that it warranted a hesitantly muttered ‘thank you’ to the air despite being freaked out).

On the same note as ‘things going bump and scratch in the night’, hearing voices became a regular thing, too. There should be a joke written in there somewhere. How it was just your inner monologue increasing volume each night from the stress, but the disembodied voice said otherwise and you knew damn well your daily monologue did not comprise creative threats to your life and soul.

Hearing voices meant that there was, possibly, something else festering in the four walls of your home.

You didn’t feel as alone anymore, and that wasn’t you being all sappy or poetic. You could actually sense that there was an unspecified presence lurking in the shadows of apartment 66, like you were being watched. You could’ve sworn you’ve seen movement from your peripheral too, but for once, from what little remnants of survival instinct you had, you refused to fuck around and find out.

Those were damning signs that told you to leave. Anyone in their right mind would simply book it the soonest they could. And perhaps you had a few loose screws up there, because no one considered normal would manage through all the disturbances, and hell if you were the one moving out. You fell in love with the place and the hauntings won’t ever change that.

Hauntings. God. You’ve truly lost it. What’s next, a 2023 remake of Casper The Friendly (?) Ghost? Could be. You were still very much alive and that could count as a ‘friendly’ gesture, ignoring the piling grievances.

But then you started having these dreams and you could guarantee that nothing was remotely friendly about what your brain routinely conjured during your slumber: the same dream over and over again.

Same bedroom setting. Same faceless man—seemingly made out of shadows—hovering over you, his weight keeping you from doing anything but squirm each time he leaned in close, whispering—hissing filthy promises as threats of eating you alive after swallowing your soul soon to be damned in Hell with each bite of his words.

And tonight wasn’t any different.

“Not resisting anymore, are you?”

Wait.

That’s new. Not the whole talking thing because the one thing that remained consistent was that this… entity couldn’t for the life of him shut the fuck up, nor could you smother him into silence yourself, minding the Herculean strength he exhibited in having you pinned down.

No, but his voice had character, now that the disembodied filter he had on the majority of the time was absent, leaving you to bask in the high, airy-smooth voice that would have been considered sweet if it weren’t for the fact that its owner showed otherwise through his actions.

How can I when I can’t fucking move? Was what you wanted to say, but it came out as a strangled mess of noises.

It’s always been a gamble. Your dreams, that is and you could never tell which bodily function you could lose in them. Tonight, you were certain that you could neither talk nor move, much to the figure’s absolute delight and this whole thing kind of painted him as your designated sleep paralysis demon.

The demon (maybe) nuzzled into the crook of your neck, breathing in deeply. “You smell delicious.” You could feel him shudder in anticipation, breath hot against your skin from the shaky exhale as he pulled back to stare you down. Or at least you think he did. You couldn’t tell. Other than the twin ruby red glow from where his eyes would have been, his entirety was bathed in absolute darkness.

“Interesting little thing, you are,” he crooned, “usually, any other human would be out the door the moment they could sense me. They’re so easy to scare, humans.” An icy chill ran down your spine at the laugh he let out. Deceptively soft and breathy if you weren’t reminded of your position—this thing straight out of nightmares being bracketed by your thighs. This was all so fucked.

Something akin to a purr rumbled from within him, pleased at the fact that you couldn’t do anything but lay there, unmoving. “You, on the other hand, stayed. Longer than what I had initially expected and lucky for you, I’m beginning to like having you around.”

Cool. So he liked you. Cool. Great. Amazing even.

What the fuck did that even mean?

Were you supposed to be relieved by that? Because it was the last thing you should be feeling in this compromising position. Which then begged the question: did it mean you get to live to see another day? You’d hope so because dying in your dream and inevitably IRL would fucking suck. You haven’t even stayed for that long and your death would be such a waste of money, really.

There it was again. Citrus and vanilla.

Now that you thought about it, this particular aroma was always present. Muted on some days, like a barely there trace of day-old perfume on clothes, and not so pleasant on others, including tonight—strong as this demon (surely) leaned further into your space. Hips pushed down, down, down with purpose as the sickeningly sweet scent increased in intensity, like he was using it to break your resolve, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

His determination didn’t seem to wane in the slightest from your display of stubbornness, only spurring him on further as his large, warm palms settled on your waist, giving an appreciative squeeze. As if fascinated by how solid you felt in his grip. You, however, were absolutely terrified of how solid he was. How this felt so real that you couldn’t stand being underneath the blood-red glare of his eyes.

The demon let out a huff of amusement the moment you screwed your eyes shut.

All of this was just a dream. A sick twisted dream—a nightmare. Soon as you get yourself to wake up, he’ll be gone. You’ll be free.

“Is it?” He tittered, “a dream? I don’t know, this feels all too real to me, human. Surely you can feel this?” You gasped. Shit. He had claws, digging into the soft skin of your waist. Apply more pressure and you were sure he’d end up breaking through the flesh and leave you bleeding to your very death.

He leaned in closer. Not like he was already too close for comfort before. “Feel me?”

Oh, fuck.

It’s like a sick fucking joke, really. The fact that the time where you truly had a grasp on your vocal chords, you let out the first sound of the night: a moan—followed by a continuous string of them prompted by the thick and hot something pressing incessantly against your crotch with each roll of his hips.

“There we go,” he drawled, lips brushing against the little space underneath the hinge of your jaw, your pulse at its strongest. “You were easier to play with in all your other dreams before, but it’s not like I don’t enjoy a bit of a challenge from a stubborn little thing like you. Let’s see what other sounds you can make, yes?”

He was dead set on pulling them out of you, too, settling on a rhythm that would let his length—straining against what you could assume was skin-tight boxer briefs—drag over your clit covered by thin cotton panties. He made use of his hands too; leaving warm trails of his touch along your skin, like he was leaving traces of himself, branding you his.

It was maddening, to say the least. That even in your dreams, you were still able to feel the rush of pleasure in its purest form thrumming underneath your skin just begging to be let out.

And if that wasn’t enough to wind you up, the same pair of hands curiously traced the bottom hem of your camisole before pushing it up, up, up and exposing your chest to your audience of one. He lets out this satisfied sound, a groan almost and tapering off into gentle cooing; gentle as his hands were in fondling your tits.

If you could move, then the smack he would have gotten from you was well deserved. Men were so easy. Show them your boobs and it’s pretty much all they care about until you stray their attention elsewhere. His dutifully remained on your heaving chest, however, and if you could see, you were sure he would be licking his lips, satisfied with himself as he bent his head.

Holy shit. You were going to die. You were going to be eaten, and then die.

The cry you let out was enough proof that you finally finally had gotten control of your voice; crying out from the sensation of impossibly sharp rows of teeth nibbling on your right nipple, already sensitive from the demon’s tongue laving around the bud. Taking it entirely in between unimaginably soft lips and suckling harshly that your body didn’t know whether to bow against the bed so he could take in more, or pull away from all of this being too much for your senses to bear.

“Aren’t you so cute?” He cooed the moment he unlatched from your other tit, subjecting it to the same treatment and his cock still rutting slowly but firmly against your clothed slit, earning him a drawn out whine. There’s a hand wrapped around your throat now, and you gasped at the pinpricks his claws left. “You make the sweetest of sounds, darling girl.” He said this as leaned in so close that his lips brushed against yours with every syllable.

“I can’t wait ‘til your soul is mine.” and there was no mistaking it; the drag of sharp teeth just below your jaw raised goosebumps across your skin.

Panic immediately swelled in your chest just as you regained full control of your body, smacking his hands away for your fingers to tangle into his hair and push him as far as your arm would let you, heart beating so wildly that it’s a miracle it hadn’t cracked your rib cage. Oh well, small miracles and whatnot.

It looked like he wasn’t at all expecting you to fight back. You thought so too, with his overpowering scent almost lulling you into compliance and, again, the unimaginable strength he had keeping you in place. Catching him off-guard was the smartest thing you’ve done so far into halting the all-consuming dreams—nightmares that all he did was stay still and it’s exactly what you needed.

“Get out!”

You woke up with a sharp intake of breath.

Your hand was still up in the air, fist clenched and arguably at the same height where it was originally resting stiffly on top of the entity’s head. Knees the same as they were before; bent and parted wide enough to accommodate his figure, and let’s not forget your ‘tits out’ situation because your tits, were in fact, still out. How vivid was that dream exactly?

The entirety of your room didn’t look out of place, minus the duvet, thankfully. Probably got kicked down from how you struggled in the nightmare. It was a rather chilly night—the slow beginnings of autumn, so you pulled it back up (right after you fixed your camisole) and settled comfortably underneath the softness of the covers for the second time of the night.

Your eyes slipped close.

“Oh? Going back to sleep already? How rude!”

Your eyes immediately snapped open.

What the fuck.

Nothing could have prepared you from finding a fully grown man sat like a fucking gargoyle at the foot of your bed. Knees bent with his hands right in between them, clutching the cotton tightly in between his fingers, judging by how his grip pulled onto your duvet. You pulled on it too, not willing to expose yourself at this time, and just because you were still petty enough in your sleepy state. You were cold, dammit.

No words were exchanged. No one moved either, but you did spend a long time just sizing each other up as if daring the other to do something. It was still too dark for you to make out his features, the only source of light being the full moon at its brightest which wasn’t much of help.

The thing tilted his head. “Hi!”

You were too tired for this. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“No, wait!” It took everything to not scream bloody murder when he hastily crawled towards the space beside you and sat on his calves, “I’m a demon.”

What? Like that made any difference.

“This is a dream.” It’s got to be because there was no way the man in your dreams was able to materialize right in front of you, claiming he was one of Hell’s spawn. He sounded like him, hell, he smelt like him, but the sheer ridiculousness of the turn of events made it a little hard for you to believe that this isn’t just a tamer, sleep-induced hallucination.

“No it’s not!”

You stared at him with narrowed eyes. Is it just you, or did he sound… whiny? Anyway, “yes, it is.” You groped around before grasping onto your stuffed bear’s limbs. If he doesn’t shut up right now then you’ll do it yourself.

Again, too dark to see his face, but you can just tell he was scowling. “Says who?”

“Me. Goodbye!” And you smacked him in the face with the stuffed toy so hard that he ended up toppling off of your bed with startled yelp. Your eyes slipped close again, pleased.

What a weird fucking dream.

II.

There was someone in your home.

In the bathroom, to be specific.

The trip to the morning farmer’s market didn’t even take that long. Thirty minutes at most to get what you needed for a hearty meal, and yet it was enough for someone to break in, apparently (in broad daylight too! Do people have no shame?) So much for living in one of the safest parts of the city. The advertisements were total bullshit.

Though, you actually weren’t sure if this was better. That it was something or someone tangible disrupting the peace and not the occasional, domineering presence you’ve grown used to. You had to admit, it was kind of funny that hogging the shower was next on their agenda after trespassing. Usually, it was followed by either burglary or first degree murder, but hey, who were you to judge?

It didn’t look like they’ll be out any time soon. What with the passionate rendition of Michael Jackson’s (may his soul rest in peace) ‘Rock With You’—complete with adlibs and all—you’d be lucky if they chose to stay in there and raise your water bill up to immeasurable heights.

At least a bunch of knives stuck to a magnetic rack was within reach if all goes to shit, but you still hoped that you wouldn’t have to draw blood first.

Leaving the stew to boil, you plopped onto the couch with as much grace as a newborn giraffe, sitting in a way where you directly faced the bathroom in case of the possible brawl you might push yourself into due to your lack of survival instincts, apparently.

Yet even with the forewarning, you weren’t exactly prepared to face who or what was on the other side of the bathroom door.

Your breath hitched at the sound of the door unlocking, followed by the click of the light switch and, for some reason, you had your gaze set resolutely at the bottom half of the door. The door opened and a tan leg popped out, and then another and—Jesus, how long do these legs go? Seriously, it should be illegal to have legs as long as that, having felt as if your eyes scanned like… miles upon miles of tan—

Right. This was an intruder in your home.

A man to be exact, and he had the gall to mirror your own shell-shocked face as if you were the one who broke in.

Though, you couldn’t deny that he was gorgeous. Inhumanly so as you took a closer look at his face. Sun-kissed all over as if the big ball of fire in the sky decided it wanted a human counterpart. Waves of dark hair fell just shy above his waterline and framing a pair of wide, darkened amber eyes (is that eyeliner?) burning with as much curiosity you had amidst your fight or flight response kicking in. He kind of fit the ‘tall, dark and mysterious’ archetype that BookTok lovers—er, loved, but there was very little mystery to be intrigued by. Not when his thoughts, feelings and intentions bled so opaquely on his face.

Amusement tilted every angle of his features, namely his sleepy eyes and heart-shaped lips. If you possessed half a brain, you would have thought he was harmless. Yet the hair-raising grin that broke out on his face told you otherwise, making you bristle.

“Now where’d you run off to this early in the morning?”

You gritted your teeth, feeling a vein pulse on your temple. That voice.

Pretty privilege could be addressed next time because at this very second, you weren’t feeling privileged being graced by the so-called prettiness, but threatened to even fully appreciate what he’s got going for him. Physically wise.

Without thinking, your hand shot out to grab the closest thing to you, an empty vase, and hurled it with all you’ve got, aiming straight for the intruder’s face who didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. It was like watching everything in slow motion, how the decorative piece took its sweet time to smack his face and hopefully break his nose (best case scenario).

This was the worst case scenario, with the vase pausing in mid-air as if time just decided to stop being a thing, all in this demon’s favor.

You were actually going insane. That was the only explanation because no law of physics could explain the current state of the decorative vase—it’s still in the fucking air. Holy shit—nor did you think telekinesis could extend beyond the old, generic trick of bending spoons with your mind.

“Hey,” As if you weren’t terrified enough, the stranger peeked from one of the vase’s sides with a disapproving pout. You scooted further away until your back hit the arm rest. “I picked this out for you, y’know? Thought you’d like it.” With a lazy flick of his wrist the vase ended up floating all the way into the kitchen, much to your horror, to sit on top of the refrigerator.

“Maybe we shouldn’t throw things next time?”

Your eyes flickered towards him, dumbfounded.

“You… last night,” There really was no mistaking it. The voice already told you enough. It was all too distinct; the arrogance, the grating inflection that screamed he solely existed to get on your nerves, and it was working. “In my dream. That was you?”

“Wasn’t just last night, little human. I’ve been in all of your dreams since you moved here.” He shrugged, leaning laxly against the door frame with his arms crossed. “You were way nicer in them. Pliant,” he had two fingers up to prove whatever point he was making. “didn’t throw things at me,” and there goes the third finger.

Smoke was practically coming out of your ears as you sat up straighter, tense. “Oh, I’m sorry!” One of your hands flew to your chest, tone high and mocking. “I didn’t know I had to show proper etiquette to a fucking trespasser!” You scrambled for your phone. “Now, please leave or I will call the police—”

It happened all too fast. Too fast for your human brain to comprehend because just a second ago, you were really serious about involving the police in this. Now, you were flat on your back with the wind knocked right out of you and a lap full of the man plaguing most of your nights. The atmosphere felt heavier, now that the kittenish air surrounding him was gone and the very corner of his lips tilted down into a frown as he plucked your phone out of your hand.

“First thing’s first, no police. You won’t get rid of me that way. Second, this is my”— he pointed to himself —“home. My apartment. I was just nice enough to let you stay for how long you liked.”

“I paid for this unit you—you demon!” You didn’t even try to be subtle with the eye-rolling. Of course he would preen at the title. “If anything, it’s my apartment!”

“Okay? I tied a piece of me down to this place. My sigil is somewhere around here to prove it—meaning, I have higher authority.”

A sigil. Of course. This is your life now. Possibly sharing a space with a fucking demon of all things. Exciting, but not exciting enough to stave off your hunger and you were starting to get antsy. You were just arguing for the sake of arguing to blow off some steam and to get in the last word.

“I signed a lease. The lease has my name on it.” you said as if that was on par with whatever he was talking about (probably not).

“Technically, I signed away a part of my life, so.”

Fuck. Fine. He got you there.

“Are you always going to do this?” You resigned, wriggling underneath his weight. “You’re kinda heavy.”

“I mean, if it works, right?” The demon giggled, tilting his head with a coy smile as he put more weight onto your thighs, one hand falling behind to rest on your knee. “It’s not like you complained before.”

“Technically,” (“I do not fucking sound like that.”) “those were dreams—dreams, so they don’t count.”

Which meant that you had full control of your body out of the dreamscape, proven by the indignant yell the demon let out as he was unceremoniously pushed to the ground for the second time within the twenty-four hour time frame. It wasn’t enough to make up for the numerous times he had you under him, but for now, you were even.

“They sure do!” he exclaimed from where you left him still sprawled on the floor.

“Nope. This conversation is over.”

The stew was just about done, soup reduced to the right amount as you switched off the stove and range hood, bathing your apartment in still quietness besides the bustling from outside. The soft padding of feet came in quick succession until warmth hovered just mere centimeters behind you.

Turning your head, the demon was there, his chin just shy of resting onto the dip of your shoulder as he peered curiously at the steaming pot.

“Is that… kimchi jjigae?” he wondered, taking a generous whiff and appearing just as hungry as you felt. “It is kimchi jjigae.”

You snickered, all animosity fading into faint amusement, “I take it that you’d like some?” It was such a human reaction that you couldn’t help but smile, reaching for the ladle.

“Please?” he pressed, amber eyes all wide and imploring. “I haven’t had a decent bowl of the stuff in, like, weeks.”

“Well, make yourself useful. Set the table, yeah? And pass me two bowls while you’re at it. You know where they are…” you trailed off, looking at him in silent question. You haven’t asked for his name, or what he would like to be addressed as.

Somehow, the demon was rather quick on the uptake, curling his lips as he pushed off to do what you asked him to.

“Haechan,” he called over his shoulder, grinning as he reached for the cupboard’s handle. “You can call me Haechan.”

So.

There was someone in your home, and he was a demon sitting across from you, digging into his second helping of the kimchi jjigae you initially planned on rationing out for the entire week.

Like an actual living and breathing demon—an incubus. A demon dependant on sex, and from what you’ve heard from one of the girls utterly obsessed with the occult and anything spooky, Incubi and Succubi do, in fact, fuck to survive. A fuck or die slowly situation which earned Haechan a dubious look when he confirmed through a mouthful of pork belly.

(You weren’t too sure if you heard right when the mentioned occult-obsessed classmate later added that the human could literally go insane from the amount of life force they’d lost. Or that some incubi and succubi do it for the purpose of reproducing. Hopefully she was wrong because—well—because).

“Okay,” you let the spoon clatter into your bowl. “Okay.” you repeated in a way to soothe yourself before broaching on the topic, prompted by morbid curiosity because hello, who wouldn’t start questioning the ‘monster’ you were stuck with for an indefinite amount of time? “So! What, you fuck anyone that comes to live here?”

“Mm—one second,” he raised a finger and then swallowed. “This is really good and, well, yes and no?”

You hit him with a pointed look. “It’s either yes or no.”

“Nosy, nosy,” he tutted, heat creeping from your neck and up at the sight of his smirk. “Curious about my body count, aren’t you, sweet thing?”

“Uh,” you said intelligently, brain short-circuiting at the pet-name. “Am I allowed to be?”

Haechan beamed. “‘course! Honestly, I’d be more concerned if you weren’t. Humans are naturally curious, aren’t they? Kinda weird that you’re so calm about this though”

He wasn’t wrong. You were the perfect picture of calm listening to him talk about his origins and any sane person would think Haechan was just talking out of his ass. It was likely due to the fact that you’ve become desensitized to most things and consequently, this was less weird than being offered cocaine right outside of campus.

“I’ve been through worse.” You shrugged and there was something absolutely hilarious about a demon of all beings expressing a mix of concern and confusion when you waved him off. “So what does ‘yes and no’ mean?” You pressed further, curious and maybe a smidge nosy.

Other than the hectic lifestyle you live, things were pretty much boring when it came to experiences outside of your academics and extracurriculars, and your part-time; the latter only holding a modicum of drama that involved teenagers and their own diluted version of pettiness and the occasional entitled ahjummas that were dead-set on making your life miserable than it already was with maintaining an absurdly high GPA to keep your scholarship. Not to mention you were barely scraping by with your savings.

Taking in Haechan and his brazen glory, you might as well live vicariously through him to feel something, right? Like one of those moms who’d force their own kid to live out their dreams. And so you were going to pry as much as he would let you. Haechan was shameless in his own way anyway, proudly so with how he was literally wearing a pair of your sleep shorts that left nothing to the imagination and a zip-up that was definitely his. You didn’t remember having one with horns attached to the hood and you wouldn't wear anything too on the nose if you were him.

(You could have sworn an ass cheek popped out when he was getting a drink from the fridge—Christ, you didn't remember the specific pair being that short—not that you were looking on purpose, no way. His thighs were literally displayed like that).

“Meaning, I don’t limit myself to just my tenant. The risk of them dying is lower that way. They get the time they need to regain the life force they lost while I go out, find a willing soul and… take what I need.” you pointedly ignored the glint of mischief in his eyes by taking a long, generous sip of your water. Haechan snorted at the loud gulp. “We’re not all evil.”

With what your dreams were made of in the past month or so, you highly doubt a singular demon would align their morals with yours. The thought was ridiculous enough on its own and apparently, it translated so well on your face—a grimace that said all that needed to be said—that Haechan had to laugh with crinkled eyes and a scrunched nose, both in which oddly made him look less of the sex-deprived creature etched into your skull, and more human.

“And I don’t really want a human’s death on my conscience. It’s in our nature, there’s no doubting that, but Hell isn’t lawless as you think it is. We have rules to follow. We still have to be kept in line and it just so happens that humans are—ah, how do I say this—precious,” he said with air quotations. “to our supreme overlord. Humans help keep Hell the way it is, and we try not to terrorize them too often.”

“Bit late on that, don’t you think?” you said dryly, being a victim of his terrorizing.

Haechan didn’t even look the least bit remorseful. “What can I say? Frustration is such a cute look on you, darling.” He cooed, a lop-sided grin stretching wide enough that a fang glinted underneath the overhead light as it caught on his lower lip. “I could just eat you up.”

“Please don’t,” You don’t even want to imagine the damage his piercing canines could do. “I’m not really into vore.”

Haechan giggled, resting his cheek onto an open palm. “You’re so funny.”

“Um!” you were beginning to feel like you’ve aged five years from this conversation alone. “That’s all I need to know, really.”

As interesting as it sounded (e.g; the logistics of Hell’s governance, rules Hellian’s had to follow, the social hierarchy and the importance of humans, surprisingly) you thought it was far too early to go into the nitty-gritty details of anything incubi or succubi related. The fact that Hell mirrored human society in a democratic sense with far more nuances than you would expect was all sorts of intriguing, but your curiosity on that could be satiated another time.

You cleared your throat. “Anyways, thank you for answering.”

Haechan hummed in response, going back to demolishing his food.

Right now, you were more inclined to know what this meant for you and your living situation.

Speaking of.

“Is that why the rent is so cheap?” you wondered, eyebrows knitting together. “Because it had you stinking up the place?” The chair creaked as you fell back against it, arms folding above your chest to scrutinize him more.

Haechan gasped, mouth falling open at the jab. “Excuse you! I smell great!” and as if on cue, the scent of tangy sweetness went up right up your nose, making you grimace.

“It’s a little overpowering sometimes,” you confessed, wrinkling your nose and by the strange act of mercy, the smell dialed down and the urge to keel over disappeared completely. “Seriously, is anything normal too much for you? You couldn’t say ‘hi’ to me normally?”

Haechan arched an eyebrow. “What about ‘sex demon’ screams normal to you?” Touché. “And my way was much more fun.” (“it was fun being a nuisance?” you mumbled) “If I was that much of a bother, why didn’t you complain to Ms. Hong?”

You just about mirrored his expression, “what does my landlady have to do about this?”

Like, yeah, Ms. Hong had her responsibilities being a landlady, including the comfort of her tenants and having their best interests at heart, but you didn’t think she’d waste her time with your… special predicament. Ms. Hong probably had better things to worry about anyway, so why did he bring her up? Better yet, why was there familiarity with the way Haechan addressed her?

“She only tried to banish me one too many times,” He huffed as he mirrored your posture. “I got so sick of it that I left my sigil here so she couldn’t do it anymore. She knows better than to tamper with demon magic.”

“Banish—again, what?” Your head was already spinning from the onslaught of information you’ve been fed up until this point. Add Ms. Hong and her involvement in this? It’s a miracle your brain hadn’t imploded on itself.

“You really don’t know?” Haechan cocked his head, regarding you with an unreadable expression for a short moment, just watching you silently process what he said until his face smoothened to show a little bit of sympathy. “Darling, Ms. Hong’s a witch.” He spoke slowly.

“I literally just found out that you, an incubus, exists. How was I supposed to know she was a witch?!”

Though it did make sense. How weird your landlady acted during the first meeting. How cryptic she was in answering every question you had prior to viewing the unit and she essentially begged you to ‘be careful’ before you left. She knew very well that apartment 66 was housing a demon and cut the costs as compensation, leaving you to figure out the fatal flaw of this damned unit.

Haechan shrugged. Okay, so he’s useless. Great.

With a heavy resigned sigh, the table clattered as you clutched your head. “She’s a fucking witch and she scammed me.”

“Can’t be scammed if you’ve gotten what you asked for—an apartment perfect for you.” Unlike yourself, Haechan found this absolutely hilarious. So nice to know that someone found amusement in your suffering. “with an added little something to keep you entertained, yes?”

It was obvious what he was hinting at: himself, looking up just in time to catch him flashing you a cheeky grin as you stiffened at the sensation of his foot brushing up and down your shin—which was a bizarre choice. Bizarre for you, but another Tuesday for him. The clock barely hit ten and here Haechan was, wasting no time shooting his shot so he could have his fun. Just when you thought your life couldn’t get any weirder.

How he knew of your wants, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how he did. With Haechan and his display of freaky ‘demon magic’, you'd assume anything was possible for a Hellian like him, peeking into your head as if it was free real estate. Asshole.

“I don’t remember ever asking for you,” you grumbled, your foot pushing down on Haechan’s to stop him. God, were you seriously playing footsie with a demon?

“Oh? Then that’s too bad,” he said through a pout, mocking. “Unless you find a witch powerful enough to get rid of me and my sigil, I’m staying—and it’s not like you could afford to move again.”

And it’s all kinds of condescending. The way he talked, the way he leered, yet even with all the goading, he was right. There was no way you could afford another down payment for a new place that would surely have a higher jump in price, so you stayed quiet. It was times like this where you wished there was a reset button to life. Why weren’t you born into money?

“Thought so. Glad we’ve come to an agreement.”

The self-satisfied smile he sported was all sorts of grating, but you weren’t going to risk what he could do to you if you threw a bowl to his head.

Demon magic was an entirely different thing still beyond your human brain’s comprehension, and his black-lacquered nails were like a silent threat on their own.

The scratches on your neck and waist serve as a reminder that Haechan had claws that could tear you apart, hidden in plain sight.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t know supernaturals exist,” Haechan said in slight awe and wonder, lightly swinging his feet from his perch on the counter. “I mean, it’s not like we’re hiding what we are. I’m sure someone warned you, or something.”

With the absence of any self-preservation skills, it wasn’t all too surprising that your Grandma took it upon herself to become the overbearing parental figure in your life.

Grandma was the exact person Haechan was referring to. You told him how she’s as superstitious as they could come and she, with her unwavering belief in anything supernatural, had tried to drill the same into your head. You had practically grown up with her making you do things that could hopefully stop you from going face-to-face with one; would even commission one of her equally insane friends for amulets or talismans to keep the malevolent creatures from latching onto you.

Being who you were, hyper-independent from such a young age to present, those little trinkets you were forced to wear ultimately ended up in the trash and Grandma had long given up on that alternative, fed up with you constantly “losing” them.

Too late now, you thought. When there’s Haechan on your kitchen counter, magic singing with each languid flick of his hand that wound around your wrists like how a cat’s tail would—soft, warm and grounding. Which you didn’t think was even possible when all he used it for was to dry the dishes you hand him, putting them away after with a wave of his hand. If Grandma could see you now, the old crone would likely keel over and die of a heart attack.

“Grandma was kind of insane,” you joked. Paranoid too as she would always call you home the moment the sun went down in fear of you being snatched away by some cryptid. “She was against me going to college, harping on how the city was too dangerous for her ‘sweet girl’. But I wanted different things and I never believed in anything she said.”

If you did, that would also mean you would have let her instill into you the fear of something you weren’t even sure existed. Perhaps struggling to keep yourself afloat wouldn’t even be a thing if you just stayed under Grandma’s roof, but that was another can of worms you didn’t really want to open today.

“Grandma was right, though.”

“Yeah,” you huffed, giving him a brief once over. “Clearly.”

Haechan hummed, preening under the attention. “She really is. Seoul’s infested with all sorts of creepy crawlies. Like, vampires make up most of its supernatural population. You’d usually find them in upscale districts like Itaewon or Gangnam. Bougie fuckers, I know.” he said, matching your own disbelief. “But they’re very generous. Can’t say I’ve had any boring times with the leeches either. Their fangs are really sharp. Sharper than mine.”

You didn’t need to put two and two together to get what he was hinting at. By the lecherous, wide smile that showcased Haechan’s own set of upper fangs, a little shorter than would you’d think of a vampire’s, it was enough to tell you that he’s had his fair share of hook-ups with the bloodsuckers.

You wrinkled your nose at the thought. An incubus and a vampire. That’s a very interesting picture to paint. “I thought humans were the default favorite for you demons?”

“I never said they weren’t,” he said. “Doesn’t mean that I can’t try anything else though. Like, Think of it this way—you have a favorite food to eat, right? Eat too much and you’d def grow sick of it. It’s like that.”

“So, in essence, you put off humans to grow… an appetite? To crave for them?”

“Awe, see? You’re catching on,” Haechan cooed. “Though, slight correction, I always crave for humans.”

He was fucking with you. He’s got to be, yet you didn’t think you were in a place to judge his choices. You were painfully human. You didn’t need to do anything drastic for sustenance.

“Whatever gets your fill, I guess. You look like you have it easy, picking out any willing human to be yours for the night anyway.”

You weren’t blind. You were the farthest from dumb too and just looking at Haechan was enough to tell you that he had it easy. That batting his eyelashes once or twice—three times, for good measure—would get anyone keeling over, scrambling to give what he had asked for before Haechan’s deceptive sweetness turned sour. Threatening. Deadly.

With the way he carried himself, how he talked, how his mind worked—all being from the hours-long observation you've mentally conducted—it was just telling how Haechan wasn’t necessarily a stranger to compliments. He was made to be desired. He was made to fulfill such desires, and you could only imagine how often he hears praises for the way he looked. You didn’t didn’t need to add on the number. It's not like he’d die from not hearing anything from you. Haechan could live.

What he could not live without, you were starting to notice, was to have his fun pushing your buttons. The shit-eating grin just told you as much.

“Don’t let that get to your head.”

“Too late! You think I’m sexy,” he sang. “As you should, actually.”

“I hardly think heavy eyeliner is sexy,” you quipped.

Haechan begged to disagree, letting out a wounded noise. “It makes my eyes pop.”

I hope they pop out from your skull. “Sure they do.”

Here’s the thing: It did make his eyes pop. The unnatural amber shade was already ‘poppy’ as is, backlit by an incandescent glow, a detail the less educated would surely miss from being distracted by everything else. To you, it was the one damning trait that showed Haechan wasn’t at all human and the smokey darkness intensified that.

Haechan’s eyes were beautiful, hauntingly so, but you would rather gouge your own eyes out than to admit it out loud. You planned on wasting away for the entire day and you weren’t letting psychological warfare stop you.

Clearly, the parasite (see: Haechan) had other plans that involved ruining yours. It was like peace was never an option and here you were, given a demon to make sure you’d never find out what it would be like. Being at peace.

(Going back home to Grandma was starting to become a tempting out from this).

Haechan giggled despite the sarcasm, tilting his head to regard you with a look that was almost fond if it wasn’t for the permanent smirk etched onto his face.

“Oh, I’m going to have so much fun living with you, Y/N.”

You narrowed your eyes, “can’t say the same.”

“Don’t be like that,” he murmured as he poked the tip of your nose with his index finger, chuckling when you went cross-eyed. “I’ll make it fun.”

You scoffed, jerking your head away as if he burnt you. “Keep your hands to yourself, demon.”

Haechan only laughed as you made a break for your balcony with the idea of seeking refuge in the mini-garden that had been set up until the burn in your cheeks faded so no embarrassment, not even the slightest bit, would leave a trace.

“Something tells me you’re gonna want them on you soon,” came his reply as soon as you reached the halfway mark towards the sliding glass door. “and you can trust that I won't ever disappoint.”

He’s so fucking sleazy. You had half the mind to whirl around to pick another fight since ‘flight’ was immediately scratched from your choices, kind of like how the initial fear you had dissipated into nothing now that you were aware of what was haunting your apartment. All you felt was annoyance and my God did you want to fight him.

However, before you could even simulate a play-by-play of ‘Giving the Demon In My Home A Piece of My Mind’ in your head (with the hopeful outcome of Haechan reduced to a pathetic heap on the floor. Poetic, you thought, that an all too powerful entity was beaten down in that state), a surprised squeal interrupted your thoughts of murder, thanks to an invisible force hauling and backing you up against a sturdy, warm, smelling suspiciously of fucking tangerines—Haechan.

Boundaries were non-existent to Haechan it looks like, his arms loosely coiled around your shoulders like a snake luring its prey into a false sense of security as soft lips brushed along your cheek; warm and gentle before settling onto your temple.

“All you have to do is ask and I’ll be yours.”

III.

Having Haechan as a live-in something, was just.

Well.

Normally, the term ‘demon’ being attached to someone would already have some eyebrow raising expectations dealing with the macabre set in stone (mostly influenced by the very same supernatural dickrider classmate. You can never be too safe). Like him sacrificing a poor virgin on a pentagram scrawled onto the parquet flooring in haste, surrounded by candles as Haechan spoke in tongues. Or him engaging in orgies—also on a pentagram, but bigger for at least five people to pay their tributes to Satan through nutting one too many times. Which was? Good for them?

Only, the floor was spotless; hastily drawn pentagrams absent so there were definitely no virgins sacrificed (yet). No orgies either since the nights became surprisingly still, post-Haechan.

Having Haechan as a live-in something, was just, for lack of a better term, normal.

Something close to dull if it weren’t for the constant reminders that this was a wretched so-and-so demon you were learning to deal with. The reality of it all was borderline boring that you hinted he was free to go ape-shit with his demonic duties. Many, many times until one odd look from Haechan, a silent prompt for you to elaborate, had you deciding against it and excused yourself to tend the small garden.

(He followed behind a second later, poking and prodding until you threatened to spray him with holy water).

In some way, Haechan had no problem adapting with your lifestyle. It was almost laughable how seamlessly he had woven himself into your routine built from years of being in survival mode. Like he was the cog that you didn’t even realize was missing from the machine and, dare you say it, Haechan has been a pleasant live-in something—a pleasant roommate.

What you liked most though, was that Haechan could cook.

Man, did the incubus know how to cook.

It was a quirk—perk, really—you had discovered after an offhanded mention of you routinely skipping breakfast to maximize time and efficiency (read: you were shit at taking care of yourself).

(“Hi,” you called out as you burst from your bedroom in a rush. “Bye. I gotta go.”

Haechan, who had been standing in front of a stove wearing a Pompompurin apron, turned his neck so fast that a crick was heard. “Wait, what?” His distress went pretty much ignored as you pulled on the sneakers you thrifted two weeks ago. “You haven’t eaten breakfast yet!”

Oh, you knew that. Mourned it really, but— “No time. I’ll take a slice of toast though,” you said just as the toaster went off.

The incubus shook his head. “No, you’re getting an egg sandwich. An Omelet sandwich. More filling than fucking toast.” Haechan scoffed and behind him, the two golden brown slices of toast floated as the spatula flipped a generous amount of the vegetable omelet onto one of them.

Yeah, that was something you were still getting used to. Magic.

“How’d you take your coffee?”

“Two sugars and one creamer. Both teaspoons.”

“Finally, a normal coffee order,” he sighed, appearing very relieved as he snapped his fingers to conjure a silver thermos before you could even question the weird reaction. “Go on,” Haechan encouraged, gesturing for you to grab it just as your sandwich hovered next to the thermos.

“Thank you..?”)

… and lunch.

(“Make sure to eat lunch, though.”

“Can’t either,” you sighed, stuffing the thermos into your backpack’s side pocket. “Club duties, tutoring sessions—” you ticked two of your fingers up “—plus, I’m on a tight budget until my next pay. My aunt can only sustain me enough.” That, and you’d rather not ask for help even if she insisted. Auntie meant well. You knew that, but she had her own family to take care of and you didn’t want to hear any of her useless husband’s unsolicited advice. Like, fuck that guy. Seriously.

“... dinner?” Haechan tried, sounding almost hopeful, only to balk at the thoughtful look you get while unwrapping your sandwich. You’ve got to be shitting me. “Damn, you live like this?”

Thoughtful turned annoyed which—yeah, Haechan thought he deserved that. “Not everyone has their parents paying for everything. Some of us do have to work.” You took a rough bite from the sandwich, muffling your next slew of words, “don’t you already know this? You have been watching me ever since I moved here.”

He understood anyway. “Not all the time,” he clicked his tongue, switching off the stove and range hood with a flick of his wrist. “I have a life outside being an incubus, y’know.”

“And what do you do in your spare time?”

He smiled something sinister. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”)

The bar was in Hell, apparently, because all it took for you to soften up was to get Haechan feeding you his food. Cooking was the last thing you’d expect from a demon and wasn’t salt considered the Kryptonite to demons and anything made up of evil and malice and shit?

(“Oh, most of us evolved past that. Hell, even Lord Satan’s immune to it. Some of the Hellians are deathly allergic though.” Deathly allergic. How fitting.

“So salt just picks out the weakest link?”

He laughed softly, nodding. “Survival of the fittest.”)

Whatever. You had no room to question Hell and its people’s lore when you were eating like a king, ironically being fed by one of Hell’s people.

Besides, food was one less thing to worry about. An equivalent to luxury; being sent to college with a full, Sanrio themed lunch box that could feed at least three people (see: YangYang. A blockmate you’ve recently gotten closer to whom you’ had caught occasionally staring hungrily at your lunch) and more often than not, you’ve been coming home to a set table and a man in a cutesy apron. You were starting to sense a pattern here.

“Just to be clear,” you began. “you’re not fattening me up just to eat me, right?”

“I thought you weren’t into vore?”

“Please be serious.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Haechan peeked over his shoulder, snorting. “If that were the case, I would have swallowed you whole that very Sunday morning.” The My Melody apron—pink and frilly all over—surely didn’t help his case.

It was like being held at gun-point by a bear; nerve-wracking, yes and you haven’t forgotten for a second that Haechan had the upper hand for simply being not of the mortal plane. Yet it was oddly endearing, now that you took notice of the gray crewneck that definitely belonged to your wardrobe, cinched around a lithe waist.

It still did make you think though. “So there’s no ulterior motive?”

Haechan whirled around to face you with a gasp, eyes widened in feigned innocence with a hand on his chest. “You don’t believe that I’m cooking from the goodness of my heart?”

You arched an eyebrow.

The demon sighed, lips forming into a slight pout. “Fine. Maybe this is more for my benefit than yours.”

“Haechan.”

Haechan raised both of his hands in what you think was placating. “You’re as good as useless when your life force quality sucks from your shitty eating habits. I’m doing myself a favor,” He shrugged. “If you’re eating good, then I’m eating good—that sort of thing.”

Okay, so maybe you still wanted to punch him in the head.

“Wow,” you said dryly, resisting the urge to get up and strangle him. “Way to make a girl feel special.”

There was a coy smile playing on his lips. “If it makes you feel better, you can just treat me as something that warms your bed,” the incubus brought his attention back to what he was doing previously, deciding against magic, weirdly enough. “In more ways than one. I don’t mind.”

The chair screeched along the floor as you stood up. “I’m gonna be late,” you sputtered, face hot to the touch and scrambling to escape.

Life was so much easier when you weren’t reminded of the possibility of Haechan running to you for his… sex thing. Actually, scratch that, life was so much easier when you hadn’t been made aware of him because there were times where you wondered when that would be. Multiple times. It wasn’t ever brought up; not by you, not by Haechan as he had been somewhat cordial, no mentions of anything related to his survival. At least directly.

In some way, this was different. It’s not often you’d listen to him blatantly offering himself for a test drive, and yes you do run away before Haechan could expound on it every time, yet something curls deep within your gut when you could feel curious eyes boring into your back as you ran off.

Haechan and his propensity for testing the lines was bound to get him smacked upside the head one of these days, but today wasn’t the day. He was smart enough on not exactly breaching the boundaries set, backing up before you could even get creative with damning him all to Hell.

“Here.”

You jerked your head up as you tied the laces of your sneakers and found another variation of a lunch bag dangling right in front of you.

“Thanks,” you said as you stood to your full height, still flustered and avoiding all eye-contact as necessary. “I’ll make sure to eat all of it.”

Haechan only hummed as you took your lunch from him, offering nothing else.

“You know, I’ve always wondered who makes your lunches,” YangYang started, sidling up next to you just as your phone pinged. “They’re all so… detailed. Is it your mom?”

“Ever thought that maybe I made them myself?”

haechan 👹: hi you: what

Telling YangYang outright that your ‘roommate’ went through all the trouble didn’t sound like a good idea when Yunjin was within earshot. Apartment 66 was a one-bedroom unit and she knew very well that you lived alone, her living just right below you with Chaewon, too. Mentioning the roommate would just raise all sorts of questions that could paint you as mentally unstable if you told her about Haechan and his fucking sigil (that you still haven’t found!) that had gotten you in this situation. You felt mentally unstable just thinking about it.

haechan 👹: i miss you :( you: ?? you: what’s wrong with u

Not to mention your mom was as good as dead to you.

“Okay, fair. I don’t think your mom would prepare something so phallic either, lol.” You’d never have thought hearing ‘phallic’ and ‘lol’ spoken out loud in the same sentence would give you this much of a start, immediately looking up from your phone to catch him already holding your opened bento box with one hand, chopsticks at the ready to poke and prod in the other. “This looks like a dick—look, cherry tomatoes as the balls—”

“Stop doing that,” you hissed, snatching your lunch from him, only to put it in the middle of you two so you wouldn’t have to see him sulk. “No one else is gonna steal my lunch from you.”

you: srsly you’ve been so weird lately haechan 👹: hungry ʕ>Ⱉ<‧:ʔ you: ? eat something then lol

“So the dick wasn’t code for a quick fuck in the toilet stalls?” He teased, biting down onto the tips of his chopsticks with a sharp grin. “I’d be down.”

If looks could kill, YangYang’s guts would be splattered everywhere on the table.

“Absolutely not.”

You didn’t feel the least bit sorry when YangYang choked on the egg roll you shoved into his mouth.

With pleasantries came oddities and Haechan was never short on the latter.

It’s like this: It has already been established that Haechan was an incubus. A subclass of demons that made up a quarter of Hell’s population and his origins was also proven by the unrestricted use of his magic at home, yet he still liked to show off that he was exactly that.

There were times where you would catch him hovering an inch or two—sometimes higher—from the ground which you thought was rather unnecessary. Again, the blatant usage of magic for anything menial (e.g: opening cupboards, switching lights, turning on the TV that somehow materialized from nowhere when the remote was right next to him) and you found out the hard way that other than the claws, he also had horns and a tail.

Let’s just say Haechan had to stop you from calling 112 at three in the morning. Again.

(No. He didn’t have to get on top of you this time).

Still, having him around had been, more or less, pleasant. Except when he was stewing away on the couch, which also doubled as his bed, in this peculiar form.

From how often it happened, it became a little guessing game with yourself whether you would come home to Haechan in the form you were acclimated to seeing everyday: human and rather unassuming when his beautiful face did all the talking, or the form where he was completely embraced by his own darkness.

Literally.

Like right now and you had to swallow back a scream from how eerie this thing—Haechan came off, sitting on the couch with the inky black haze swirling around him. It rose and fell like tendrils made out of smoke, curling in the air and reaching out for nothing in particular. You’ve never felt so creeped out as you did now. For a moment, you expected that one of the ghostly limbs would shoot out and grab you.

“Haechan?” you called as you closed the door with your foot. The void™ looked over, his blood-red gaze making you flinch. Christ, that always freaked you out, but you smiled anyway to appease him, if not a bit crooked and a smidge wary. “Are you okay? What’s with all… this?”

At that, the smoke stilled before getting sucked into his body, revealing Haechan and all his tan glory, sulking. At least he was wearing his own clothes today, a soft looking shirt and a pair of gym shorts that showed way more leg than you think was considered legal. He was comfortable enough to keep his horns and tail out with black, thick-framed glasses as the newest addition.

It wasn’t the first time you’ve seen him in such a vexed state. Haechan liked to complain. There wasn’t a day where he didn’t voice his grievances that you kind of expected a long-winded rant the moment you walked through the door, but as you looked closer, he didn’t seem to be in the mood for routine.

He seemed subdued. Sun-kissed skin took on a deathlike pallor and devoid of the usual inhuman glow, so unlike the deceptively beautiful incubus, unshakable even against the harshest remark you’d thrown at him. Now, he looked quite the poster-child for pity. Even his striking eyes lacked the ever-present sheen of mischief in them. He looked awfully plain, almost in a sickly way.

His pout took on a more dangerous route, so close to tugging on your heartstrings with how… pathetic he came off. “I’m hungry.”

“Uh-huh. Read your text,” you said, shoving your sneakers into the cubby.

He did know that he lived here way before you, right? This place was his as much as it was yours. A truth he’d always hold above your head to get his point across, which naturally meant that he was free to gobble up anything edible unless you tell him a specific food item wasn’t for his claws to sink in.

“You didn’t start on dinner,” you noted as you stalked into the kitchen for a drink. “Did you want me to cook instead?”

Haechan's face twisted, something a little pained as he let out a soft whine. “Not hungry as in hungry.” he patted his stomach. “I’m hungry as in—y’know.” Haechan made this intricate gesture with a hand. Like you were supposed to know what the fuck that meant—never mind, he was missing one hand. The crude motion he made soon after told you all you needed to know. What he was particularly hungry for.

“Ah.” No wonder he was so needy. Why he seemed sluggish; irritable at times as he almost snapped at you for not putting as much sweet chili paste he wanted in the tteokbokki that one time. It was actually kind of cute, that someone who acted like he was above everyone else was reduced to this. “Is that why you’ve been so clingy? Haven’t found anyone to bump uglies with?”

Clingy was one way to put it, but to be specific, for an entity birthed from all that was considered evil and dark, Haechan oddly had a cutesy disposition at times. The clinginess was very apparent though, reminding you of an overzealous cat shadowing your every move, getting in your way sometimes and not quite letting you have space. The apartment wasn’t exactly generous in that area either.

“My dick isn’t ugly,” Haechan scowled, blinking slowly as he slumped against the cushions.

You couldn’t help but to snort as you pressed the bottle’s opening to your lips. “Is it?”

An offhand comment, really, yet Haechan took it as a challenge anyway. Like he did with most things. You blamed it on his Leo placements. “I can prove it to you right now,” He pushed on as he sat straight up, making you freeze. “You’re talking to a very hungry and very desperate incubus.”

Oh. So you were doing this.

Well, it wasn’t like you were not expecting to be Haechan’s temporary object of desire. It’s just, he never outright asked you to sleep with him, making it easy to assume that he got his fix from somewhere else. Sure, there were hints dropped here and there, though you’d prefer if it was spelled out for you to avoid any misunderstandings.

Now it was spelled out for you. Succinctly. No bullshit or riddle-speak to force you into doing mental gymnastics to figure out what he wanted. Nothing could be clearer than the incubus threatening to whip out the monster hiding in his pants just to prove you wrong (as one does).

Also, maybe you should learn how to shut the fuck up next time.

Panic shot through you like an electrical current, choking on your drink when you caught sight of his fingers teasing the waistband of his shorts.

“Wait!” you wheeze after a coughing fit, a hand shooting out to stop him from flashing you. “Can I at least wash up first?”

“Oh,” Haechan actually looked dejected at this as his hand stilled. “Okay. Don’t take too long, or I’ll miss you.”

‘I’ll miss you’. Jesus Christ. Even the text was less weird.

“I’ll literally be only a few meters away?” You sputtered.

“Ugh, too far.” he whined, slinking over the couch’s armrest like a lazy cat. Haechan gave the bathroom door a brief glance before his attention went back on you, eyes softer around the edges and almost pleading. “Can’t I just go in there with you?”

“What.”

“We don’t have to do anything! You can have your shower while I can just sit on the toilet and talk about my day!” Haechan explained. Like it was that simple. “Or you can tell me about yours!” He added as an afterthought as if that would make him sound less insane.

The long look you gave was enough of an answer before you all but rushed into the bathroom, completely ignoring the indignant yell from Haechan as you locked the door behind you.

This was probably the weirdest shower you’ve ever had.

Actually, this was the only weirdest shower you’ve ever had.

As if you weren’t embarrassed enough from Haechan offering to keep you ‘company’—which, again, was insane and very bold. Mostly insane—he spent the first five minutes pawing at the door, whining about how he “won’t do anything, really! Just let me be with you, please.” and maybe, maybe you did kind of entertain the idea for a good five seconds or so, before you were hit with how fucking ridiculous it sounded.

Though, admittedly, it was a little endearing, hearing just how desperate he can get, but also the fact that he could literally poof in if he wanted to. He just chose not to. A literal demon. In the flesh. An incubus with unimaginable power running through his veins he could use and abuse to get his way. And Haechan does none of that.

He was still outside. Still pawing at the door, all the while recounting his day spent lounging about the house since the lack of sex had depleted his energy to doing anything else, apparently.

(Seriously, what did he do in all his spare time?)

Other than that, it seemed the concept of consent wasn’t at all lost, that it still held some sort of value for the people assumed to not have any morals (the more you know). It could very well just be a Haechan thing, nonetheless you appreciated the rare instance of him not testing his luck against the boundaries you’ve set.

You made a face. Half at the way the lukewarm water sprayed onto your face bringing you out of your mulling, and half at the thought that Haechan could be sweet and considerate when he wanted to (or when it was convenient for him).

He did have the face for it. That’s something you have regularly thought about—sleepy eyes, cute button nose, petal-pink heart-shaped lips and the array of moles smattered along his face and neck—yet sweet was the furthest adjective you’d attach to him, honestly speaking. You didn't think he was capable of anything soft, unless it was to manipulate a situation. Not when you were antagonized every waking day God forced you to face until you left Satan’s little minion on the couch for the night, just to do it all over again as soon as the sun bled through the blinds.

(With all the thinking time the shower has given you, you still didn’t know what his actual day-to-day schedule consisted of, though you could so tell that he fit ‘bothering Y/N, the boring human’ somewhere in there. It was one of his favorite past times).

Yunjin once mentioned that your resting face and the intensity of your glaring were the reasons why you were considered unapproachable, scaring off any potential suitor, too.

Like that was a problem. The guys at your university were mid at best and you wouldn't be caught dead with a guy who made getting his daily gains his entire personality trait.

Haechan was a different story entirely, somehow appearing flattered that you were trying to set him on fire with your eyes alone.

Both of you had migrated to the couch with you sitting criss-cross applesauce and a shoulder pressed against the couch’s backrest. Haechan took on a more laxer route; an arm propped up on the armrest to rest a cheek on his fist, torso twisted to face you without losing any of that comfort, and not even flinching when hit by the full force of your glare and furrowed eyebrows.

“So, are you a virgin?”

You glared even harder. “Shut up.”

“I’m just making sure! So I can adjust accordingly. Your first time should always be gentle and sweet, then we can talk about the other spicy shit you wanna try. Christian Grey style.” There was a joke being formulated here. You can literally see him working it out in his head. From the gleam in his eyes and the subtle twitch of his lips, you knew you were going to absolutely hate it. “Could I interest you in some nipple clamps?”

There was a version of Haechan in your head that had just died from spontaneous combustion, just like the other Haechans that died from different causes for simply talking his shit.

“I will clamp your fucking mouth shut, demon.”

“Stop,” he grinned, delighted by the reaction. “you’re gonna make me hard.”

“Freak,” you quipped, folding your arms. “and I don’t think Fifty Shades of Grey is a great representation of the B-D-S-M community. Or a reliable point of reference.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d be snooty with your smut choices.”

Please. You’ve read fan-fiction porn written better than what you’ve seen on the market, or (God forbid) BookTok. Obviously. The argument, however, didn’t make it past your teeth, and it was second nature to rebut against every jab Haechan hurled your way. It was a thing. Your thing. As in plural—for both of you, to engage in a back-and-forth until one of you conceded. It was a Haechan and Y/N thing to argue as if it were life or death.

And for the first time ever, none of you attempted to get the first word in. You could hear a pin drop in the silence that bit at the tail end of Haechan’s sentence and all that was left for you to do was to size each other up. Much like the night you woke to the demon sitting at the foot of your bed, gargoyle-like.

“Right,” you started, pushing yourself up to sit properly. Might as well get this over with. And for the sake of precaution, you can just threaten to waterboard him with holy water if he dared tell anyone else (does he even have any friends?) about what went on behind the manicured door of apartment 66. “How do we do this?”

Haechan inclined his head and smiled.

“Relax,” Haechan stressed as he tried coaxing you into sitting your full weight onto his thighs and then huffing when you couldn’t seem to just… let yourself go. “I’m starting to believe that you are a virgin from how tense you are.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He wasn’t the one who had unwillingly abstained from sex for longer than what was considered normal, and you honestly believed you'd forgotten most of what you learned from the handful of meaningless hookups you’ve gone through. And yes, perhaps you were a little hesitant. You were pretty sure you have forgotten what a dick looked like too from not getting any on the regular.

Haechan was walking temptation himself. Sex on mile long legs that should be illegal, honestly, and being compared to his gargantuan pool of past conquests was terrifying to think about. What if you became his worst lay to date? That would actually obliterate the last ounces of your confidence and self-respect, and there wasn’t much to begin with.

Unsurprisingly, the incubus didn’t get where you were coming from, judging by the pointed look he gave you. “It literally is. I’m serious. Just sit down.”

And down you went on his lap with an undignified yelp as your fingers dug into his shoulder for balance. Even squirming to get out of his hold was too much work. Like, it was an actual struggle against Haechan’s tighter than tight grip. Fuck him and the abnormal strength. Escaping has never been so difficult until now, and you’d like to think you were rather good at it too.

“Last chance to admit you’re still a virgin,” he teased and sang the word ‘virgin’ just to further annoy you.

You felt your eye twitch. “Not a virgin. Just…” it tapered off into a sigh as you leaned back a bit for more breathing space, staring resolutely at the small, polished black horns protruding from his head. Was it you, or was it getting a bit warm? “It’s been a while for me.”

“Ah. Nervous?” Haechan supplied and the sigh of relief you released when his hands on your hips loosened their grip didn’t go unnoticed, his amusement made apparent with a soft chuckle. “Scared? I won’t bite unless you want me to.” Something told you he’d probably do it anyway. “and I’m not expecting you to like, be a pro or anything. You just sitting on my lap is already doing me wonders.”

Sitting on his lap was doing something for you too. Not quite falling in line with what Haechan was obviously hinting at, but a grounding feeling where all you could really focus on was how unnaturally warm he was. Going hand-in-hand with Haechan’s thumbs trying to meld circles into your hips became a good enough distraction to put the neurons firing off in your brian to a total stand still.

“Will kissing me help you calm down?” Haechan asked after a few beats of silence. “Or is that too much for you too?”

It was a very obvious bait only Haechan knew of to lure you in. The playful tone was too damning to let it fly above your head, yet you didn’t rise to clamp your teeth around the hook. This dragged on long enough and you were actually starting to get antsy because he wasn’t doing anything. He had every bit of power to do anything he wanted with you. You thought you sprawled above his lap was enough of a prompter for him to just take and take, but—

But.

Amber eyes. Striking as they always were even under the dim warmth of the accent lights, were less piercing as they gaze into your own pair. Something else lurked beneath the thin ring of amber, thinned by blown pupils. Something almost balmy and when you started to loosen up, Haechan wasted no time in gently taking both of your clammy hands to place them above his chest. He was warm here too, your palms curving over the slight swell of his pecs, silently marveling at the firm muscles.

Your eyes flickered a moment down to his lips. Haechan huffed softly with a wry smile. You looked away.

He was quick to catch your chin with a hand, however. “I’m gonna kiss you now.” He warned, moving closer and closer—

And Haechan takes.

Pillowy soft lips slot in between your own trembling pair in a gentle dance. Tentative almost, which you knew was your doing while Haechan remained patient in matching what you have set for your own comfort, surprisingly. Haechan was many things, and patient was less likely to be related to his person, yet it was all he was when he changed the angle and deepened each succeeding press of his mouth.

Technically, this wasn’t the first time you shared a kiss with him (them being in dreams), but this was the first time you shared an actual kiss, lucid. Mind ever present and attuned in the moment to feel and act upon Haechan’s lips. So very unlike the fleeting drag of his mouth from your own and down the length of your throat and Haechan kissed like he just knew what to do. Knew what would earn him a sigh, an appreciative hum, or even a airy moan you had just let out from a teasing bite on your lower lip.

And as expected, Haechan forgot what it meant to be patient.

Haechan cursed low under his breath as he pulled away, ripping his glasses from his face and throwing it onto the coffee table with a loud clatter before capturing your lips again, tongue slipping right past the seam of your lips to taste more of you. His hands were just as impatient, leaving his warmth everywhere and everywhere until he sets them onto your thighs encasing his own. Haechan wasted no time feeling you up, squeezing and rubbing the soft flesh as he went higher where one missing detail halted his movements.

He pulled away from you with a wet sound and pressed his lips to your throat, “Just panties?” He asked, voice low and hoarse.

“Easy access,” you murmured, running your fingers through the unruly, but soft head of jet-black strands and pulling him back by the hairs on his nape to take a good look at him. Pulling his hair seemed to do something, or maybe it was the fact that you’ve been hot and heavy with the way his cheeks glowed a faint rosy hue. You didn’t know an all too powerful demon could be reduced to a debauched version of himself through kissing alone.

It’s made clear to you again that you still have much to learn and at this point, you couldn’t even deny the feelings that conflicted with your head.

“Less talking and more kissing.”

You wanted him. You wanted Haechan and all the oddities that may come with him.

“Oh, darling girl,” He cooed. “I’m all yours.”

The gradual descent from soft and measured to desperate and graceless was an all-consuming sensation of the incubus pulling your chin down so he could easily lick into your mouth. Like this was his personal way of sucking the soul out of you, through the languid drag of his tongue against yours. It was hot, wet, Messy. So messy and the slick sounds of smacking mouths wasn’t enough to alleviate the raging fire burning underneath Haechan’s golden skin and with the way he was holding you so close to him, you would think he was trying to fuse your masses together from sheer willpower alone.

Kissing soon became a forgotten art form, becoming less invested in the sweet taste of him and more inclined to draw out rough, dragged out groans with the slow rocking of your hips. It was a heady feeling being able to have the upper hand, even just for a short moment because if there’s one thing that was painfully obvious about the demon, it was that he hated losing.

(It’s beyond you how he’s able to make anything into a competition).

And the shiver that wracked throughout your entire body from Haechan sneaking his fingers underneath the flimsy garment of your panties was all sorts of rewarding, gripping the bare skin of your hips to guide you into pressing impossibly closer to his hefty bulge. An almost perfect fit in between the apex of your thighs. He wasn’t done, however, because an arm wound around your waist to keep you in place, and an unprompted moan tumbled from your mouth from jerking upwards to match the languid circling of your hips.

“Like that,” Haechan said, breathless and mouthing wetly against your neck and still keeping up with the pace. “Like it when I know you feel good.” As if your brain wasn’t scrambled enough already he just had to say something like that and so easily too.

“Me too,” you said in spite of yourself, coming out as a whine. Almost delirious from the constant bouts of the incubus marking up your neck, gasping at the playful bite at your collarbone like he was demanding more from you. “Pretty. Your voice. I like how you sound.”

Haechan soothed the bite with kitten licks, letting out a sound, high and incredulous as if it was squeaked out from him. It was a funny kind of sound and you would have laughed if this situation took a sharp left. “You’re awfully honest tonight,” he noted. “got something to tell me?”

There’s a lazy grin tugging at his lips when he gets pulled by his hair again, akin to a cat getting caught in a place he wasn’t supposed to be at. Not even a grain of guilt could be seen on him as Haechan looked particularly smug. All too knowing of an inside joke you were ignorant to. It pissed you off.

It showed easily on your face as you scowled down at him.

“It’s probably your freaky magic forcing me to be.” Sure you were just as bad as Haechan not finding it in himself to shut up when it truly mattered, but you couldn’t say the same when it came to honesty or vulnerability. There was a faint trace of the citrusy scent you’ve associated with him too, especially when his magic was used. Yeah, that’s got to be it. It’s his magic doing all this brain scrambling thing.

Haechan doesn’t fight you on it, surprisingly, still maintaining that smug exterior despite how much of a hot mess he clearly looked with blown-out pupils and kiss-swollen lips.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

Although It did sound like he was conceding (a rare feat on its own, really since Haechan loved to argue as well. Like he gets a kick out of hearing you go off on a tangent. Almost like it was foreplay to him), you can never be too sure with him, and the next course of action was purely motivated by getting him to stay quiet. Keeping your lips on his did the trick, of course. An occupied mouth promised you absolute silence, save from the noises you managed to pull from him.

Pulling away, you began your descent; open-mouthed kisses mapped around the tantalizing bronze of his neck, something he deeply appreciated if the pleased hum was anything to go by. Hands dragged lower and lower to feel the firm planes of his stomach barred by his smooth shirt, until you were off of his lap and kneeling in between his legs.

And the tent in his shorts looked just as impressive as it felt pressed against you. You didn’t want to assume, but some crazed part of you had occasional ‘what ifs’ centered around his power being a direct reflection of his size.

Was it crazy? Yes. Was it as crazy wanting his cock deep inside your mouth that it could possibly puncture your esophagus? Definitely. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and you sure as hell will be milking it for all its worth.

It was always such a treat catching the demon off-guard, preening at the precious sight of a rosy blush coating his cheeks. “What..?” The absolute bewilderment was cute, actually, and you just knew he was going to be even cuter when you reached out, grabbed a hold of his cock and—

“Oh, fuck.” Squeezed.

You leaned in close with your other hand on his thigh and asked, “Can I?” as you batted your eyelashes once, twice and lips pressed against the cockhead strained against the material the third time. Haechan’s own pair of lips parted to let out a soft moan, whether it was from the sensation of you gently trailing your nose up the length of his dick, or just at the mere sight of you doing so, it was rewarding all the same—that Haechan was at your mercy.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want,” he breathed out, clearly trying so hard to keep his composure.

This was it. Morbid curiosity conjured all sorts of images relating to what could be possibly doing a ‘is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just excited to see me?’ rendition. It couldn’t be just a normal looking dick, right? The idea itself was boring and it’s pretty obvious that boring wasn’t exactly exclusive to the demon. He was anything but boring. Well, you were about to find out anyway and with an encouraging nod from Haechan, your fingers hooked on the waistband and pulled to reveal—

“Why are you glaring at my dick like that?”

You blinked, glancing from the supposed monster that almost took your eye out from how it sprung out of its confines and slapped against his smooth stomach, to a frowning Haechan, clearly taken aback by your reaction.

“No underwear?”

“Easy access,” you should have expected that his shamelessness knows no bounds. Whore. “Seriously, stop glaring at it, hello? It’s not gonna bite you or anything.”

“I’m not,” you were squinting, leaning in closer and not minding Haechan’s squirming as you carefully assessed the shaft, marveling at its length and girth by giving it another squeeze and watching the precome bead from its head in mild fascination. “Just observing—I don’t know, I was expecting something else and not an actual penis attached to you.”

“An actual—what were you expecting?” He demanded, voice high, incredulous and sounding all too judgmental for your liking. “Something ribbed? Monstrous? Like those Bad Dragon toys? Tell me, are you a monster fucker?”

“Not a monster fucker,” you grumbled and then perked up, peering at him incredulously. “you know about those?”

He scoffed, like he was offended that you didn’t think he was up-to-date with current trends. “I have an iPhone. I use Google like everyone else, dude. Google is amazing.”

“Did you also know that you’re not supposed to call me ‘dude’ before I shove your dick in my mouth, dude? Or did Google not tell you that?” You paused.

God, maybe bickering was some kind of foreplay for him.

“Can you just suck me off, please?” he whined. “I feel like my dick will explode if you don’t. Actually, I’ll even burst into ashes and die.”

“… really?”

“Baby, please.”

“Fine,” you heaved out an exaggerated sigh, not acknowledging the word ‘baby’. “if I have to.”

“You’re the one who got on their knees!” Haechan squawked, “and don’t make it sound like a chore—”

You didn’t let him finish that complaint, quickly taking the sticky head of his cock into your mouth and sucked. Salt and the barest of sweetness hits your tongue just as Haechan choked on his own spit.

“Oh. Oh shit.”

Haechan properly moaned as a hand gripped on your nape when you took him deeper into the slick heat of your mouth, minding your teeth, and pumping what you couldn’t fit for now punched out a groan from him. Loud and guttural—mostly loud. Unabashedly so—that you just had to take a peek to see what he looked like, completely losing himself in the haze of pleasure you brought up on him.

His head had fallen forward, eyes shut and breath turning shallow the more you take in his cock with each bob of your head. This wasn’t exactly your first rodeo, going down on someone, but with the ache you were starting to feel in your jaw, you might as well be inexperienced because of his sheer size. Haechan wasn’t obscenely big to the point it was going to be an impossible fit, though he was definitely the biggest you’ve had in your mouth (about to have in your pussy. Maybe. Hopefully?) so far and somehow, as if letting his spirit possess you, you took this as a challenge.

Your eyes were still on him when you released him with a pop, licking a stripe from his balls up and digging the tip of your tongue into the slit when you reached his tip to gauge his reactions. What made him tense? What was the likely trick to pull every lewd sound from him? What could you do to make him lose all grip on his control and let him take the wheel? It was meant to be a sloppy job, sure, but this wasn't just having Haechan’s pleasure as your priority, it was yours too.

And watching him fall apart just from your hands and mouth alone was doing something for you, something for the dampness you were starting to feel in between your thighs.

You’ve settled on a rhythm that seemed to tick off almost all three from your blowjob checklist. The grip on your nape was tighter and the sounds falling from his lips became all sorts of harmonious. Haechan had such a beautiful voice, a unique tone that would have been such a waste if you hadn’t stepped up to make use of such a gift, and satisfaction curls from within you knowing you were responsible for creating such a wonderful song from having power over a monster.

“Fucking Hell,” Haechan whined, stuttering as your name rolled of his tongue. The hand that wasn’t occupied held onto your jaw, your cheeks caving in beneath his thumb and fingers for a tighter squeeze around his cock and making you moan and gag as drool seeped from the gaps and down his remaining length. “I—I wanna try something. You up for it?”

His hand left your nape, letting you pull away with a sharp intake of breath, eyes wet.

You definitely looked like an absolute wreck right now and yet Haechan stared like you were anything but a mess. It made your skin crawl. It made you feel so seen, but you didn’t really have the strength to push back against whatever ignited behind his eyes.

“What do you want me to do?” Jesus, you sounded so wrecked already.

Haechan looked relieved. “I want you to relax for me,” he said, the same hand that held your jaw now cupped your cheek. “I want you to trust me.”

“Okay.” He hasn’t done anything to make you not trust him so far. “I trust you.”

“Okay,” he repeated and his hand was back on your neck again, nudging you forward until your swollen lips pressed against his frenulum. “Relax.”

The faint citrusy sweetness increased in its intensity, so overpowering that it usually meant that a headache would soon come along, but it never did. Instead, there was a calmness that washed over your feverish skin, seeping into your muscles that unwound all the tension in your body and making you sag forward. While this—whatever this was—was happening, Haechan lazily flicked his wrist to jerk himself off, minding your face before squeezing the base of his dick and moaning softly when catching your eyes.

Strange. Everything felt so floaty. Like there was this sleepy haze encompassing your mind that numbed all your senses and rendering control over your own body next to non-existent, leaving Haechan to do all the work himself; one hand still remaining a heavy presence on the back of your head with the other guiding his cock into your mouth.

“Open up, sweet girl,” then fucked in the entire thing in one swift go.

It was an instant stretch for sure, but you didn’t gag. Not even a bit. It was like that particular reflex had been numbed into nothing as Haechan wasted no time settling on a brutal place, fucking up into your face, blatantly using you—your mouth like a cocksleeve with each rut of his hips becoming rougher after the other.

“Look at you just taking it, fuck.” Haechan groaned, pleasure just as visible on his face from the faraway look in his eyes to his slackened jaw, freely letting him run his mouth. “You talk too much, y’know that? Always bitching about something and all I could think of was shutting you up with my cock.” He hissed. “Now look at you. So fucking pliant. Knew you were gonna be so good for me. ‘s like you were just made for it. Made for me.” you couldn’t help but whine as his fingers stroked your cheek full of cock.

It was a tight fit. So tight that it was the only thing you could think about, holding on to one of Haechan’s thighs to keep you anchored amidst the overwhelming fullness in your mouth. How you managed to keep up with the almost frantic thrusts, you had no idea, though it looked like you were faring well with pulling off every trick in the ‘sucking dick’ handbook if he was throwing his head back and gasping when you sucked particularly hard on the upstroke.

The sight was something else entirely. Pornographic almost, in a way the front row seat of the demon getting himself off left you squirming, hyper aware of how damp your panties have gotten that it stuck to your skin. All from watching and being used to get his fill.

You were so horny that you could cry.

You staved off your own pleasure to be of service to Haechan and you were just hit with how much you needed to be touched. A whimper broke out from you, garbled and broken when you couldn't even ask him to do something. Anything to make the ache go away.

“I know, darling.” Haechan gritted. You hadn’t even realized your eyes fell shut when they snapped open and met his pinched expression. “Just a little bit more. You can take more, can you? For me? I’m going easy on you for your first time. You should be thankful I did. Next time, I won’t be so merciful. I want to see you gagging for it. Choking on it. You’d do that for me, won’t you?”

All you could do was hum, nails digging into the meat of his thigh when he pressed your head forward until your nose digs into the nearly trimmed hair surrounding his groin. Still, you didn’t gag, but swallowed, still numb and the weight on your tongue was pleasant if anything. Your mouth felt so full and the pronounced ache in your jaw had tears brimming along the edges of your eyes.

You didn’t think you could wait that long, not when it clicked that you had both hands free. You made quick work of sliding your one hand down and into your panties, legs parting wide enough just as Haechan resumed his roughness. Your body burned hotter than ever, cheeks being the warmest, exponentially embarrassed by touching yourself in front of Haechan, whether he was aware or not.

It was quite the arduous task too, especially with the effects you were starting to feel when you remembered the tangy scent was there for a reason. Like something was being taken away from you. This was probably the life force the demon was talking about, seeping through every pore to be taken and consumed until you were fit to do it all over again.

You were beginning to fall into delirium from the onslaught sensations of Haechan incessantly rubbing against the flat your tongue while chasing your own release by the quick work of your fingers along your clit. Delirious to a point where you felt things that weren’t even there, winding around your thighs and waist. You had thought it was the demon’s arrow-headed tail that somehow lengthened, but when you checked, it remained wrapped around your wrist, the one laid across his thigh.

The discovery wasn’t exactly alarming. Kind of weird, sure, like the many oddities of Haechan, but you just chalked it up as his magic keeping you in place. Invisible ropes coiling and uncoiling around your legs as their way to caress your skin, grounding you, and acting like they were an extension of him and his subconscious. Almost like they were t—

“Fuck. fuck,” Haechan whined, following up with a, “gonna come—gonna come!” with his grip growing tighter and tighter. You were close too. On the brink of it, admittedly, and that was from being so wound up, simply watching that you were kind of surprised you hadn’t cum all over your fingers the very moment they slipped in between your folds.

On a surprising act of chivalry, Haechan did try to pull out from being buried in your mouth in what felt like hours of being reduced as some hole he’d get to use, though the moment he warned you again, you silenced him with a tearful glare and sank until your nose crushed into his pubic bone again, all the while holding onto the hand that never seemed to leave the back of your neck just to prove a point.

Blunt nails dug into the skin of your nape as Haechan shoots thick streaks of his cum down your throat with a choked off groan just as you moaned around his length, falling apart just shortly behind. Thighs shaking in exertion from kneeling and the orgasm that jolted through your veins that, in return, dissipated the fog of the spell? Magic? that acted as a numbing agent for your throat. It was then that you gagged. Almost violently as the sound wasn’t at all pretty, nor sexy, given the current setup.

You were fine though, albeit teary and out of breath as you took Haechan’s thick cum like a champ, swallowing every single, tartly sweet drop with the cockhead pressing at your soft palate. Once he slumped against the couch did you then pull him out of your mouth, sliding your tongue back-and-forth at the underside of his cock to tease and bring him to the beginnings of oversensitivity.

Haechan could only whine, lazily trying to pull you away, to no avail.

You let up, snickering at the withering glare he gave you.

Out of everything you tried, this was probably your favorite way of shutting him up. Granted, Haechan was mostly the benefactor from getting his dick sucked, it was loads better hearing an artful mix of his moans and whines than him actively trying to make himself out as the insufferable villain in your story with words alone.

“You’re a peach, Y/N,” Haechan said after gathering the much needed oxygen back in his lungs. “The sweetest peach. I could eat you up. C’mere.” You damn well hope he won't. Being eaten is like the worst way to die, even if you knew it was a little jokey-joke he’d often tell just to see you squirm “Let’s take care of you.”

Oh.

Oh. Right.

“It’s fine,” you waved him and the offer off. “I—um, finished.” You cringed. What are you? A wench from the Victorian period?

Haechan looked so incredulous for a man who just got his soul sucked out through his dick. “You did? Show me.”

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself, sitting a little straighter and pulled your hand out from your panties. The evidence was quite clear too, coming in the form of glistening fingers that Haechan immediately noticed and before you could even blink, he had you on his lap once again to stick his tongue into your mouth. One hand around your throat, not necessarily choking you, and the other sneaking underneath your top to squeeze your tit.

“Think you can ride me?” Haechan asked in between the rushed push and pull of your lips. “All this just from sucking me off? I could just slide right in no problem,” his fingers slid into your underwear, warm fingers dragging over your clit and shallowly dipping into your hole as he said this. “Fuck, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? You have no idea how much I wanted to fuck you since you first walked into the bedroom. You want that, don’t you? Say yes.”

Burying his fingers deeper into your wet heat, you keened, pressing both your foreheads together. “Yes.”

Haechan’s smile was absolutely degenerate.

“Good girl.”

Just then, the front door slammed open.

The surprised scream that left you was next to ungodly as your arms flew around the incubus’ neck as his fingers pulled out from your panties—

“Honey, I’m home!”

And in walked a man you had never seen in your entire life, apparently ripped all to Hell because of fucking course the first thing you’d pay attention to was his tits. Visible even under the shirt that was meant to be oversized with the sleeves falling past his elbows, and sadly, you were no better than a man. His pecs looked insane and in your defense, they looked at you first!

“Oh. Oh, was I interrupting something?”

“Yes. Fuck off.” Haechan hissed just as you exclaimed, “who the fuck are you?”

The stranger completely skimmed past the demon, more interested in your presence.. “Now aren’t you a catty little one,” at this, Haechan pulled you closer which was followed by a soft laugh. “How cute—and my eyes are up here, sweetheart. Can’t blame you for staring, though.”

Chastised by the call-out, your eyes immediately flicked up to meet—Oh. Damn.

A glossy pair of lips parted to show two rows of perfect teeth. Far too many teeth that you thought were impossible for a human to have, but that didn’t erase the vital fact that this random dude was handsome. So, so handsome to the point your brain was struggling to comprehend that this man was real. Soft and sharp sculpted with such precision it’s as if he was crafted by the gods themselves. A full head of silver hair, one side artfully pushed back to show strong eyebrows and round sparkling eyes, staring right at you.

“Is she another one of your humans you fuck to survive?”

Well, handsome in a way it was better for him not to talk. You know, to keep up the illusion.

Haechan tongued at his cheek. “What are you doing here, Jaemin?”

“Ah, right.” Jaemin casually strolled further in like he owned the place, the front closing by itself with a wave of his hand. Wait— “Lilith has been bothering Satan who has been bothering me to ask you when you’ll visit home.” Jaemin explained, then followed up with, “when do you plan on coming back home? I think more than five decades of complete radio silence is a bit much even for you, Haechanie.”

Oh great. As if one wasn’t already enough, another demon—by the damning sign of Lilith and Satan and Hell being mentioned—was under your roof.

You felt Haechan go rigid under you and you turned to him, confused at the sight of him slightly panicked. You had never seen him this panicked. “Um, never, actually!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s stated in Hell’s handbook,” It’s a real thing? “that I can’t leave the mortal plane when I’m tied down.”

Tied down? Did he mean the sigil somewhere in the apartment?

“Right,” Jaemin drawled, a thick and strong eyebrow arching in question with a fleeting glance towards you. “okay, so where is her mark then?”

“Here!”

Searing pain immediately bloomed on the inside of your wrist as soon as Haechan took hold of it, making you gasp as you watched delicately curled lines take shape into the sun. A small, inky thing the size of a coin branded on what was once the smooth plane of your wrist. Haechan’s sigil was now a permanent part of you too, a pretty little thing if you only knew what it meant.

“Well,” Jaemin coughed, glancing between you and the incubus. “Congratulations. Haechan is now yours, as you are his. You’re now bound to each other until death.”

Nevermind. The sigil was positively the ugliest thing to be tattooed on your body.

Haechan was already looking up at you, terrified.

“I can explain—”

“I’m going to fucking kill you, demon.”

“Haha… is that plain water in that spray bottle, or is it actually holy water?” Haechan asked, his placating smile waning as each second of you not answering passed. “Please tell me it’s just water.”

Haechan shrieked, falling to his knees and arms coming up to block his face when you all but jerked the bottle towards his direction with a sardonic smile.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

It took you three full days to forgive him. After getting on his knees to eat you out against the kitchen counter, of course.

“I’m not against tattoos or anything, but,” you took a quick moment to observe the mark he left on you with little difficulty in understanding just why this was even a thing. “do you have to mark everyone you sleep with? Is this for you to keep track of them?” The thought then immediately left a bad taste in your mouth. Did this mean that you were simply part of the crowd Haechan would entertain only when he needed to?

“I haven’t been sleeping with anyone else.” Haechan confessed, quiet. “It’s kind of the reason why I’m hungrier than usual.”

“Oh.”

That made a lot of sense actually. Venturing out in search of a willing body was a thing for the first few months of being under the same roof. Haechan would always let you know of his plans for his nightly plans out of politeness that nights alone had become routine as well. Then somewhere along the way, it became a seldom occurrence. Twice a week. Once a week. Once every two weeks until you had realized he spent more of his nights with you, but less energized than what you were used to seeing when he was ‘full’.

That still didn’t answer your question though. Why was he keeping himself from taking what he needed to survive?

“Why all this then?”

“This isn’t just binding you to me. It’s more than that,” he muttered, taking your wrist and twisting it upwards to stroke the sun inked into your skin. Tender, as if your wrist was fragile enough to break at the slightest pressure. “And It’s for my own peace of mind.”

IV.

Naturally, it became a regular thing, being bonded to an incubus aside.

Since his choices had downgraded to a singular source, there wasn’t a day where Haechan didn’t have his hands all over you, or in you since it was an unspoken thing that he liked giving as much as he liked receiving and it was treated as simply an extra thing of routine that you started seeking him out on your own accord, too.

Haechan wasn’t picky when it came to a time and place either. He had you laying on the floor once after betting he could make you cum on his tongue more than once (two was enough, but since he was competitive to a fault, he had you begging—had you crying for him to stop after the fourth time). You gave him head in the dingy stairwells of the apartment after a bad day.

In the storage room. In the shower.The supposed off-limits rooftop. On the poor dining table you had to disinfect two times before Yunjin came over. You ate on that thing, yet you spread your legs for Haechan to devour you until he was satiated. It was like an unspoken game of who can out-horny the other with little regard to privacy.

On most occasions, it was beneath you to even think of it, but the memory of Haechan holding you down on top of the working dryer and fucking your thighs in the basement slash laundry room, had you thinking otherwise. It was the most fun you’ve had in a while. Arguably your entire life, honestly.

Fucking around with Haechan was good. Great. Perfect even that all you could do was want him in every possible way you could think of. With every kiss, every touch accompanied by wicked promises breathed into your skin, Heaven was brought to you each and every time Haechan took you into his arms, having a piece of salvation for himself.

It should have been enough, oscillating between having his dick in your mouth and/or hands, or Haechan lapping at the aching center of your thighs until they quivered, or both at the same time. The classic ‘69’. (which almost always turned into a competition on who could make who cum first).

Yet greed had gradually reared its ugly head the longer you listened to your closest friends’ sexcapades that extended beyond heavy-petting and oral, because Haechan never dared to push further. The irony of a creature literally embodying temptation, yet never allowed himself to be tempted by a willing body was almost laughable, if greed and impatience hadn’t put together a simple, yet straightforward question.

“Why haven’t we had actual sex yet?”

The knife slipped from Haechan’s hand. A bloody disaster if magic hadn’t been an inherent part of the incubus’ origins. It paused in mid air before it could even reach the ground and levitated back into his hand.

“Can we talk about my day?” This was the fastest you’ve seen his face go from neutral to exasperated.

“You barely leave our apartment, what is there to talk about?” you pointed out. “and this is serious! Are you, like, trying to abstain? What’s the vegan alternative of taking my life force without actual penetration? Porn?”

Dead eyes stared right at you. “You’re not funny,” Haechan said, “and if I was abstaining, I wouldn’t have let you sit on my face last night.” Okay, fair point.

“Then what gives?” You groaned, acting as his shadow as he moved about the kitchen. “We’ve done everything but stick your ‘monster’—“ (Haechan’s eyebrows pinched together. “Why is monster in air quotations.”) “—cock inside me. Am I—” you paused, dread creeping up your system for a plausible reason why you aren’t getting dicked down like you deserved. “Am I not sexy enough?”

That startled a laugh out of him, the previous, bordering on dour front fading completely for his sunny smile to take its rightful place on his lips. “You’re plenty sexy, and cute too, apparently. C’mere.” It was almost easy walking yourself into his space, sighing as his warm palms rested on your hips. “Kinda miss when you were meaner. Did I successfully sucked the attitude out of you?”

“Oho. Didn’t realize I was getting a free show.”

You stiffened at the sound of the awfully familiar voice belonging to the current bane of existence and spun on your heel to find Jaemin on the couch, Switch joy-cons in hand.

The mortification of him listening to you essentially whining at the lack of penis-in-vagina action didn’t even get the chance to settle in when you were more annoyed at Jaemin seeking refuge in your home. Again.

“Don’t you have any other supernatural friends to annoy?”

Jaemin, totally unbothered by the visceral reaction, only gave you a sharp smile, like a shark getting a whiff of fresh blood, that raised all sorts of alarm bells. Terrifying thing, Jaemin. “Hey, sweetheart,” how he made a greeting sound so condescending, you didn’t know. Maybe it was a Jaemin thing. “You’re home early. How’s school?”

He looked to be in the middle of another session of rotting his brain by playing Animal Crossing, a mint green bunny speaking to him—his in-game character—in aegyofied gibberish. It was like looking at two Jaemins the more you scrutinize them side-by-side. One less demonic than the other, but still an uncanny resemblance.

“We don’t take in strays.”

Jaemin barked out a laugh, letting the joy-cons fall into his lap. “That's funny, coming from you.”

“I legally live here.”

“The legality of your living situation is nothing compared to my centuries of knowing Haechan,” Jaemin turned towards said incubus to bat his ridiculously long eyelashes that you held an irrational jealousy for. “right, Haechanie?”

“I hope your human crucifies you, actually.” Haechan quipped. Equal parts unimpressed and disgusted.

Jaemin gasped, eyes widened in disbelief. “That’s so uncalled for!”

“It’s what you get for giving your human rat heads and all the other weird shit as courting gifts.” You wished Haechan was joking, but it was the truth.

The first night Jaemin came in unannounced was the very same night the he, a demon who took care of striking deals with desperate humans in exchange for their soul—A Dealer, you remember Jaemin specifying for you—realized that maybe the feelings he was harboring for his assigned human went beyond what was considered platonic. That then created a domino effect of him asking for advice, you giving advice with Haechan’s own input and Jaemin, a man of tradition, somehow fucking up in the process which revolved around his… questionable tastes in gifts.

(Also, don’t cats hunt for small animals to give their humans as ‘gifts’ too? There’s a joke to be made here somewhere. Something about Jaemin disguising himself as a demon while actually being a cryptid. An Eldritch horror in a human skin suit).

“I’m heading out to get some stuff for dinner.” Haechan said. “Talk some sense into him, will you? He gave his human a bracelet made out of teeth.”

“The entire thing is made of teeth?” He nodded, grim. Then you turned to Jaemin who resorted to whistling a tune as if what he did was socially acceptable. “Jaemin!” You scolded, like you birthed him yourself.

“What? It’s either a freshly harvested human skull for her candles or teeth from the dental clinic I work at, take your pick!” Jesus Christ, this was actually worse than talking to YangYang and he says pretty fucked up shit on the regular. And the dental clinic made so much sense, you know, with Jaemin’s wide smile and many, many teeth.

“I’ll see you in a bit okay? We can have some fun when Jaem’s gone.” Haechan winked, placed a quick kiss to your cheek before turning to Jaemin and it was impressive how the softness he had for you hardened into something stern for the other. “And try not to give my human an aneurysm. You’ve done enough damage to yours.”

And then he was gone, like, he disappeared into a puff of hot pink smoke, leaving you to marinate in the warmth of being flustered by the sudden, but not unwelcome act of affection in the middle of the kitchen.

Jaemin appeared either physically ill, or an outrageous alternative for surprise when you made your way towards him. You didn’t know. Pretty as he was, he made the strangest faces sometimes that you sort of pitied the human bound to him.

“What?”

“What the fuck was that?”

“What was what?”

“That—“ Jaemin then did this poor impression of you: an exaggerated demure curl of his lips, his stupidly long eyelashes fluttering so fast you would think he was having a seizure and the most offending of all, a high-pitched, ear-grating giggle that didn’t sound remotely close to yours. You didn’t even giggle! Not even once! “Dick so good you got domesticated.”

You closed your eyes. “Please never say those words ever again.” Or I’ll kill you myself, you wanted to say. Though, he’d probably end up killing you before you could even attempt dumping a bucket of holy water on him. “and I wouldn’t know. I’ve only had him in my mouth. We haven’t gone further than that.”

“… interesting.”

Your eyes snapped open. “You hesitated. What did you mean by that, you fucking cryptid?”

Jaemin only smiled. Knowingly. Menacingly. You hated him so much.

“So!” He clapped his hands together. “Trouble in paradise, Haechan’s human?”

“Oh don’t you even start.” you snapped, falling heavily beside him on the couch. “This is your intervention. Not mine.”

“We can both have our own interventions.” You didn’t really want to. You usually didn’t do the ‘emotions and feelings talk’ with someone who’d forced friendship upon you if you could help it, but beggars can’t be choosers and Jaemin was stubborn.

So, so stubborn. It’s like arguing with a wall, really.

“You’ve got a heart boner for our Haechanie.”

You gave him a long, tired look. “You are so weird.”

And, well, that’s one way to put it. Heart boner, you scoffed. He could have just said that you were, in essence, in the same boat as Jaemin longing for something sweet and long-lasting that wasn’t in the platonic sense. (And sex. Lots of sex).

You couldn’t exactly pin-point the exact day where things had started falling into place. It was a gradual development, you thought. How Haechan’s habits became less annoying and more endearing as time went on. How you sought out his company more than you did your classmates turned friends. How you laughed at almost everything he said or did that you would have given a certain power couple a run for their money, and how you couldn’t even imagine a life without coming home to an incubus who was very insistent in keeping your health in check, even if it was more for his benefit than yours.

The final piece clicked into place when your body gave out, rendering you sick with the flu.

You weren’t exactly sure what you were looking at.

Maybe it was the medication Haechan immediately made you drink once it became glaringly obvious it wasn’t just a simple cold making you see things because there was no way a splitting image of yourself stood by your bed, wearing clothes that belonged to your incubus housemate.

“I’m dead,” you concluded. “I’m dead and my doppelganger is here to collect my soul.”

“No, it’s your super sexy housemate disguised as you.” The wide grin looked so out of place on your face. Almost uncanny valley. You’ve never used that much facial muscle before, and not to mention your voice. Is that what you sounded like to everybody?

“That’s even worse.” you croaked after a disgusting coughing fit.

Haechan—with your face and body—huffed. “It’s either you miss class and fail that big test you’ve got coming up, or I show up to your classes in your place, take notes for you then teach you the material.”

The answer was quite obvious already. If Haechan hadn’t existed, you still would have shown up to class and your tutoring sessions and your part-time job, regardless of being sick. Which was exponentially worse, now that you thought about it. You relayed this to the demon wearing your face, and you have never wilted so quickly underneath his intense glare.

“There’s some congee on the stove for you,” Haechan said when you thought he was satisfied with giving you the most disappointed look known to man. “Make sure you drink your medicine after every six hours and drink more water. No wonder you get headaches so often.”

“You sure it’s not because of you?” You argued. Just because you were sick didn’t mean you lost the will to fight.

“I’m serious. Don’t fight me on it,” and gosh, it wasn’t often he addressed you by your name, preferring to use a small pool of pet names he had reserved just for you, but hearing him say your name and with a tone of finality made you feel things you shouldn’t when down with a flu. Even if it was in your voice… and with your face.

“Take it easy today,” Haechan stressed as he swung your backpack over his shoulder. “And call me if you need anything—anything, and I’ll come running back, or—well, poof back.”

The congee was delicious, probably the best you’ve had in your life and it did help alleviate the symptoms, the ginger soothing your scratchy throat, you felt less congested and not a grain was left in the pot. You spent the entire day lounging on top of the nest of blankets and pillows on the couch, the faint smell of Haechan’s citrusy sweet scent soothing as you drifted in-and-out of sleep, the TV humming lowly in the background.

Haechan came stumbling in the apartment, now looking like himself, devoid of the disguise that creeped you out more than it did impress you and with a hefty looking bag of take-away in hand. He looked a bit ruffled, certainly had a long day when you reminded him of your duties as a tutor, a club member of multiple clubs and as an underpaid employee.

(“Your Google calendar is packed,” Haechan exclaimed, staring down at his phone. “what do you mean you have upcoming networking events? You already have clubs committees. How do you keep up with all this shit and keep a 4.0?”

“And how exactly do you have access to that?”

“... I’m not answering that.”)

Nonetheless, a sweet smile kept its rightful place on his heart-shaped lips, his entire frame perking up when his eyes locked on you.

“So, something interesting happened today,” Haechan started.

In no time, the coffee table was filled with food, both of you sitting on opposite sides. A random series which you did not all care about rolled on quietly behind you as you loaded your bowl with tteokbokki and it was when you stuffed the very first, still hot rice-cake into your mouth did you realize he was talking to you.

“Sorry, wha’?” you said in the midst of chewing, delighted by the sweet and spicy sauce.

“Something interesting happened,” Haechan tried again, snorting softly and reaching forward to thumb at the corner of your lips, then sticking said thumb into his mouth. “You had some sauce.” He shrugged.

“Ah,” you rasped. “So what happened?”

He smiled. A private little thing reserved just for you, and maybe a touch sweeter that made your insides fold in on itself. “What’s with this YangYang guy and his hard-on for your lunches?”

“I see why you and Jaemin are friends,” you said, nose wrinkling at the odd phraseology. “and technically, you made those lunches, so…”

“Ew.” He stuck his tongue out in disgust. “Don’t be gross. As if I want to do anything with that—that imp!”

“Why’d you say it like it’s a slur?” The delivery made it sound like it was. Not to mention he did not, at all, sound very excited at the thought of YangYang possibly meaning something to you. Which was. Understandable. “Is it a slur?”

“No,” he sighed. “He’s an actual imp.”

“What?” Something told you’ve been saying that word way too much. “Huh?” That wasn’t any better.

“You couldn’t tell? The way he smiles is a dead giveaway. His teeth looked sharp. Very touchy with me—well, you, too. Imps are literal menaces to society and would latch onto anyone for friendship. Seriously, how did you survive all this time?”

“You keep forgetting I’m human, demon. I don’t know all this supernatural shit. And why are you so bothered? Jealous that you’re not the only man in my life aside from Jaemin?”

Haechan’s face drew into a careful blank. “Eat your food.”

Satisfied, you shoved two rice-cakes into your mouth.

“I quit your job, by the way.”

You stiffened from where you sat on the counter.

He what? “You what?” Did he forget that you were broke as fuck? “Haechan, I need to work! How the hell are we going to survive?” And by ‘we’ you meant ‘you’ because only one of you needed actual food to survive. The other lived on vibes and sex which, okay, would be ideal in this life.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. As if it was that simple and he quickly stopped you from furthering the argument with a stern look. “I’m serious. I’ll take care of it. What I need you to do for me is start taking better of yourself. You’re already overworked from school. I’m surprised you still find time to tutor people.”

“Chenle pays very well, so…”

“Well, you can keep milking him of his money then,” from the looks of it, Haechan was fine with the Chinese transferee that followed Renjun (a friend made from YangYang’s insistence) around, and that was saying something since he did spend two hours tutoring the kid who was so loud you were surprised your hearing was miraculously left intact. “And still keep up with your clubs.”

Haechan flicked his hands above the sink right after closing the faucet, finally done with the last of the dishes, drying them with a tea towel before he stood in between your thighs.

“Should I know how you’re going to make this work now that I’m unemployed?” You joked and you knew very well that Haechan somehow paid his dues. You just never cared to ask how he was able to afford half of your combined expenses since you were more relieved by not getting any unwanted notices from Ms. Hong, or any of your service providers.

Haechan’s eyes glowed something along the lines of pensive and an unnamed emotion that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. All you knew was that you felt shy under his gentle scrutiny, his usual piercing gaze softer. That he was softer now that a wry curl of his lips accompanied the tenderness.

“What you should know is that you shouldn’t worry anymore,” he said, a warm hand cradling your jaw as the other rubbed the sun inked onto your wrist. “And that I’m here. I’ll take care of everything, and I’ll take care of you.”

Looking at Haechan right now, it’s like you were seeing him for the first time and suddenly, it all made sense. Maybe he was onto something, when he had said something so simple. That it was easy. Just like how easy all of this was with him. It was as easy as Haechan completing most of a puzzle and leaving you to attach the very last piece, painting a crystal clear picture of pointing out the obvious.

The sky was blue. The Earth rotated on its own axis, and you liked Haechan. Even with his oddities.

“Oh wow,” Jaemin said, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Your face already says enough.”

You scowled. “Says you.”

He shrugged, smiling softly to himself. “If it helps, I think I do know the reason why Haechan is holding himself back.”

“From what?” Was there a dumb rule in Hell’s rule book that Haechan, as a Hellian, wasn't allowed to copulate with a non-Hellian? Because you were halfway from the actual copulation phase of this arrangement and so far, nothing bad had happened. Yet.

“From you, sweetheart, and the last thing he’d want to do is accidentally hurt you.” Jaemin explained. “He marked you, remember?”

“Yes,” fingers absentmindedly ghosted over the sun on your skin. “I do remember.”

“Then that’s all you need to know.”

“Okay now that just sounds ominous,” and you were starting to get tired of the not very subtle implications of possibly getting injured during sex. "That did not help at all."

Jaemin just nodded, vaguely. Didn’t even try to elaborate on it. He’s so annoying.

The two of you lapsed into silence, looking at each other for a brief moment then averting each others’ gaze with a unionized sigh, one heavier than the other, as you contemplated the gravity of the situation.

“So… what do you think about a tooth necklace to go with the bracelet?”

“Why can’t you be normal?”

“What did you and Jaemin talk about?”

You could almost sob from being denied yet another orgasm. Apparently, Haechan wanted to find out if he could make you squirt, which then brought forth the idea of edging you so it could be a two-in-one experience or whatever the fuck. You only agreed because he did promise some fun after Jaemin left and you were obviously going to expect him to deliver.

What you didn’t expect was for him to bring up the so-called ‘girl talk’ (as Jaemin had affectionately put it) after what felt like hours of being brought to the brink of an orgasm and denied over and over again.

“Seriously?” You groaned, lifting your head up so you could glare at the demon peeking innocently between your thighs. Though, nothing was innocent with the way the lower half of his face was drenched in a dubious mix of his spit and your juices.

“You wanna do this right now?” Right when you were so close to leaking all over his fingers? “Just make me cum like you were made for, demon.” you grunted, emphasizing it with your fingers tightening in his hair as you rolled your hips, clit bumping against the tip of his nose.

Naturally, when Haechan was presented with a challenge, he’d make sure he’d win.

“Love it when you’re a little mean.”

The demon grinned something a little mean himself and it wasn’t long before you were crying out his name to the heavens. Some kind of bastardized prayer forced out by three of his deft fingers taking on a rough pace. Fucking into your sopping wet cunt and a mouth made of pure sin alternating between licking and sucking at your clit, all the while shaking his head to go in deeper, to have more of you until something builds.

Familiar heat simmered under your skin, body confused whether you wanted to wrench the demon’s insistent tongue away or keep him pressed against your wet heat to the point of exhausting him and yourself. Haechan made the decision for you though because somehow, it was like you were being held down, the same feeling of invisible velvet ropes coiling snugly around your waist, legs and all the way down to your ankles.

The lower half of your body was under his control, and all you could do was take, take and take until you were seeing white. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as a shaky, high-pitched moan falls from your slackened jaw. Your body went impossibly taught, thighs shaking as something more intense than your previous orgasms crashed onto you like a heavy wave, getting swept along the currents until you were certain you blacked out.

Perhaps just a few seconds of you floating about in limbo, then regaining lucidity at the sensation of Haechan petting your pussy, deeply immersed with his own fingers playing with the irregular spurts of liquid coming out of you. It was gross. It was sloppy. It was the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

“That’s one.” Haechan laughed, breathless and smug and the wicked glint in his gaze was enough to tell you he wasn’t done with you just yet.

“Care to give me more? I’m really hungry.”

This was going to be a long night.

Realistically speaking, this was no one else’s fault but your own.

“I’m gonna be late.”

So fucking late that you could give less fucks of how you looked less put together than you normally were with skipping makeup altogether and putting on clothes that you thought was presentable, yet comfortable enough to get you through the day. Haechan wasn’t even able to get a word in with you rushing around.

Really, it was your fault. You can acknowledge that, yet there were times where you thought blaming your misfortunes on others was the way to go to feel better about yourself. Jaemin in particular, because of course he had to say something (read: make you realize a few things) to inflict a milder version of brain damage. And there was also Haechan, a glorified, overzealous leech who drained a smidge too much of your life force last night.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Oh, right.”

And maybe you were really out of it, mind not being all too present, nor did you really care to ask what it was exactly you forgot because you decided that the expectancy on the demon’s face and his permanent pouted lips were context clues hinting to something. Sleep-addled brain put two and two together, then your body decided to move first, crossing the short distance between you and the demon and pulling him down by the nape to slot your lips in between his. It was a firm press. Brief, yet sweet and smiling against his mouth was as easy as breathing when Haechan returned the warmth in earnest.

Then, it was like your brain decided to do a factory reset. A quick zap to the frontal lobe where you became more alert than necessary, peering up at Haechan with wide, shaking eyes when you roughly pulled away as if the kiss burnt.

“I was talking about your lunch,” he said after a beat, lifting the Kuromi lunch-bag with a coy smile, like he was biting back the urge to laugh. “but that works too.” He’s teasing you, appearing boyish with an arched eyebrow and you prayed for the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Oh my fucking God.

“Right! Um—” you cut yourself short with a nervous laugh and numbly reached for it, totally ignoring how his eyes—right now, a close color to the embers from a campfire—were boring holes into you. “Lighter. This feels lighter and—smaller?”

“You catch on quick,” Haechan snorted. “Tell YangYang we’re going through a recession. He can’t share with you anymore if he knows what’s good for him.” Then, his eyes narrowed, still a touch teasing. “Should I be worried that you’re kissing him too?”

Your face was burning at this point.

“I’m leaving.”

You had never run away from a situation so quickly.

Breathing heavily, you slumped against a pillar in the small reception area of the apartment complex, heart racing at an unimaginable speed with the last thing you saw before you ran out of the apartment replaying over and over again: Haechan grinning to himself with his fingertips brushing against his lower lip.

He’s so… He. Is. So. You couldn’t even articulate the mess of emotions currently making your chest feel so tight. So tightly wound up like a watermelon with an obscene amount of rubber bands wrapped around it that if you had stayed longer, chances are you would have exploded into a mess of your feelings, splattered right at Haechan’s feet.

He just had to reciprocate the kiss, as if it was a natural response between people who had no exact label to what this was between them; and you fear that there was no way you’d be able to come back from that. Thinking about coming back home was already giving you cold feet.

Just as you were about to leave the building, your phone vibrated.

haechan 👹: babe? haechan 👹: you forgot your socks and shoes lol

Cold. Your feet were actually cold and looking down, your bare feet greeted you. The lack of two crucial items didn’t even register in your head from being so flustered.

you: . you: omw back haechan 👹: ok ! haechan 👹: do i get another kiss 👉🏼👈🏼 you: haechan. haechan 👹: sorry 🫡

There’s a shit-eating grin on the demon’s face.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

You slammed the door close behind you, feet now protected with the socks and shoes and your heart even less so.

“Um,” Yunjin started the moment she walked into a very peculiar setting of YangYang hovering unsurely and awkwardly behind your slumped figure trying to permanently fuse into the table with Renjun seemingly unbothered by all of this, scribbling on his iPad. “What’s up with her?”

YangYang’s eyebrows pinched even further. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He decided that a gentle approach wasn’t gonna cut it when you were about to keel over before any of them could figure out just why you were craving for the sweet release of death. Which, yeah, he could totally understand, but YangYang was nosy as all Hell before anything else and something like death could wait.

“She’s been like that for the past 10 minutes,” Renjun helpfully supplied before the other only guy in the room could wage psychological warfare. “Whining something about embarrassment, some hot guy in her apartment, feeling inadequate due to the pressure women face in society—“

“Hold on, what?”

“Feeling inadequate due to the—“

“No, dipshit, the one before that.”

“Some hot guy in her—” Renjun cut himself short and turned his head at breakneck speed to gape at you. “Since when were you seeing a guy?”

Yunjin’s face twisted, “you’re into guys?”

“A hot guy,” YangYang emphasized. “How big is his dick?”

“YangYang!” Yunjin hissed, bright orange hair whipping around wildly as she smacked him upside the head right when you answered with a resigned, “felt like I couldn’t breathe once.”

Yunjin looked like she had seen death altogether. “I already hate this conversation.”

Despite herself, Yunjin was all ears as you spilled the whole ‘hot guy’ situation; the dire details of Haechan and him being a century-something-old incubus being covered up by a multitude of lies. The most damning of them all being Haechan was an estranged friend you had recently reconnected with which landed you in the position of housing him for an indefinite amount of time.

And let’s not forget the recent development of you harboring real and scary feelings for a guy that had semi-permanently warmed your bed. In more ways than one.

This was sick and twisted. Haechan was supposed to be just some demon you’d occasionally sexualize, and now it felt wrong to do even that. You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to wake up to his face everyday, marveling at the constellation of moles that stretched from neck to face forming Ursa Minor. You wanted to kiss him. His lips. His cute button nose. His cheeks—everywhere on his face until it was Haechan whining for you to stop.

(He’d probably let you continue anyway. You whined at the thought).

“Okay, but I don’t see how it’s a problem when you’ve done worse than kissing.”

“I kissed him before I left,” you whispered. “we aren’t even dating.”

“My condolences,” Yunjin said, gently patting your back.

You moaned, burying your face into your arms. “I wished we were dating.” Or whatever the Hellian equivalent was.

“... my condolences.” Yunjin said again, quieter, as Renjun let out the ugliest snort you didn’t think he was capable of producing. You always viewed him as someone with no flaws whatsoever. At least you now knew that he wasn’t that unreachable.

YangYang was a little more dramatic with his reaction, his eyes almost bugging out of their sockets and looking as if you had killed his first born. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore! I didn’t even know you were seeing someone! What else have you been up to?”

“Well,” you shifted so that it was your cheek resting on your arms to properly talk to the three faces of varying curiosity (read: nosiness). “I’m unemployed now.”

“You quit your job?” YangYang’s eyebrows disappeared underneath his pink fringe. “Why? Aren’t you, like, poor? How’s that gonna work?”

Damn. He wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t need to put it like that.

“I hate being your friend,” Renjun said, on the verge of strangling the guy. “are you socially inept?”

“I mean, I was homeschooled until 11th grade, so…”

“Anyways!” you decided to cut in, now sitting up properly to prevent a possible crime scene from happening when you caught Renjun’s eye twitch. “Yes, I quit my job. But I’ll be fine. I—” you also could not say that your expenses were being handled by a demon. “—gained financial support. No, I will not elaborate.”

“Is that the clinical way of saying you got a sugar daddy?”

Technically, yeah. “Please be quiet.”

“No, actually.” YangYang huffed and you tried to make him explode with your mind. “And since you’re, like, jobless now, this means you can party!”

“You barely had any time for us ‘cause of your insane schedule,” Yunjin interjected from the sidelines. “and since once is coming up, it’d be nice to experience our own overachiever throwing back shots.”

You wrinkled your nose. Not that it was a no-no, but when was the last time you went out drinking and/or partying with friends anyway? Drinking became an on-and-off thing with Haechan (Jaemin and his human sometimes joining in) and was the closest thing to a fun night, so you at least kept your tolerance in check. Experiencing Seoul’s nightlife though, you couldn’t say there were plenty of memories, or any that stood out to you.

“Plus, it’s a Halloween costume party!” said YangYang as he sat down beside you. Renjun and Yunjin doing the same across you. “And I know you wouldn’t pass up the opportunity of judging shitty costumes.”

“Not shitty ones. The ones barely putting any effort into making it look like a costume, however...”

“Same difference,” YangYang waved you off. “Drinks are on me if you come. Your boy-toy can tag along if he wants. Maybe seeing you slutting it up in a nurse costume would change his mind and actually put a label on you two.”

Okay, one, you were pretty sure that ‘slutty nurse’ was so last season and has been since the late 2010s, and two—

“Absolutely not.”

YangYang’s extended invitation was straight-up refused, and thus the recurring irony of temptation personified resisting temptation, a.k.a, free drinks.

(Putting a label on it was obviously out of the question).

“And I can pay for our drinks just fine.” Haechan scoffed, pupils flashing a momentary carmine in irritation. If YangYang were here, the ‘sugar daddy’ debacle would no less be the topic of discussion and something that would probably get the demon to soften up. “YangYang can shove his money up his ass.”

Nevermind. You can already imagine an incubus and an imp duking it out in a dark alley somewhere. You’ve always wondered who’d win in a fight.

“So you’ll come?”

“No.”

“You’re so boring.”

And he was very adamant with his decision of not tagging along. In the days that led up to the party, Haechan’s answers had been firm variations of ‘no’s’. If you didn’t know any better, you would think the incubus was still jealous of the idea that YangYang, an imp, was friends with you (“he’s attached himself to you,” Haechan grumbled to himself. “I’m dragging him back to Hell myself.” You were way too baffled to even say anything) which then festered into immediate dislike.

“Oh, he’s totally jealous.” said Jaemin. Why you called Jaemin to complain about Haechan was honestly a new low for you, but he’s the one who knew the incubus on a deeper scale besides you, so. You made way more terrible decisions than this. “and petty too, I guess.”

“He literally has no reason to be when I��” you gestured vaguely into the air, “you know…”

“Want him up your guts physically and emotionally?” Jaemin snorted. “yeah I got that.”

“Why do you talk like that—you know what, nevermind. Point is, he’s being so unreasonable, and less fuckable the longer this goes on.”

“And you complain about the way I talk,” the demon laughed, “Listen, Haechanie’s—he’s weird about feelings sometimes, I promise. It’s just… the mark. It says everything.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Jaemin said, vaguely, with a charming smile that would usually distract anyone who only knew him on a surface level. You briefly fantasized reaching for him through the phone and strangling him to death. Knowing Jaemin though, he’d probably like it, the freak.

“What—asshole.” Jaemin hung up, FaceTime feed faded with his ridiculous contact image displayed, leaving you to ruminate your whirlwind of thoughts as you fell back onto the sheets.

The sun was almost always spoken with reverence. How its light breathed life into anything it touched. How its warmth was like a kiss from a lover—that sort of thing. Everyday, you wake up to the sun, one less warm than the other and as you lifted up your wrist to scrutinize Haechan’s sigil, its opaqueness against your skin was like facing an insult.

The technicalities of it all were almost headache inducing from how wishy-washy both demons were with it. All you knew was that the sun meant that you were Haechan’s. That was true in every way you could think of, but was he yours in return? You didn’t think he was. Maybe when you were tangled up in the sheets with him, but not when you were your own person anywhere else in apartment 66.

Haechan never did anything beyond imprinting his sigil onto your skin. Sex was just sex. It never went beyond a deeper, emotional scale and you would be lying if you said you were completely content with not having him wholly.

The first thing Haechan did as he burst into your bedroom was to laugh.

“You’re going in that?” he said through his giggles and doing a horrendous job at keeping them back even with a hand over his mouth. “nothing white, silky or lacy will cover the fact that you’ve let a demon corrupt you.”

“Fuck off.” You shot him an irritated look through the full-length mirror. “As if anyone knows I’ve been fucking a demon. An annoying one at that.”

“Ah-ah, angels aren’t supposed to cuss!”

“Get fucked,” you said, bored, and too focused on getting your make up right to pay attention to Haechan essentially eye-fucking you from the doorway. “It’s either this, or I go as a succubus. Turns out, I don’t want to be the very thing I hate.”

Which was, by the way, a total bold-faced lie where you could just tell Haechan wasn’t exactly buying it from the delighted smile he threw your way. Other than that, you looked cuter than if you had somehow settled with a cheap nurse gown. White, silky and lacy. Synonymous to anything inherently ‘angelic’ and something he would have fun in ruining to go with the whole concept of corrupting ‘the pure’.

“We would have matched, then.”

“We would,” you echoed. “But you aren’t even going.”

“I’m not,” he nodded and crossed the room to reach you. “At least I know you’re still coming home to me.”

It’s a mere fact, yet you’d like to think there was something more for you to pick apart. Warm hands perched on your hips and the way he seemed to take your reflection carefully, as if he was committing this dolled-up version of yours to memory with his gaze backlit by a strange amalgamation of emotions that were foreign to you. It wasn’t anything too alarming. If anything, all it did was make your heart skip a beat. A sweet face with eyes so intense you might as well drown in them. How could it not?

“You do live here.” Tilting your head, you gauged your own costume with your mouth drawn into a thin line, steeling yourself before you faced him and took on a coy approach. “Are you sure this is not convincing you enough?”

Haechan hummed.

Well…

If it were up to him, you wouldn’t even make it out of the bedroom, but he did commend your method of persuading him to come. A low chuckle rumbled from within the incubus as he was pushed onto the bed with you climbing on his lap and your lips locked with his. It was more tongue than anything else as Haechan took the reins. Slick, slow, but with purpose like he was speaking through each wet slide of his tongue.

You gently pushed him by the chest, separating with a loud smack and a deep exhale from you, “who’s convincing who again?”

“Me,” Haechan said with no preamble, dragging his lips down from your cheek to your throat. “This is me convincing you—crazy sex with me,” it’s ridiculous to think his proposition was sort of working. A very tempting offer right when his sharp canines teasingly poked at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you shudder. It’s what you were asking for, wasn’t it? Now he’s offering it on a silver platter with no hesitation. “or your dumb Halloween party? Take your pick.”

Decision making was the very last thing your mind could do at the moment when Haechan was hell-bent on keeping you where you were, and you weren’t really resisting him because if anything, you were making it a whole lot easier. Fingers tangled in the hair curling at his nape, a leg hooked over his hip, it won’t be long until you give in and spend the long Halloween night with him.

Then the doorbell rang.

“That’s Yunjin,” you mumbled against his lips. “I really gotta go—are you hard from just kissing? Even that’s a new low for you.”

There’s a flush high on Haechan’s cheeks when he reluctantly pulled away with a pinched expression, his mouth smudged with your lipstick and for a moment, the choice of staying weighed heavy with the benefit of painting cherry red marks on his beautiful skin.

“Can you blame me?” Heachan chewed on his lip before he huffed when the doorbell rang again, a petulant pout sitting on his lips. “The silk looks so easy to rip off and it’s an actual crime that you’re leaving me.”

“You are such a dude,” you laughed, a little winded as you pushed him off and rushed towards the mirror to assess the damage. “Ugh, you smudged my lipstick and like, a bit of my face makeup,” you groaned which was immediately replied with a click of a tongue.

“You’re the one who pushed me on the bed, so… hardly my fault.”

Heat crept up your neck, “semantics.”

“It’s really not that hard to admit that you want me. Your actions say enough.”

“Maybe it’s just your mag—”

“It’s not my magic, and it’s not my sigil doing it either.”

Well, that excuse was good while it lasted. You couldn’t think of anything else to say and so you settled with rolling your eyes as your version of raising your white flag as you made work with fixing up yourself, ignoring Haechan’s leering.

“You are actually so bad at being honest,” he complained as he got up and trudged towards you. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

You arched an eyebrow, but let him wrap his arms around your waist. “Are you saying I’m just a pretty face?”

“Darling, that’s an entirely different sentence.” He sighed, hooking his chin onto your shoulder as he squeezed. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying that you can always tell me anything and I mean anything.”

“Anything?” You repeated and he nodded, earnest. “Okay, would you mind distracting Yunjin for a bit? She gets impatient.”

You yelped when Haechan nipped your ear out of nowhere. “Not what I meant,” he grumbled, but did as he was told anyways.

“Hey,” Haechan caught your wrist before you were out of the door, Yunjin waiting outside. “Stay safe, alright?”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d just come, y’know.”

The incubus pulled you back with a snort, “you’re never letting me live that down, huh?”

“Never.” He rolled his eyes, leaning down to give you a quick kiss. “I’ll see you later.”

“Girl, you are beyond saving,” Yunjin giggled as she looped her arm through yours right after you pulled the door close. “C’mon, before you start clawing through your own door.”

Haechan was definitely onto something when he said he was a homebody above anything else.

That’s one of the few things you had in common with the incubus in spite of your busy schedule built around your academics, clubs, committees and your tutoring sessions and coming home to a place that radiated warmth was a great compromise from having, more or less, busy days. Perhaps it was the reason why you felt so attached to apartment ‘66’.

And the one time you had willingly traded comfort for a fun night out was where you found yourself in deep shit.

To be fair, the night started off great. This wasn’t your usual scene as you much preferred something a little more intimate rather than being suffocated by wriggling bodies, but the place was nice; one of the more upscale clubs and you supposed you were getting your time’s worth from YangYang making good on his promise. Free shit was the best shit and in no time, every single one of you drank like everything was water. Even the dubious mix of shots you’d normally avoid were thrown back with little resistance.

At some point in the night, right after you had your fill of dancing with your friends, all of you went your separate ways which you had no idea how that even happened when you had practically stuck yourself to Yunjin.

Now, you were completely alone and maybe you were drunker than you had expected to be, because somehow, the people wearing costumes of the creepy crawly creatures from all sorts of tales and legends looked a little too real for comfort. It’s either these were insanely talented art students dabbling in prosthetics for fun, or the guy that just walked by was actually a troll, since, of course supernaturals wouldn’t shy away from a party that sort of celebrated them and the dead.

(Also, you didn’t think anyone would willingly consider ‘troll’ as a costume choice, but to each their own).

You were buzzing from head to toe, eyelids becoming heavier by the second as your vision started to blur around the edges, the drowsiness slowly creeping in. You’ve always been a sleepy drunk, chatty at times too, but there wasn’t anyone in close proximity that was deserving of your rambling. None of your friends were in sight and the eerie feeling of being watched caused goosebumps to raise on your skin.

And this wasn’t remotely close to what you’ve experienced back home before you were made aware of Haechan. While the incubus you were essentially playing an R-rated version of house with meant no harm, this—whatever this was—felt sinister.

Everywhere you went, the lingering feeling of eyes stayed on your person. A prey being sized up by an apex predator hidden in plain sight and it was so apparent that some sobriety decided to grace you, pushing you to try and call your friends. Try being the keyword here because of-fucking-course none of them had sober enough braincells to pick up a damn phone call. So you did the next best thing: leave.

Everything in you was screaming for you to leave. Do not, under any other circumstances, look back even if this one guy who you bumped into was dressed as some socially acceptable furry. The dog ears were too real to be a headband, not to mention the wagging tail.

Which brings you back in the present: you being in deep shit.

In your defense, you did run out of there like you’ve never had run before. But obviously, you weren’t as fast as you needed to be. A careless miscalculation and now you were trapped—by the very thing you were warned about.

The brick walls dug into the back of your head and your shoulder blades as you let out a hiss, teeth gritting as this monster wrapped its claws around your throat and pushed you further into the jagged wall.

“It’s like you humans have a death wish.”

You were barely a step past the nearest alley from the club when you were roughly dragged into the dank space, mind all over the place with an escape plan barely formed. Actually, you don’t think you can come up with one right now. Or ever.

“I’m a little hungry anyways.”

Okay so maybe you took back the whole ‘not being scared of most things normal people were scared of’ thing because you were, in fact, scared of dying. In an alley of all places. Terror. Sheer, unadulterated terror washed over you like a bucket of ice-cold water. Frozen, unable to do anything but let the claws leave scratches on your skin that you might as well be staring Death right in the face.

Death was a burly man—a head taller than you at most. Death was nothing, yet everything where it was kind of hard to discern just what he was. The alley was dark, but he was darker from the shadows acting like second skin as its inky haze rose and fell, tendrils made of smoke reaching for nothing in particular. The very same thing it would do when Haechan took on this exact form. Then it all clicked.

Death to you was a demon.

The kind you were not at all familiar with. The kind you knew had eyes that glowed with warmth, this one burned with the intent to hurt. Maim. Kill. The one you come home to every day greeted you with a smile just as warm as the sunset that peaked through the curtains he bought, this one grinned like the monsters parents would tell naughty children about, teeth razor sharp that were enough to tell you that he’s meant to use them to rip you apart.

The one you would willingly break yourself apart for breathed life into you. This one was about to take yours and then break you apart by his own hands—by his own claws.

Haechan would never, this monster would and just like Death, it didn't wait for anything and its claws sunk into your side, ripping out a pained scream from your lungs as you struggled fighting back against. The monster only laughed and laughed, and laughed until hot tears streamed down your cheeks from the searing pain.

“That’s right, human,” he cackled. “Scream.”

God, did it hurt. The pain was unimaginable that you couldn’t even think of anything to compare it to and—Oh God. Haechan. How the Hell were you going to explain all this when you’re dead? Knowing him, it’s more than likely he’d avenge you, but how will he when he doesn't even know who had done this to you? It’s not like he could ask Satan for a list of all demons who were out on Halloween night, preying on innocent humans.

You would have laughed right at this moment honestly. Funny that even death could not stop you from thinking of the demon waiting for you at home. Maybe you should have just stayed in with him to save him all the trouble. Maybe this would have been the night where you told him he wasn’t just the incubus you’d call for when you had the extra energy to burn in bed. Maybe this would have been the night where you would confess that you’ve grown to care for him more than you should have.

Your mind called for Haechan. Your heart called for Haechan. Everything in you called for Haechan that you didn’t even realize you were actually calling out for him, much to the monster’s confusion as he stared at the glowing spot on your wrist.

With each second passing, you grew weaker and weaker, yet you still had a stubborn grip on consciousness because 1.) the claws stuck into your side hurt like a fucking bitch that you simply refused to pass out and 2.) If you were going to die, you at least hoped that the universe listened to you one last time and granted you a few extra minutes with Haechan to say your goodbyes.

Then the strangest thing happened.

Call it divine intervention, if you will, because one second, the demon was right in front of you. Tall and menacing and was so close to going in for the jugular where his breath ghosted against your décolleté, then he was toppled over by a blurry mass of smoke the next, like the monster’s burly build was nothing. The biggest ones fall the hardest after all.

It hurt less now. Barely bearable on the pain scale as you sagged against the brick wall, sliding all the way down until you were sitting with a hand pressing tightly against the bleeding wound once you remembered a post online that it would help to buy some time until you were brought to the hospital or something.

The scuffling then caught your attention, followed by curses and shouting in a language you didn’t understand. Though you knew enough to tell that both were angry, Haechan being the angriest you have ever heard him.

“Haechan,” you gasped, taking in the sight with widened eyes of the incubus lowered to a crouch and having the monster in a chokehold.

Both their backs were turned to you and only Haechan had the capacity to peer over his shoulder and there you saw it: pure rage contorting his face with his mouth drawing into an ugly sneer at the state of you. White slowly being stained by the redness of blood just as the shadows rapidly enveloped Haechan’s figure with your attacker struggling to break free from his hold.

“Close your eyes.”

It was demanded by a voice that was not his own, but a myriad of voices of all ranges entangled that left no room for any argument and so you did as he asked. Nothing came after that. A few seconds delay at most before the scuffling against the ground resumed, the same enraged snapping from your attacker as Haechan hissed and fought back with some choice words and expletives you haven't heard of ever.

Haechan spoke again, rage still present in the same unknown language with a level of finality. Almost like a threat and promise molded into one until the monster’s incessant squabbling was put to a stop after a sickening snap, loud even with the Halloween party goers littering the streets at this time of night that it made you flinch, your eyes still remaining closed. You just knew you wouldn’t want to see whatever Haechan did to the thing.

A wet and heavy thump. Followed by an exasperated sound that was somewhat of a mix between a huff and sigh. At the sound of his shoes dragging against the cement, still you kept your eyes shut and it wasn’t until warm hands cradled your damp cheeks did you finally open them.

Even in the dimness of the alley, Haechan still retained that unnatural glow to him. Beautiful, hauntingly so that the splatters of blood across his face did nothing but elevate it all. His eyebrows pinched together in concern as he took your hand that was pressed against the spot where you bled and cursed softly at the gnarly sight.

“Next time, I’m coming with you.” You could hear his voice tremble, but you didn’t comment on it and instead let him gather you up in his arms, minding your side as he pressed his forehead against yours. “Hell, you scared me. I was with Jaemin and out of nowhere, I started feeling anxious. I couldn’t breathe and—and I felt like I was stabbed.”

Your own eyebrows pinched at the information too. Those were everything you felt during that unwanted encounter with that demon that you sure hoped was gone. “How’d you even find me?” You didn’t think he would find you in some gross alley in Gangnam by pure intuition alone.

“This,” Haechan said as the blunt edge of his nail traced the inked sun on your wrist. “My sigil isn’t just for show, y’know. It’s like a warp point. I even heard you calling out to me. You sounded like you were in trouble.”

Well, yes. That was obvious. “I’m just glad I didn’t become, like, a midnight snack. Thanks to the sun acting as an AirTag, basically.” You chuckled, leaning your head against the brick wall. “With extra features.”

Haechan laughed, softly, and leaned in to press his lips to your cheek. “Yeah, basically.”

That at least improved his mood. You weren’t entirely used to the very rare instances where Haechan had to be serious. It was strange to see him like that when you would always leave it up to him, lifting up the mood whenever you thought was necessary. Perhaps you and your near death experience was too much even for him. That maybe he did care for you just as much as you did him and making him laugh was the least you could do.

“Grandma was right.” you joked, cracking a smile just as he assessed the damage. “The city isn’t too safe.”

“It really isn’t, but you have me. You’ll always have me.” and he spoke with so much promise, gaining some distance just enough for him to stare into your eyes, amber trading in for a deep carmine. And it was only right to believe him. “Whenever and wherever, I will be there when you need me.”

“You’re sweet,” you smiled, then winced when reality came crashing with the stinging pain in your side. “but can we get out of here? Do I need to go to the hospital, or can you somehow heal me with your freaky demon magic?”

Haechan then gets this constipated sort of look. “I can’t exactly heal humans. I can only slow down the residual magic that fucker left from spreading and—um…”

“And? Why are you hesitating.” The incubus pursed his lips, eyes straying to the side. “That’s not good. That’s never good. You never hesitate when you talk to me.”

He chewed on his lower lip before answering and you did not like the look on his face. “From a scale of 1-10, how pissed will you be if I tell you that you could die if we don’t get that out of you?”

“A solid 9.5,” you said almost immediately. “Get this shit out of me right now.”

“Right,” the pain dwindled down to something less painful, but still rather uncomfortable as Haechan’s glowing hand pressed against the wound. “Can you try calling Renjun?”

“I tried earlier. Not sure if he’ll pick up now.”

“Damn. How about Chenle?”

“I’m… not actually sure, but I’ll try.” You paused, suspicious. “Why though?”

“You’re not gonna believe this.”

“I can’t fucking believe this,” you moaned in slight discomfort as Haechan set you on the bed. “You’re telling me these two are witches? How do you even know Renjun?”

“I’ve known him since I moved here for college. He supplies me with the weirder shit I need for my potions,” Renjun appeared like he either swallowed something sour, or he actually felt guilty hiding this from you and leaving you all alone. A stark juxtaposition from Chenle, visibly buzzing with excitement. “You didn’t tell me you were sleeping with an incubus.”

“Aw babe,” said incubus cooed. “you talk to your friends about us?”

You grunted, lifting up your top to reveal the still bloody wound. “Now is really not the time."

“It’s a good thing you called right away, or else you’d be fucked to Hell and back,” Chenle chirped and the way he looked between you and Haechan knowingly in a way that warmed up your cheeks. “Then again, guess you already have been.” He grinned, almost cat-like.

You stared at the ceiling. It’s like everyone around you had no concept of what a verbal filter was. “Are you gonna heal me or not?”

Chenle got a smack on the head for that, whining softly as Renjun retracted his hand. “Sorry about him. He’s my apprentice.” The older witch said, almost resigned and folded both of his sleeves up. “Explains the whole transferee thing. He couldn’t bother to wait—may I?” Renjun gestured to your wound just as he jerked his head for Chenle to do the same.

“Go crazy. I think it’s catching up to me.”

You were starting to slur your words. Not to mention how weak you were starting to feel that you couldn’t even wiggle your limbs. You were burning up and with the panic on Haechan’s face no less, Renjun and Chenle got to work. Both of their hands glowing a bright green with Renjun pressing his fingertips along the tender skin.

“That is not very pleasant,” you said, grimacing at the sensation of tiny needles poking and prodding along your side. “Yeah, no. I think I’m gonna pass out.”

“Sleep,” Haechan stressed, a hand stroking your calf. “You’ll feel less like shit in the morning.”

“Fine. Don’t go anywhere or I’ll kill you.” You mumbled, fading as the magic continued to cleanse you of whatever vile magic that was. Maybe that’s why it kind of hurts. Renjun and Chenle’s combined magic are technically cleaning it out.

Haechan laughed, smiling sweetly. “Wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”

Renjun gagged. “Disgusting.”

That was all you needed to hear, and so you slept.

Contrary to popular belief, you were never a morning person. Otherwise, you would have done something about it if you weren’t so fixed with the overloaded schedule you had been following since the start of your college career.

This morning wasn’t safe from your contempt either as last night’s happenings came flooding back into your head. The chase, the attack and somehow getting saved in the nick of time. The panic from narrowly avoiding death from weird demon magic then Renjun and Chenle coming in clutch with sucking that shit out with their own purified magic and healing the stab wounds.

All in all, wild night. Never doing that again unless Haechan tagged along to protect you from the elements (see: hungry-for-humans supernaturals).

Though you supposed the mentioned incubus made this morning a little worth waking up. Your body was almost out of commission from how it aches, but your eyes worked perfectly fine. Maybe a little crusty, but even the eye crust couldn’t block how gorgeous Haechan could be underneath the warm glow of the late morning sun. It was almost unreal, like a dream come to life.

Heachan’s bare back was to you, sun-drenched and moles generously kissing his broad shoulders and down the length of his smooth back as if a past lover had done everything in their power to mark the love they had for him in small and permanent little dots. Though your admiration had to cut itself short when you had caught sight of something that you hadn’t noticed before right as the covers shifted downwards to show more of him.

Just at the top of his boxer briefs sat two dark lines that were at least half a centimeter wide and a couple of inches long—the length of your palm perhaps, sitting on the opposite side of his spine where you’d think the dimples of his back would have been.

Curious, you reached out, only to be stopped by Haechan catching your wrist.

“Getting handsy with me already?” Haechan inhaled a slow breath before yawning as he stretched and shifted to lie on his back, your wrist still in his hand now resting on the bare skin of his stomach. Smooth and warm with sleep that you unconsciously moved closer, his other hand tracing your spine. “Good morning to you too.” He said with a sleepy smile, eyes curved like crescent moons as he gazed down at you simply watching him—adoring him in his sleepy state.

Words simply could not find their way to you at the moment, so you only managed a hum, rubbing your nose against his skin.

He sighed at the feeling, “what were you doing?”

“Just looking. You have lots of moles. Kinda like constellations,” you mused, which pulled out an amused huff from Haechan, letting go of your wrist for you to wrap an arm around his waist. “There are also these… lines above your ass? Cuts? Scars? What’s that about?”

“This is the least sexiest conversation we’ve had so far.”

“Stop deflecting,” you said, placing a hand on his chest for your chin to rest on, scrutinizing the creeping hesitance on his person. “and tell me what they are.”

It went quiet. Silence filling in the spaces seemed to be a frequent thing now as you watched Haechan process everything that had transpired within the last five minutes with his face. Thoughts easily floating up to the surface by each pinch of his eyebrows, or twitch of his lips and then settling with a conceding sigh, peering down at you with little hesitance that soon crumbled into nothing when he was met by your own resilience.

“Up for a little bit of show and tell?”

That was going to be a bit one-sided. You had nothing to show. Nothing unique in that regard, that is, as you were, in every sense of the word, human. Painfully human. Comparing yourself with the likes of Haechan who had been part of countless tales told throughout centuries was like pitting a diamond (Haechan) against a sheet of metal (you). Like, yeah, both had their own uses, but diamonds were on a higher, more exclusive pedestal and out of reach.

And Haechan was just that to you. Out of reach, and yet somehow, he had no qualms closing the distance himself. As if it was natural for him to be this close to the point of considering the idea that you are simply the extensions of each other.

At the very least, you were right in assuming ‘show and tell in the bedroom’ was a one-sided thing. You were also right that Haechan would take this whole thing in stride; being the sole presenter for this morning’s shenanigans involving the very reason why he wouldn’t fuck you until you were a moaning, whimpering and crying mess. A miracle, really, that you’ve managed to survive the unwanted ‘Only Oral October’ challenge the incubus had going on.

Golden skin stretched miles over Haechan’s lithe and slim figure. Moles and freckles carelessly, yet artfully speckled along the expanse of sunshine while you laid on your back—manhandled to do so—simply admiring the incubus sitting on his haunches between the spread of your thighs without the faintest clue of what there was to show. You were already aware of the horns and the arrowhead tail languidly swishing behind him. What else was there?

“What are you showing me exactly?”

“Just… wait.” his lips pressed together into a thin line. “I’m mentally preparing myself for this one.”

Okay, that was very ominous, much like how Jaemin tip-toed around the conversation pertaining to Haechan’s prior incapability of sticking his dick into your hole and you were kind of getting antsy with the way he was dragging this out, gatekeeping his everything from you.

You ended up pouting and Haechan, who usually would fold at the sight of it, only narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t that supposed to be me? You look like you’re trying to take a shit.”

Haechan sputtered, “am not! You’re so annoying.”

“What can I say? To be fucked, is to be changed.”

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes,” he shook his head, face settling into absolute seriousness. “You sure about this?”

A click of your tongue. “Don’t make me beg.”

There’s an odd shine to his eyes, but it was gone the moment Haechan straightened his back as he stayed quiet. It was faint, but the hissing sound gradually grew louder just as a cloud of smoke materialized somewhere behind him. The smoke grew considerably darker and darker until it was the same inky black you’ve grown accustomed to whenever Haechan donned it as second skin, gradually becoming corporeal as it took on the shape—multiple shapes of something long, dark as the night sky with a sheen to them as they elongated above Haechan’s head. Writhing and curling in different lengths and girths merely floating about, as if they were waiting for the incubus’ instructions.

Though one of them seemed to have a mind of its own, Haechan appeared to be aware of it, the very picture of exasperation as it wriggled closer to you.

“Oh that feels weird,” you mumbled in wonder, watching a tendril, as thick as two of your fingers combined, wound around your wrist, palm and a finger. The feel of it was strange. Warm, velvety smooth and it was slicked with a viscosity that was foreign to you, but it made the glide easier against your skin all the same. “What are you exactly?”

Haechan easily chuckled at the question. Probably a frequent subject among his previous conquests. “A nightmare coming to life? I don’t think you’ll like me as much for what I truly am under all of this. While this human form earns the much needed attention, it’s also a good distraction from all this too,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the ghostly limbs inching toward you.

You hummed, agreeing with the attention part, and particularly feeling a little honest, “you're a beautiful nightmare, I can give you that,” and you can’t help but laugh at his preening. He knew he was gorgeous in every sense of it, but this was Haechan and you know of him to be a bit of a whore for attention. “As a distraction? I don’t think your face can distract me from these,” and it was then did the tendrils of smoke found purchase around your limbs.

“It’s just like being surrounded by more of you and—oh.” You stuttered to a stop when another particularly handsy tentacle slithered under your shirt, winding around the fullness of your right breast and pulling a sharp gasp when the slick tip rubbed and flicked at the hardened bud. “Fuck. That’s still so fucking weird. You aren’t even doing anything but—” the thought was cut off by a whine of your own and another one joined the fray, giving your other tit the same treatment just as Haechan bunched up your shirt to reveal the smooth skin being tainted by darkness underneath. “Do they—do they have a mind of their own?”

It took Haechan a beat too long to answer, visibly taken by his extra limbs exploring your bare torso. “Sometimes. But I’m in full control now.”

Right on cue, the tendrils creeped up your thighs like climbing plants with the goal to cover everything in sight, only these acted more as sentient ropes that spread your legs wider to accommodate the incubus. This was a position you were accustomed to as Haechan did try to have you as frequent as you’d let him, yet you couldn’t help but feel shy. Embarrassed at the fact that there wasn't much for you to do in lessening the exposure with the tentacles keeping your legs in place, and you weren’t even stripped down to your barest.

With the way Haechan’s heated gaze raked the length of your body spread across the sheets, you could just tell his own imagination ran the wildest it could be, what with his eyes essentially undressing you. Haechan then leaned forward, close enough that you could feel his breath hot on your lips, as the rest of the smoky tendrils followed and attached themselves to your arms resting on either side of your head.

With how they wound tighter around your forearms, you had a faint idea on what was to come. And it wasn’t like you were against relinquishing all control for Haechan to take over, to do what he pleased. Nonetheless, the thought still had your heart rate picking up. This was new and you were starting to think that maybe you bit off more than you could chew with the subtle insistence of wanting Haechan to fuck you hard enough that you’d cry.

You just didn’t think tentacles would be involved. An unlikely variable you never would have guessed to be the center of the demon’s reluctance. No wonder he was wishy-washy with his reasons, they looked like something out of an all-consuming nightmare that most people would have been put off by. A beautiful one if it included their host.

As if sensing your troubles—his sigil’s doing, definitely—a warm palm cradled your jaw as Haechan dipped down for a sweet kiss to soothe you.

“I won’t do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” he reassured, pulling back. “just think of them as extra pairs of arms holding you down.”

“Well, more of you to get used to, then,” you said with a wry smile and finding a little bit of comfort when he puts more of his weight onto you for another kiss, mumbling, “I can take it.”

And so you did.

One, that is. Baby steps, as Haechan put it as one fucked in and out of your cunt in place of his fingers. The feeling was an odd mix of familiar and strange. Familiar as it did the job of pistoning in and out of you like those machines in porn (not that you had any experience besides the demon’s long and knobby fingers doing basically the exact same thing). Strange because it wasn’t what a dildo nor an actual cock would feel like, but fuck if it didn’t feel good. Mind-blowingly so. The considerable length reached places you nor Haechan’s fingers couldn’t within their limits, proved by the guttural groan punched out of you when the tip had accidentally bumped against your cervix.

But even you could run out of patience. This was literally just an elevated version of what you and Haechan had been doing. Time and time again, it was all basically foreplay and you’ve had enough.

This time, you wanted the real thing.

You wanted to be split on Haechan’s cock that hung heavily in between the mouthwatering honey thighs if it’s the last thing you’ll ever have.

“Want you,” you managed to get out between the stray moans and whimpers that fell from your parted lips.

“Hm?” If you were any less than horny, the wicked grin he had would have been smacked off. “But you do have me, see?” He cooed, thumb stopping from rubbing circles on your clit for his fingers wriggling in to join alongside the thin tentacle making work of your pussy. “Are you saying this isn’t enough?”

You shook your head, almost frantic as one of your arms struggled to break free from the tendrils. “Want this,” you stressed, reaching for his dick. The head was almost a deep angry purple from how hard he was and it was beyond you how his self-control lasted this long. Did he even feel pleasure when the extra limb was doing all the work? “Want you.”

“Say that again?” He egged on further, like it wasn’t obvious that he was just as desperate. You knew him enough to see right through the facade he puts up. “You want what, sweet girl?”

“Want you. Want you to fuck your cock in me. Please.”

“You say the sweetest things, human. It’s adorable,” He cooed. “and it’s just right that I give you everything you ask,” and Haechan sealed his promise with a filthy kiss. Harsh and wet that you were certain a mix of your spit drooled down your chin, only for him to lap it up with his tongue and make a mess of your mouth again.

“No more foreplay,” you said as you somehow managed to keep him from sticking his tongue down your throat again. “Seriously, that’s all we’ve been doing before. I can take it.”

And just like the very night things had escalated in the sexual sense, Haechan inclined his head and smiled.

“That night, I said that I wanted you to ride me.”

The nights of all nights. How could you forget? It had imprinted a very clear image into the seams of your brain that you’d occasionally daydream about the various possible outcomes if you hadn’t been rudely interrupted.

“Think you can do that for me now?”

Everything went by so fast that you weren’t given the chance to take a breath. In a blink of an eye, Haechan had both of your clothes removed and traded places with you by the guidance of the pitch black tendrils and the ones winding up the length of your arms loosened to let you bend forward and capture his lips just because. It always felt nice to kiss him, and you wouldn’t shy away from cashing one in at a crucial time to give yourself a little more time to brace yourself.

It took the both of you to get to the real thing. A team effort with you reaching in between your legs to align his cock to your center while Haechan and co. kept you steady with his hands clutching at your waist so tight that you were sure was going to leave finger-shaped bruises to fade over time. Quickly if and if the demon kept his hands from wandering to the tender spots, but you can worry about the next time when there are more pressing matters at hand.

The sound Haechan made was almost inhuman just as a gasp flew past your mouth the second the glossy thick head of his cock breached your pussy. Inch by inch, you took him in as carefully as you could as it was an uncomfortable stretch for sure, given the experience you had gagging on it one too many times. Most of them being on pure impatience on your part and you weren’t going to risk a possible injury tonight. But just as the many times before, pleasure gradually overtook the discomfort.

“Oh my God,” you moaned, a high sound as you threw your head back. Nails digging into the meat of Haechan’s pecs as you rocked yourself to suck him in impossibly deeper, almost to the point of carving his shape into you and ruining yourself for any other man.

(You already did anyway. Developing real scary feelings for a literal Hell spawn).

“Oh, you’re into that?” Haechan quipped, hissing when you squeezed around him for his cheek. “I can be for you. How many times have you gotten on your knees for me again?”

Did he really have to antagonize you when you were milking him for what he’s worth? “Clearly not enough if you’re still talking.”

Haechan soon lost all sense of eloquence that should have been fit for a century-something-old demon once settling on a pace where the most you would get from was an incoherent sentence or two that you were sure were meant to be praises. Though you figured the pretty picture Haechan painted himself with the pleasure filled contort of his face was enough to say that you were doing something right. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be right behind him feeling blissed out yourself.

It was everything you could ask for really. The delicious girth of his cock stretching your cunt, rubbing against the sweet spots of your gummy walls had you sobbing his name when he would meet your movements in the middle. Skin slapping against skin leaving a mild tingling sensation from each bounce.

The heady pleasure only increased from there as the same pair of tendrils that toyed with your breast resumed with their earlier ministrations of squeezing their fullness and flicking your nipples. A sneaky one, thinnest of them all had joined in on the fun too. Wrapping around Haechan’s dick like a coil and it wasn’t until you felt the ridges from your descent on his length did you even realize what had happened. Either way, it still felt good and soon enough, something warm simmered beneath your navel.

“Ah—Haechan,” you gasped, your movements becoming more frantic each time the combination of him and the tendril rubbed against your sweet spot. “I think… close,” you slurred, losing all strength as you fell forward, almost breaking your nose on his collarbone if it weren't for the tendrils keeping their steady hold around you. “Can’t,” it came out as a whine breathed against Haechan’s burning skin. “Please.”

That might have just triggered something in him, a visceral reaction of the demon growling—a sound that definitely wasn’t possible for a human to make—as his presence became so imposing, smothering you to the point that all of your senses were filled to the brim by everything Haechan. He wrestled you onto your back as if you were nothing more than a ragdoll with the back of your knees hooked onto his sturdy shoulders and in no time, you were effectively brought to tears by the brutal pistoning of his hips.

You were steadily growing overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations that ignited a simmering fire that spread underneath your skin. Mouth curling around each syllable of the demon’s name as you wailed with back bowing against the bed when Haechan angled his hips, punching out a loud cry, bordering on a scream.

“Shh,” Haechan cooed as his thumb pressed onto your lower teeth to pry your mouth open, eyes wild and a wicked grin plastered on his face from the incoherent state that you were in. “You’re so loud. Our walls aren’t exactly soundproof, baby. I think I’m gonna have to shut you up if you can’t do it yourself.”

How? Was what you were going to ask if his thumb wasn’t pressing down onto your tongue, drool pooling in your mouth in almost an instant. Something else prodded against your lower lip and as you looked down the same two-fingered thick tendril slid into your mouth to replace his thumb, Haechan delighted as you moaned around the slick appendage shallowly thrusting in and out past your swollen lips.

You felt so full. Both your mouth and your cunt stuffed full that you thought it was a little fucked that you were enjoying the one rubbing against the flat of your tongue. The mysterious slick that coated it was surprisingly sweet, matching the citrusy sweet scent lingering around you 24/7.

You’ve never felt so fucked out ever in your life. This couldn’t even be compared to the past rounds of sex you’ve had with humans. This was an entirely different league on it’s own and fucking Hell, you were officially ruined. You just knew you wouldn’t be able to feel the same level of satisfaction from a human anymore, not when Haechan was capable of stimulating you in multiple ways by his own volition. For a brief moment, you couldn’t help but feel a little envious of the people who had had him like this.

It was all so good. Too good, yet so overwhelming in every way and it wasn’t long before you wailed to completion, body seizing up as your vision whitened and leaving Haechan to chase his own release.

“You weren’t lying when you said you could take it,” Haechan chuckled, sounding breathless as his hand pressed down onto your navel to punch out a groan from you. “I’m so sorry for taking so long.” He soothed just as your mouth was freed so he could kiss you in apology.

He stayed that way. Close, ever so close that you were essentially breathing into each other’s mouth as Haechan’s thrusts grew frantic, almost animalistic until he pressed so tightly against your skin to spill thick ribbons of his cum into you, filling you up the brim that it leaked out even through the tight fit of his cock, wincing at the mess your sheets would soon be subjected to.

For a while, the only sounds that filled the bedroom were you both catching your breaths in sync, yours more labored while Haechan was more controlled.

“How are you feeling?” He asked quietly moments later when he thought you had come down from the floaty headspace you were in. “Wasn’t too much?”

��Perfect,” you sighed, tucking yourself closer into him. “Just perfect.”

“Donghyuck.”

“Hm?”

Haechan’s magic had once again proved to be a useful asset in this home. It didn’t take that much time for both of you to recuperate from being fucked within an inch of your life, though he stuck to more traditional methods when it came to taking care of you. The sheets were decidedly changed with his magic, while he took it upon himself to clean both of you up with a hot shower where you might have fallen asleep once or twice.

It was a few minutes after noon. Lunch was had and you were sprawled across the couch where you had been made into a human cushion by Haechan, laying on top of him and simply basking in the stillness of the apartment until he spoke.

“Donghyuck was my name as a human.” He said, tilting his head with a smile void of anything that made him devious in nature. Something warm and sweet and reserved just for you. “Before becoming this. There’s this saying that knowing a demon’s name gives you power over it and I—I marked you. Made you mine without asking first and I think it’s fair that I give you my name. Give you me in return.”

That gave you a start, stiffening as you stared at him with owlish eyes and not quite believing the possible implications.

“Does that mean—”

“I am yours, as much as you are mine,” he said, warm palms holding your cheeks as he sat up to meet you in the middle. “As long as you want me to be.”

There was much more left to be said, certainly, but the way Haechan—Donghyuck kissed you so deeply as if you were his only life-line, pouring every thought and possible feelings that paralleled yours into each swipe of his tongue was enough. You had all the time in the world with him, an actual talk could wait.

For now, as you let yourself be wrapped into his embrace, this was enough.

Special thanks to Aria, Moon and Aeriel for putting up with my ramblings about this fic and sharing their ideas! You have no idea how much of help u have been and I’m very thankful for you guys letting me talk my shit 🫶🏼💖 and thank you for reaching the end of this fic! Especially to the ones who asked to be on the taglist! I know it was a longer wait than expected so I really do hope it was worth it 💖

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