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thealternateuniverse · 2 days ago

Text

You belong with Me

Bambam x reader

Masterlist

Warnings: Smut(?) if it counts as one

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"Y/N, I have a lunch with—"

"JYP, yeah, I already made the reservation. You'll be at the private lounge."

"What about the budget proposals for—"

"Done. Color-coded and on your desk."

"And don’t forget the contract for—"

"Stray Kids? Called Jinyoung. He’s drafting it, but he says you still owe him dinner."

Bambam leans back in his chair, eyeing you with exaggerated suspicion. "Are you secretly reading my mind? Or do you have little spies running around?"

You smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He exhales, shaking his head. "I swear, if you ever leave, I’m screwed."

"Good thing I enjoy watching you suffer, then."

He chuckles before rubbing his temples. "No, but seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you."

You mentally pat yourself on the back. Being Bambam’s secretary is a full-time commitment. If you had to describe it, you’re Donna Paulsen, and he’s Harvey Specter. The man doesn’t understand the concept of a break, and keeping up with him isn’t for the weak.

"No problem, Bam. I gotchu."

Just as you turn to head back to your desk, he suddenly remembers something.

"Oh, wait. I think you deserve this."

He lifts a small white envelope, waving it between his fingers.

You narrow your eyes. "What’s that? A bonus? A thank-you note? A restraining order?"

"Trip to Thailand." He grins. "All expenses paid. A whole week. You're welcome."

You blink. "You just said you don’t know what you’d do without me, and now you’re sending me away? Make it make sense."

Bambam leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Oh, don’t worry, I’ll suffer. But this way, when you come back, you’ll be well-rested and even more efficient. It’s a win-win."

You cross your arms. "Or… I could just stay there permanently and leave you to drown in your own mess."

He gasps dramatically. "You wouldn’t dare!"

You smirk. "Try me."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Nah, you love me too much to leave."

You roll your eyes, heart skipping a beat, but take the envelope anyway.

You hold up the envelope, inspecting it like it might be a prank. "There’s no catch? No secret work waiting for me in Thailand?"

Bambam smirks. "No catch. Just my way of showing appreciation. And maybe ensuring you don’t quit on me."

You narrow your eyes. "Mm-hmm. That part sounds more like the real reason."

He gasps, placing a hand on his chest. "Wow. Can’t a guy be generous without being accused of ulterior motives?"

You tap the envelope against your palm. "Not when that guy is you."

Bambam chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "Fine, fine. I admit, it’s a little bit of both. But mostly, I figured you deserved a break before you burn out and start plotting my demise."

You pretend to think. "Oh, I started plotting that months ago."

He winks. "And yet, I’m still alive. Must be the charm."

You roll your eyes. "More like my patience. Which, by the way, has a limit."

Bambam tilts his head. "And what happens when you hit that limit?"

You smirk. "Guess we’ll find out when I get back from Thailand."

Bambam dramatically shudders. "Should I be scared?"

"Always."

He laughs, shaking his head. "See? This is why I’m sending you away. You need some beach therapy before you actually murder me."

You sigh, slipping the envelope into your bag. "Fine. I’ll take the trip. But if I come back and find out you’ve made a mess of everything—"

Bambam grins. "Relax, I’ll be on my best behavior."

You snort. "That’s a lie."

He shrugs. "Yeah, but you won’t be here to witness it, so does it really matter?"

You shake your head, turning to leave. "Unbelievable."

Just as you reach the door, Bambam calls after you. "Wait!"

You turn back. "What now?"

He grins. "You’re still working tomorrow, right?"

You let out a dramatic sigh. "See? This is why I don’t trust you."

He chuckles, completely unapologetic. "Hey, just making sure. Enjoy your trip, assistant of the year."

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the small smile on your lips as you walk out.

--------------------

If your feet could talk, they’d be cursing you right now. Your heels felt like medieval torture devices, and your jaw ached from the forced smile you’d been wearing all night. When—please—would this damn party end?

And, of course, your boss was nowhere to be found. You’d spent the last hour weaving through the sea of socialites and champagne flutes, hoping to track him down so you could finally leave. You had a flight to catch tomorrow—destination: Thailand.

Bambam’s family’s annual charity ball was in full swing, a grand, glittering event that you had somehow managed to plan on top of your already impossible workload. And while you’d smiled and nodded through countless conversations, your mind was elsewhere.

You were dreading tomorrow. Not the trip itself—no, that was the one silver lining. You just couldn’t wait to escape for a while. To get away from all of this.

Spotting a familiar face, you grabbed the nearest (and hopefully sober) person. "Gyeom, have you seen your brother?"

Yugyeom blinked at you, swaying slightly. "Oh, he’s probably… somewhere… drunk."

You sighed. "That’s not helpful, Gyeom."

He grinned lazily. "Helpful is overrated. Besides, you know how these things go. Jackson got us all started, and once Jackson gets started—"

"—All of you lose all sense of responsibility. Yeah, yeah, I know."

Yugyeom patted your shoulder with the enthusiasm of someone who no longer had full control of his limbs. "Just… let him be. He’s having fun. You should too!"

You gave him a deadpan look. "I would love to, but unlike you, I actually have to leave in the morning. Flight. Early. Remember?"

He frowned. "Oh, right. You’re ditching us."

"Not ditching. Temporarily escaping before I commit workplace homicide."

Yugyeom laughed. "Fair. But if you’re looking for him, maybe check the balcony? He likes to hide when he’s had too much to drink."

You groaned but nodded. "Thanks, Gyeom. Try not to pass out in a fountain, yeah?"

He grinned. "No promises."

With a sigh, you turned toward the balcony, bracing yourself for whatever state Bambam was in.

You found the others—Jackson, Key, Mingyu, Ten, and Minghao—already deep into the party.

"Y/N… not even tipsy yet?" Jackson greeted, handing you a shot of Hennessy.

You glanced at the glass, debating. You were trying to avoid alcohol tonight—hangovers and early flights don’t mix—but one drink wouldn’t kill you.

"Nope. I’m ditching everyone tomorrow, and I gotta do it sober. Have you seen Bambam?"

"Oh, your boss? Yeah, he’s drunk off his ass. Went to the bathroom a few seconds ago—probably to throw up or negotiate with gravity."

Fantastic. Your feet were already killing you, and now you had to go find him again.

"Great. If he comes back, tell him I already left. And if anything goes missing this week, don’t bother looking for me until my plane lands back here."

The guys exchanged knowing looks, shaking their heads. They were used to your and Bambam’s chaotic boss-secretary dynamic. And you were dead serious about your DND mode.

"Well, enjoy Thailand," Mingyu said. "Just don’t enjoy it so much you forget to come back. Bambam will lose his shit. Hell, he’s probably losing it now."

Mingyu nodded toward the far end of the room. There stood Bambam, trying (and failing) to look composed. His stance wobbled slightly, and his half-lidded eyes gave him away. He was deep in conversation with Sandara Park, probably saying his goodbyes. She looked like she was about to leave.

"And… that’s my cue. Gotta vanish before he fully processes what’s happening."

After bidding the boys farewell, you made your way toward Bambam, who looked about three seconds from face-planting.

"Bam…" you called.

"Y/N!" he slurred, flashing a wide grin.

He excused himself from Sandara and turned toward you—only to stumble. You sighed, already predicting how this night would end.

"Hey, I’m leaving. Flight tomorrow, remember?"

Bambam groaned, pouting dramatically while still gripping his glass of Bombay.

"I regret giving you that damn ticket."

You smirked, arms crossing as you took in his state. His tie was crooked, three buttons undone, and his entire face was flushed red.

"And you should go home before you regret this hangover tomorrow."

Except… judging by the way he was looking at you—half-lidded, unbothered, borderline not comprehending. He didn’t argue. Instead, he placed his glass down on the nearest table. You pulled out your phone to call his driver.

"Come on, let’s walk out of here and at least pretend you’re sober. Your ride’s waiting outside."

Feigning casualness, you clung to his arm, guiding him as he insisted on stopping every few steps to say goodbye to people. By the time you finally reached the car, his legs gave out.

"Oh, for fu—Bambam!" you hissed, barely catching him before he hit the ground.

He was dead weight. Completely out.

"My god. This is not part of my job. Get it together! I haven't even left yet."

With no other option, you climbed into the car, directing his driver to drop your boss to his apartment

In the backseat, he was fully knocked out, snoring lightly.

Just another night dealing with your menace of a boss.

With the help of his driver, you somehow managed to haul Bambam’s deadweight up to his apartment on the 31st floor. By the time you got him through the door without breaking your backs, you were officially over it.

"Oh my god, I can’t wait to go to Thailand," you muttered under your breath as you tucked him into bed.

You should’ve left right then. But instead, you found yourself rummaging through his cabinets, searching for Tylenol or Advil—because knowing him, he’d wake up tomorrow hating his entire existence. You placed the pills and a bottle of water on his bedside table before turning back to him.

"Bam…" you tapped him gently, checking if he was conscious.

His right eye cracked open, barely.

"At least take off your coat and tie," you sighed.

He groaned, rubbing his face before sluggishly sitting up. With his eyes still shut, he half-heartedly peeled off his coat and tugged at his tie. When he finally got them off, he handed them to you—except, at the last second, he let them slip right through his fingers and onto the floor.

You exhaled sharply. "I swear to god, Bambam—"

Before you could finish, he caught your wrist, tugging you toward him. You stumbled slightly, caught off guard.

His grip was loose, but his voice was quiet—almost pleading.

"I wish I could tell you this when I am sober but.......I so badly need you. Don't leave, please?"

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your pulse thudding so hard you swore your eyeballs were about to pop out of their sockets. What in Merlin's beard was happening to your boss? You mentally noted to check the batch number on that Bombay—maybe it had expired or something.

"Uhh… you technically gave me the ticket," you pointed out, trying to sound casual, even though your insides were screaming.

You carefully tried to slide your arm out of his grip, but instead of letting go, Bambam pulled you closer. His head slumped against your stomach, his warmth seeping through your clothes.

You froze.

Your boss was drunk. You were not. And… what the hell was this?

For a split second, you questioned whether you were the drunk one, but no—your mind was painfully clear. And yet, here he was, clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Right…" he muttered, his voice rough.

You stood there awkwardly, weighing your options. Should you push him off? Knock him out so he could go back to sleep? Pretend this never happened?

"And I need to leave now because I have a flight tomorrow," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don't miss me too much. It's just a week."

The words felt hollow as soon as you said them. You realized, too late, that it probably fed into whatever drunken fantasy Bambam had in his hazy, alcohol-laced mind. You saw his eyes flicker up to you, dark and heavy with something unspoken.

Your stomach did a flip. This wasn’t just some playful drunken nonsense, you thought. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick with something neither of you could deny.

Bambam lifted his head, the vulnerability in his gaze cutting through the alcohol haze. "You don’t know what it’s like... being around you all the time. I’ve been... Trying to act..... Normal.....But you…mm" His words faltered as he inched closer, his hand now resting on your waist.

Your mind screamed at you to walk away, to snap back into your usual role, to remind him of who you were: his secretary, his subordinate, not someone he could...

But before you could finish that thought, Bambam was pressing his lips to yours. Your body froze at first, but the heat of it, the intensity of the kiss, was too much to ignore.

You could feel the tension snap, like a dam breaking. And despite every single logical reason to pull back, you didn’t. You kissed him back, feeling the desperation in the way his hands gripped your back, as if he were trying to pull you into his soul itself.

His lips were warm, insistent, carrying the weight of something he had been holding back for too long. He wasn’t just drunk; there was intention in the way he pulled you closer, his hands sliding over your waist, fingers pressing into your lower back as if to keep you from disappearing.

You melted against him before you could think twice, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

“Bam…” you whispered against his lips, unsure if it was a plea to stop or to keep going.

But he didn’t stop. His lips traveled down, grazing your jawline before pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. Your breath hitched, and your fingers instinctively tangled into his shirt, gripping the fabric as he pulled you flush against him.

“I think I'm going insane,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, heavy with something deeper than just drunken words. “And you drive me insane, do you know that?”

Your heart pounded as he trailed his hands up your sides, his touch firm yet careful, as if memorizing every inch of you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this was a bad idea. You knew this would change things. But right now, with his lips claiming yours again, with his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, none of it mattered.

You barely registered him guiding you toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. He sat first, pulling you down with him, his hands never leaving your body. His fingers traced slow, teasing patterns down your spine, sending shivers through you.

“Don't be thinking too much,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

You didn’t get the chance to respond because the next thing you knew, he was flipping the both of you over, pressing you into the mattress with his body caging you in. His eyes, dark and clouded with desire, locked onto yours as he leaned down, his breath fanning against your lips.

Your clothes were suddenly everywhere Scattered across the room in a blur of heat and hands. You weren’t even sure when or how they came off. Maybe you had been too distracted, lost in the feeling of his lips against yours, the way his hands explored your body with an intoxicating mix of urgency and reverence.

Oh my god. He’s your boss.

You’re about to fuck with your boss.

A fleeting moment of hesitation hit you, but then you glanced at him—his dark, hooded eyes watching you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, his pouty lips swollen from kissing you, his breath uneven.

You made your decision.

"You know what? Hell yeah."

This time, you were the one pulling him down, crashing your lips against his as you worked to remove the last of his clothes.

And damn.

You had seen Bambam in expensive suits, silk shirts, and designer fits, but seeing him like this, bare, raw, unfiltered—was something else entirely.

He was toned, every muscle defined beneath your fingertips, his frame lean yet strong. And his tattoos? You took your time tracing the ink with your fingers, your lips following the patterns across his skin.

Bambam let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against you as he hovered over you. "Didn’t know you liked my tattoos this much," he teased, though his voice was rough with want.

You met his gaze, smirking as you ran a hand down his chest. "Didn’t know you were hiding all this under your overpriced shirts," you shot back.

His grin widened, but there was something darker, more intense behind it. "Guess we’re both learning new things tonight," he murmured before his lips found yours again, stealing your breath, stealing your thoughts, until all that was left between you was heat and hunger.

And for the rest of the night, nothing else mattered.

----------

Bambam woke up to a pounding headache and a dry throat, his body heavy with the aftermath of too much alcohol. Groaning, he blinked against the morning light filtering through the curtains, his mind still hazy from the night before.

And then—flashes.

Soft lips. Warm hands. His name whispered like a secret.

His eyes snapped open.

What the hell?

Did he… have a wet dream about Y/N? His secretary?

He winced as the throbbing in his head doubled, rubbing his temples as he sat up. His first instinct was to reach for his phone, but instead, his fingers brushed against something on his bedside table—a bottle of water, pain relievers, and a note.

Confused, he picked up the note and read it.

I contacted the restaurant for your recovery food before leaving.

A slow grin crept onto his face despite the headache.

Of course. Y/N.

Always one step ahead, making sure his life didn’t fall apart—even after a night of getting wasted. He popped the meds into his mouth, washing them down with a long gulp of water before finally grabbing his phone.

No messages.

He scrolled. Refreshed. Still nothing.

Huh. So she was serious about the DND mode.

He leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. This would be the longest time they’d been apart since she started working for him. She was always there scheduling his meetings, handling his messes, reading his moods before he even had to say anything. And now? A whole damn week without her.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

This was his experiment, wasn’t it? Sending her to Thailand to see if he could function without her.

So why did it feel like he was already failing?

And more importantly… why did that dream feel so damn real?

---------------------------------

Thailand was a waking nightmare.

You had to put on your glasses—twice—just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating, you gave up the contacts for now. Every street corner, every billboard, every bus stop, every goddamn souvenir shop… Bambam’s face was everywhere. Smirking, posing, looking effortlessly cool.

It was like sleep paralysis, except you were painfully awake.

Even on vacation, you couldn’t escape him. You practically hid behind your shades and sweats on the way to airport because you were dead tired and slept the whole day on your first day here.

And it wasn’t just his face plastered all over Bangkok that haunted you. No. It was the ghost of that night. The heat of his touch still lingered on your skin, the memory of his lips burned into your mind like a brand. And the worst part? You ran. You got up, got dressed, and bolted from his apartment like your life depended on it, leaving nothing behind but the aftermath of a mistake you weren’t ready to face.

Now here you were, stomping down the bustling streets of Thailand, spiraling.

Using your DND mode as a pathetic excuse not to text or call him about that night.

Of course. It was a one-night stand. No big deal. He probably didn’t even remember it was you.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. How the hell did it come to this?

I mean… okay. Bambam was objectively attractive. He was rich, charming, and effortlessly cool, the kind of man women threw themselves at without a second thought. He was Jackson Wang’s brother, for crying out loud! The whole world wanted him.

But you?

You were his secretary. His friend. His personal damage control. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Just what the fuck!” you blurted out, stomping your foot in the middle of the street.

Passersby turned to stare.

You forced an awkward smile before speed-walking away like a lunatic.

This was a disaster. A catastrophe. A career-ending mistake. How the hell were you supposed to look him in the eye after this? How were you supposed to work for him like nothing happened?

You exhaled sharply.

The only solution was to draft your resignation letter the second you got back.

Because there was no way you could survive this.

“Is my brother giving you a hard time?”

Your jaw practically unhinged.

Mark Tuan.

Standing right in front of you, looking effortlessly cool like he owned Thailand.

Why the hell was he everywhere too? Was this some kind of twisted prank?

You let out a deep sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Mark. Seriously?”

He smirked, clearly amused by your suffering. Unlike his usual polished, business-ready look, today he was dressed down, in casual, comfortable, blending in like any other tourist. Almost. There was still something about his presence that screamed power. He might’ve swapped his suit for a hoodie, but he still carried himself like someone who could buy this entire city if he felt like it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, folding your arms.

“Business,” he answered simply. “Flying out tonight, though.”

You groaned dramatically, looking at him with the kind of silent desperation usually reserved for someone pleading for their life. Forget that he was technically your boss too, he was Bambam’s brother. Which meant he might be the only person right now who could truly understand your current suffering without getting into details.

Mark tilted his head, watching you for a beat before gesturing ahead. “Come on. I know a good restaurant.”

You didn’t argue.

You just followed him, hoping a good meal could somehow fix your life.

--------------

Bambam thought he had everything under control.

He figured the week without Y/N would be a welcome change. A chance to prove he could function without her.

But it was turning into a nightmare.

He felt restless, checking his phone every few minutes. He would scroll through messages, emails, but mostly—he’d just open Instagram, scrolling mindlessly, hoping to see one of Y/N’s posts, a story, anything.

Every time he saw something from the temporary secretary filling in for Y/N, it was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t right. They weren’t Y/N.

He found himself disappointed, irritated even, at the way the new assistant didn’t handle things quite the way Y/N did. The calm efficiency. The way she could anticipate his every need before he even voiced it. He missed her presence more than he wanted to admit, and every task, every email, felt... off.

It was a slow, quiet torture.

But there was something deeper gnawing at him. Something that wouldn’t leave his mind.

The memory of that night kept creeping back.

He kept replaying the blurry flashes in his head—the blackouts, the haze, the heat of her skin. At first, he thought it was a vivid dream. But the more he thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real right?

He couldn’t have slept with her?

Y/N was his secretary. His friend. She was off-limits.

But as the days dragged on, he couldn’t shake it. The fragments of the night—her lips on his, the way she felt in his arms, the soft murmur of her voice, the way her name tasted on his tongue. It all felt too real, too intimate to just be some drunken fantasy.

He kept thinking, wondering if he’d made it up in a drunken stupor. Maybe it was just a wild dream that his mind fabricated. But no—there was too much detail. Too much... intensity.

It was bothering him more than he expected.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, frustrated. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this. Y/N was supposed to be out of sight, out of mind for the week.

Her absence made everything feel like it was missing its rhythm. Missing its pulse.

Still, every time his phone buzzed with another update from the substitute secretary, or when he walked into his office without her sitting at her desk, his chest tightened. He kept expecting Y/N to just be there, to fill the silence, to make things feel like normal.

Bambam sighed, tossing his phone down on the desk. His mind raced, and for the first time in a long while, he felt... uneasy.

"Fuck this."

He grabbed his coat, adjusting his tie as he prepared to leave his office. He was done, frustrated, and in need of a change. Maybe a flight to Thailand would clear his head. But then—he froze, hand mid-air, suddenly realizing something.

"At least take off your coat and tie," the voice in his head snapped, and for a moment, he cursed himself for not catching it earlier.

“You drive me insane.”

"You know what? Hell yeah."

A chill ran down his spine as he stood there, the realization hitting him like a freight train.

"Oh shit..." The dreams he’d dismissed, the ones that had haunted him for months, were suddenly real.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He grabbed his phone in a hurry, leaving his office, half-walking, half-running toward the elevator, panic mounting with each step. He needed answers.

When he finally got outside, his driver was already waiting for him. Bambam climbed into the back of the car, still processing the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head.

"Sir," the driver greeted him, "Mr. Kim, how did I get home after the charity ball?"

Bambam turned his head to look at him, hoping for a shred of clarity. He couldn’t quite remember, and his brothers? Yeah, they were too drunk to even care.

"Uh... Ms. Y/L/N and I brought you home." The driver hesitated, unsure of himself, clearly caught off guard by the question.

"And did you drop her off after?"

The driver shook his head.

"Ms. Y/L/N texted me. She booked an Uber."

"What time was it?"

"It was already 4:30."

"Fuck!"

Everything clicked. The puzzle pieces were finally falling into place, and guilt washed over him like a tidal wave. That explains the no texts or any messages. That explains everything. He hadn’t remembered the night before... how could he not remember?

He had to go to Thailand. Why he needed to see Y/N? To explain? To apologize? Hell, he wasn’t even sure why, he just had to see her.

His phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. He checked it, Mark’s story on Instagram. A photo of his secretary—eating, no less. A stolen shot.

The caption:

"You deserve a treat for making everything easy."

Bambam’s blood ran cold.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

His heart pounded. Mark was in Thailand? And he was eating with his secretary? With Y/N?!!!

He wanted to scream. Yell. Destroy something. Anything to get the frustration out.

"Mr. Kim, can you bring me to the airport, please?"

His driver nodded, clearly sensing the tension. Bambam didn’t care anymore. He just needed to get there. Even if it means suffering and dreading in economy class. So he booked the earliest flight he can get to Thailand.

Bambam’s plane touched down in Thailand. His heart pounded in his chest. What the hell am I doing? His mind screamed, but his feet moved on their own, carrying him through the crowded terminal.

He had to get it together for being impulsive

He had no idea what he was going to say to Y/N, no clue how to even start the conversation.

"Separation anxiety hit me so hard, I almost wrote you a love letter. Be grateful I just showed up instead."

"Y/N, I was lonely and confused when I got drunk, and then I thought… you could fix that. So, hi!"

But all he knew was that he couldn’t let things be like this. He couldn’t leave things unresolved. Hell, he's still even wearing his office clothes and doesn't have anything but his phone and wallet.

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone buzzing again.

Mark’s story.

Another picture of Y/N, laughing at something in front of her. The caption read, "Glad I could make this trip easier for you." And there she was, looking... happy. With Mark.

The gnawing feeling inside him tightened.

Why, in the hell, Mark was in Thailand with his secretary. And they are together all night?

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. No more questions. He had to face what had happened—everything.

As he left the airport and entered a cab, his phone buzzed again, this time with a message from .....Y/N... Finally! After 2 days!!

'I'll be sending my resignation.'

Bambam froze, feeling like his world stopped. What the fuck?!

why does it seems like he couldn't catch a break.

----

You sighed, staring at your phone after finally sending a text to your boss—for the first time in two days.

Having Mark around made everything feel a little lighter, like a much-needed reset. He wasn’t prying or pushing for answers. He simply asked about work, about him, and you responded with the usual: your daily routine, the way Bambam was a perfectionist to a fault, how insufferable he could be when making decisions.

And then, maybe because the boba tea was too good or because your thoughts had been eating at you for days, you said something incredibly stupid.

"Let’s say, hypothetically, Mark, you have a friend. You two are close. Then you slept together."

Mark choked—actually choked—on his drink, coughing as he wiped his mouth. "Okay? I need the whole context before I die here."

You hesitated, but the words were already out. Might as well commit.

"You’re both drunk. Or, well… one of you is drunk to the point of forgetting. And the other? Sober. The next morning, the drunk one doesn’t remember, and the sober one runs away and pretends it never happened. What would you do?"

Silence.

The moment the question fully registered, you wanted to slap yourself. Why—why—why would you ask Mark of all people? The brother of the guy you slept with.

Mark, to his credit, didn’t look completely suspicious. Just… amused.

"Okay… hypothetically? Nothing."

Your brows furrowed. Not the answer you were expecting.

"You look disappointed." Mark tilted his head, giving you a knowing look. "But really, if I don’t remember, I go about my life as usual. Unless memories hit me like a ton of bricks, then…" He trailed off, as if considering something deeply.

"Then?" you prompted, unable to stop yourself.

Mark smirked, sipping his drink. "Depends. If I find her really attractive… I might continue what we started."

Your mouth went dry.

He chuckled at your reaction. "And if I wasn’t particularly interested… I’d just ghost or pretend it never happened. Simple."

Your lips parted slightly, forming a small "oh."

So, either Bambam doesn’t remember.

Or… he remembers and doesn’t particularly care.

Your stomach twisted at the thought.

"I see," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Mark studied you, his curiosity sharpening. "So… who’s this troubled friend of yours?"

You tensed.

The way he was looking at you—really looking—made you feel exposed, like if you lingered for even a second too long, he’d know. He’d see right through you.

Your phone buzzed.

You glanced down, checking your Instagram notifications—Mark tagged you in his stories.

You tapped it open, only to cringe at the stolen shots he’d posted. Oh my god. Did you really look that horrible when eating?

"Mark, seriously? You could’ve at least picked better photos and captions."

Mark grinned, unbothered. "The more dramatic, the better." He shook his head like it was obvious.

You tilted yours, confused. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Before he could answer, he glanced at his watch. "Oh, it’s already 4:30 PM. Cinderella’s gotta get back to the hotel."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname for himself but stood up nonetheless. "Well… thanks for today, I guess. Let’s just hope I don’t get flooded with hate DMs from your fans."

Mark smirked. "You won’t. They know better than to mess with the best secretary."

You chuckled, shaking your head. Best secretary, huh? Bambam would never.

Mark sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I won’t be able to walk you back, though. Didn’t realize the time—I have a flight to catch."

Something about the way he said it made you pause. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something more but wasn’t going to.

"Oh. Right. Safe flight, then."

You and Mark exchanged goodbyes before you turned and started walking back to your hotel. It was only a fifteen-minute stroll—just enough time to clear your head.

The evening air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as you navigated the lively streets of Thailand. Your thoughts drifted back to your conversation with Mark, to his hypothetical answers that felt a little too real.

But the moment you stepped into the hotel lobby, all of that vanished.

Your jaw dropped. "What the—"

Standing near the entrance, dressed in his office clothes, was Bambam.

His tie was loosened, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, and he was holding his coat in one hand—probably because of the humid weather. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it all day. And his eyes—dark, unreadable—locked onto yours the second you walked in.

"Took you long enough." His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it.

You blinked, still processing. "What… what are you doing here?"

He scoffed. "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe chasing my secretary across countries because she conveniently told me she is sending her resignation."

Your stomach flipped.

Oh, shit.

Your jaw remained unhinged, mind racing as you took in the sight of him—standing there, still dressed in his office clothes, not even bothering to change into something travel-friendly.

Bambam was always stylish. Always put together. But right now? He looked… wrecked. Like he had been through hell just to get here.

And then it hit you.

He flew all the way here, in a damn suit, because he thought you were quitting as his secretary.

You exhaled sharply, dropping your gaze before forcing yourself to meet his eyes again. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something Longing?

Your throat tightened. But you had already made your decision.

"I quit because I can't work with you anymore."

You braced yourself for his reaction. For the sharp retort, the mocking smirk.

Instead, his jaw clenched.

"If this is about what happened that night, then fuck it—"

He took a step closer.

Your breath caught.

Your eyes widened as he reached for you, his fingers grazing your cheek with an almost possessive touch.

"Two fucking days." His voice was low, heated. "Two fucking days, and I gave you space. But that’s enough. You can quit being my damn secretary, but you’re not running away from me."

Your heart pounded. "But… I thoug—"

"I wasn’t sure if it was real at first." His forehead nearly touched yours now, his warmth seeping into your skin. "I thought you were just serious about your DND mode. But how dare you think I’d pretend it never happened while I was going crazy for the past two days?"

You scoffed, trying to put some distance between you, but he didn’t let you.

"That’s rich, Bambam." You forced a laugh, but it came out weak. "You didn’t even text me. Didn’t even call."

His fingers tightened slightly on your cheek before he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. "Because I was trying to respect your damn space."

You swallowed. "And then you just decided to chase me to another country?"

His lips curled into a smirk, but his eyes still burned. "I panicked."

You blinked. "You? Panicked?"

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. And it fucking sucked."

For the first time, he looked genuinely exhausted. Like he had been running on pure adrenaline just to get here.

"Bam, you—"

"Why did you leave?" He cut you off, voice softer this time. "Was it because you thought I’d just forget about it? That I wouldn’t care?"

You didn’t answer.

Because yes.

And the silence must have been enough of a response, because his expression darkened.

"That’s bullshit." He shook his head, laughing under his breath. "You really think I’d let you go that easily?"

Your stomach flipped. "I didn’t know what else to think."

"Then let me make it clear." He took your hand, pressing it against his chest—right over his racing heartbeat. "I fucking remember. Everything."

Your lips parted, words failing you.

"And I’m not letting you run from me again."

"I…" Your voice trailed off, words failing you as you instinctively tried to pull your hand away.

But he didn’t let go.

Bambam’s grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to keep you there, as if letting go meant losing you all over again. His exhaustion was evident, his usual sharp gaze softened by jet lag and whatever insanity had driven him to chase you down here.

He sighed, shaking his head. "At least let me hug you. Damn, I missed you."

You swallowed hard before nodding.

The moment his arms wrapped around you, you felt his body relax against yours, his weight pressing into you as if he’d finally let himself breathe.

"Come on. You need to rest." You murmured, patting his back lightly.

Bambam groaned. "Badly. My back hurts from that goddamn economy seat. No legroom, nothing."

Your eyes widened in horror. "Wait—you flew economy?"

He nodded tiredly, rubbing his temple. "Yeah. Worst decision of my life."

You gasped, covering your mouth. "You mean to tell me… you flew all the way here… in economy… with no luggage? Just yourself?"

Bambam blinked at you, deadpan. Then he exhaled dramatically. "Baby… see how down bad I am."

You stared at him, still struggling to process how everything had escalated so fast.

It was one night.

One reckless, alcohol-fueled night.

And suddenly, he was chasing you across the world, sleep-deprived, professing—well, whatever the hell this was.

You didn’t know how things changed so fast, but one thing was certain: you’d figure it out soon enough.

Just… after he got some damn sleep.

----

Bambam jolted awake from his nap, his heart pounding when he realized no one was beside him. Panic set in for a split second—had Y/N left him again? He had dozed off in her hotel room, finally getting some rest after battling jet lag. Earlier, he had bombarded his brother, Mark, with texts, frustrated after waiting four hours in the damn hotel lobby. Mark had enjoyed Y/N’s company a little too much for Bambam’s liking—even posting her on his story just to spite him. And worst of all, it worked.

"You’re awake. You should get more sleep."

Y/N’s voice pulled him from his thoughts as she set down the paper bags she brought—probably food.

"I thought you left me again."

He caught the way her smile faltered.

"You should eat first, Bam."

Bambam sighed, running a hand through his hair as he sat up, still groggy from sleep. His heart hadn’t quite settled yet. The panic from waking up alone still lingered in his chest.

"Bam?" Y/N repeated, her voice softer this time as she unpacked the food, carefully avoiding his gaze.

He didn’t argue. Taking the food, he quietly started his meal while Y/N sat across from him, absentmindedly poking at her dessert as she watched him. The silence between them was thick—almost expectant.

As soon as he finished, he wiped his mouth and leaned back. "You can start asking."

Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She hadn't expected him to cut straight to the chase. Scrambling to gather her thoughts, she hesitated, searching for the right words.

"Why?"

She looked at him, confusion evident in her eyes, waiting—expecting an answer.

Why?

That same question had been running through his mind the entire way here. When did it even start? He wasn’t sure. Had he just grown too dependent on her as his secretary, mistaking it for something more? Or had there been affection all along—buried beneath layers of denial—conveniently masked as a simple boss-secretary relationship?

Bambam exhaled, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the table as he struggled to piece together his own emotions.

"You know, I used to think I just needed you. That’s it. You had my back, you knew exactly what I wanted before I even said a word—hell, sometimes before I even thought of it. I figured that’s what made you so damn important to me. You were dependable, irreplaceable, my right hand. But… turns out, I’m an idiot."

Bambam chuckled, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. His gaze flickered to you, lingering like he was seeing you for the first time—or maybe, just finally admitting what had been in front of him all along.

"Because needing you? That’s the bare minimum of what I feel."

"I love watching you work, you know? The way your brows furrow when you’re deep in something—concentrated, unbothered by the chaos I bring. How you line up everything I need like clockwork, like it’s second nature to you. How you remember my coffee order down to the last damn detail, and somehow, it always tastes better when it’s from you."

"And it’s not just that. It’s how good you look when you’re serious—like you belong right next to me, running this whole damn empire together. How perfect we are together, wherever we go. How your eyes light up over the smallest things—ice cream, desserts—even after back-to-back meetings that should have drained the life out of you. How you love seafood. How you only accept real carbonara, not that cream-drenched imposter dish."

"How you wince when a trainee messes up, like you feel secondhand embarrassment. How you laugh at my jokes—like, genuinely laugh—not just because I’m the boss, but because you actually enjoy my stupid humor."

"And then there was last night. That charity ball. That dress. You looked… ethereal. Like some untouchable goddess. Too bad I got drunk, huh? Too bad I was too much of a coward to admit all this before we ended up in… whatever the hell this situation is now."

He stepped closer, voice quieter but firm, his usual confidence laced with something deeper.

"It's shitty that it had to happen before I figured it out together but I don't regret it. And I know one thing for sure. I don’t just need you, Y/N. I want you. All of you. Every little thing about you that makes you you. And if I’ve already messed this up, well… tell me now. Otherwise, I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."

#bambam #aghase #choi youngjae #got7 fanfic #igot7 #got7 #jayb #kim yugyeom #mark tuan #got7 x reader #got7 bambam #python #got7 mark #got7 x you #kpop #kpop icons #kpop imagines

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tangerineastronaut · 18 days ago

Text

Let's Put the End in Friends | Jackson Wang (Part 2)

Part 1

The one where your best friend/sort of boyfriend really wants to fuck you.

Pairing: Jackson Wang (GOT7) x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff, SMUT, BestFriend!Reader, idiots to lovers Requested: Yes w.c. 7.8k Warnings: reader is bad at feelings, jackson is in love, two horny weirdos, "begging" for sex (but not in a bad/manipulative way there's a mutual understanding ok), oral - fem!receiving (the man eats it like cake even after he hits), unprotected sex (don't do it unless you're best friends with Jackson Wang and I'm guessing you aren't), discussion of contraceptives, breeding kink sorta kinda heh, brief talk of having kids in future, banter, teasing, name calling, dirty talk, I think that's all?? they're still really annoying except just horny now A/N: Ughhhh here's the part two that I desperately wanted to write and finally people requested it!! This chapter is like 15% feelings and 85% smut, but it's all kinda mixed in so I apologize in advance. Jfc I love these two so much. If this is bad I'm sorry! I love writing where it takes me and it all felt right. I love my readers so much. <3 Requests: Open (link below)

Requests | WIPs Masterlists: BTS | ATEEZ | GOT7 | Stray Kids

You hadn’t really known what to expect.

In dramas, after a confession, things were usually a little awkward, shy, sweet. But the day after Jackson confessed to you, he nearly bit your hand off when you tried to steal one of his dumplings. Granted, you bit him first, but it was his job to be chivalrous, not yours.

“Um, maybe eat your own before you try to steal mine?”

“I’m literally just a girl, Jackson.”

A few weeks after said confession, things were still mostly the same, as you were awoken by someone pinching your cheek. Bleary eyed, you squinted, looking up at a very hot, very annoyed face.

“Where the hell is my academy sweatshirt? I’m gonna be late for my shift,” he huffed, giving you another pinch. Jackson worked part time at an MMA academy, teaching a class of young children. Unfortunately, that meant three days out of the week, he had to wake up at 7 in the morning to be ready by 8. And if he was up, so were you.

“I dunno,” you whined groggily, rolling over. “I didn’t wear it. Promise.”

“Liar,” he accuses.

“Mmn. ‘m not lying, check my laundry.”

You hear shuffling, the sound of your hamper being opened (filled with clean clothes, because dirty clothes go on the bathroom floor of course), and quickly tug the blanket over your head as Jackson calls your bluff.

“At least it’s clean,” you attempt to plead your case, but the covers are yanked off. You yelp as Jackson flips you onto your back and begins to tickle you.

“Didn’t wear it, huh? Seriously, of all my clothes?” he snarls, fingers digging into your sides. You can’t speak; you instead make animalistic noises of possession as you attempt to free yourself. You wrap your legs around his waist and shove at his chest, shouting apologies in between fits of laughter.

At last, the tickling ends, and you all but collapse against the sheets, sprawled out like half a starfish.

“I’m going to start charging you for the things you steal,” Jackson says, breathless himself from the efforts of torture. Only then are you made aware that his hands are on your thighs. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, until you do, when he squeezes them beneath his palms and brushes his thumbs under your pajama shorts.

“Hey,” you warn, wriggling beneath him. He laughs and leans over you.

“What?”

“You know what. Get off of me.”

He sighs, letting his head drop down as though weary.

When he looks at you again, his eyes have gone all soft, and it makes you feel warm and tingly inside. You swallow and force yourself to look away. You weren’t completely immune to his charms and didn’t want to risk it, answering the question he hadn’t asked.

“Nope.”

That was the deal.

Kissing was alright—as long as it wasn’t too long or too deep. Touching was fine too, just avoid any erogenous zones. Truthfully, you weren’t sure why you’d placed such heavy restrictions on your…relationship? Whatever this was. Probably because at the end of the day, you were still terrified of losing him. Of crossing a bridge that crumbles behind you, never being able to return to where you were.

Right now, the two of you could still be around your friends, could still shamelessly flirt and insist it isn’t flirting. When you’d shown up to dinner with the guys, your hand clasped in Jackson’s to test the waters, no one said a word. Youngjae crinkled his nose and said it was cringe…and that’s it. That was the only reaction. The only people surprised about this development were the two of you, apparently, mostly you. And, you hadn’t realized how horny you were for one another.

When you’d stare at him after a shower, when he had the audacity to drink juice from the carton wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, you noticed that…you’ve always stared. That wasn’t new. It’s just that you were now aware of it, and also very aware of how it felt to see his throat working as he swallows, beads of water dripping down his chest and following the dip of his abs like a treasure map for your tongue—

But it went both ways, fortunately, as Jackson’s playful way of grabbing your waist when you were busily bent over no longer felt fun, but rather, made you want to push against him, feel his hands sliding elsewhere, because god had they always been so big? Had his fingers always been so long?

Presently, Jackson rolls his eyes and kisses your cheek. You refuse to look at him still, so he tilts down, where his lips brush your throat; when your head snaps up to scold him, he takes the opportunity to catch your lips with his, sighing as though relieved.

Kissing him feels so normal that it’s almost painful, like every second his lips are against yours, you ask yourself why you were so stupid, why you hadn’t noticed before, why you hadn’t understood that the feelings you’ve had for him were being confused for platonic when they were much, much closer to something akin to lo—

“Mmff…ou’re ‘unna ‘ee ate,” you mumble, though Jackson doesn’t stop kissing you. You giggle as your words are slurred by his mouth, which in turn makes him smile, which in turn makes you wrap your arms around his neck and consider begging him to let the kids down just this once.

You know he wouldn’t hesitate. So that’s why you groan and push him away. You squirm from beneath him before he can snatch you up, fixing your pajamas as though you were preparing to walk the red carpet. When you look up at Jackson, he’s on his knees on your bed, hands gripping the covers and head tilted to the side. Oh.

“Stop looking at me like that, puppy boy,” you mumble, rolling your eyes. You cross your arms, taking on the weight of the world’s strongest soldier as Jackson fucking Wang silently begs to bend you over the mattress

Jackson lets his legs slip over the side, feet planted on the floor as he tugs you toward him by the strings of your shorts. You whine in protest—losing a drawstring was so—

“I think you like it when I beg,” Jackson says, voice too low to be good for your health. You look at him in surprise, his expression hasn’t really changed, but why did he have to do this to you?

“I think you’re gonna be late,” you huff, feeling your cheeks redden.

“I think you’re cute when you blush.”

“I think—”

“I think we’re gonna be good for each other.”

“It was my turn,” you pout. “I think you need a cold shower.”

Jackson mumbles something you don’t catch as he nuzzles his face against your stomach. His arms hang loosely around your hips, and you’re once again left with emotional whiplash as the man somehow goes from fuck me~ to hold me in the span of a few seconds. You swallow and rake your fingers through his hair (which he pulls at less nowadays, thanks to your nagging).

“I want to,” you say quietly, nails scratching at his head. “But I’m scared. Like…we could probably bounce back from this, and from holding hands and even kissing. But I’m afraid that I’d never be able to, you know, not hurt around you the further we go if things turn out bad. We just don’t know what’ll happen if we commit. That’s scary.”

To your surprise, Jackson squeezes you tighter. He tilts his head back to look up at you, his chin resting just above your belly button.

“What is it gonna take, pie?” he asks softly. Your brows furrow, though he continues. “What’s it gonna take for you to realize I’ve been yours this entire time?”

Your breath catches in your throat; you know he can feel it from the way your stomach tightens. He noses at the material of your top, planting a kiss there. Then the bastard opens his mouth again. You can taste his words.

“You own me, baby.”

You wake up confused and sweaty, fumbling around for your phone. You grab the device and groan—it’s not even five in the morning, and it’s a saturday.

The dream woke you up. You and Jackson had an idea to conserve water, apparently, sharing a shower too small for one person let alone two. Your brain filled in the blanks for the missing information, unfortunately for you, though you had no doubt he was as beautiful in this reality, too.

It was almost impossible for you to go back to sleep after waking up usually, so you throw the covers off with much more attitude than necessary before quietly stepping out of your room. The light beneath Jackson’s door is off, and you tiptoe down the hall, but when you round the corner to the kitchen you gasp in surprise.

Jackson raises a brow at you, taking a sip from the bottle of water in his hand. He’s wearing nothing but black boxers, showing off the lean muscles he works so hard on. So very hard.

“You’re up?” he asks, and by his raspy tone it’s clear he woke up not long before you. You nod and shrug for no reason at all other than to distract from the fact that your eyes are eating him alive. He has the sexiest bedhead, and the thin chain he wears glints as it drapes over his collar bones.

“Thirsty,” you lie. You move past him to reach the fridge, but an arm hooks around your waist. You inhale sharply as you’re tugged against his chest, the warmth of him shooting tingles down your back. You swallow, and he holds the bottle in front of you.

“Here,” he mumbles. He sounds so casual, like his actions hadn’t just made your soul briefly leave your physical form. You take the water from him and tilt your head back for a sip, not having realized how thirsty you were until you’ve finished half of it.

You turn around, though he doesn’t release you, so you remain pressed to his bare chest. You have no idea why, but you lean forward and kiss him just below his collar bone, realizing too late how cruel you were being. In an attempt to make it chaste, you kiss the other side, right above his heart, though Jackson’s hand flies to your hair. He cups the back of your head and refuses to let you move.

“Jackson,” you protest, but he whines.

He fucking. Whines.

“Please, pie. Just keep your lips on me. Please,” he breathes. You exhale a shaky breath and nod.

“Okay,” you say quietly, and you swear he sighs with relief. You watch his face, tilting in again and pressing another kiss to the same spot as before. Jackson nods, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips.

You kiss the center of his chest, lips dragging over his skin to his left pec. When you move a tad bit lower, this time where his heart beats, he hisses and tightens his grip in your hair. You gasp for all the right reasons, though he doesn’t know that.

“Fuck, sorry,” he whispers as though the two of you are sneaking around rather than doing…whatever this was in the middle of your shared kitchen. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you giggle softly. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

Jackson looks down at you, his expression morphing completely into…calmness? But it still puts you on edge.

“What’d I say?” you ask with a frown.

“I haven’t had sex in almost a year,” he admits.

You blink.

“You…what?” you breathe, shaking your head. “But, you’ve had tinder…you’ve gone on dates.”

Jackson pulls you close again, silently asking for more kisses. You realize he might’ve been right…you like when he begs. You kiss him as he asks, this time close to his nipple, and he shudders.

“I’m not gonna fuck a girl who wants more than I can give her,” he says. You mouth over his skin, tongue reaching the edge of his areola. You like his answer.

“Why can’t you give her what she wants?” you ask, knowing what he’ll say but wanting to hear it all the same. Jackson knows this too, but he’s more than happy to give you what you want.

“Because she—fuck—”

Your tongue lathes over his nipple and he grips the counter tight.

“—’cause she’s not you,” he finishes. “None of them are. Can’t be anything for anyone except you. Wanna…wanna be everything to you.”

“You are…you are…” you mumble carelessly, barely kissing him, but rather rubbing your mouth on his chest. He seems more than okay with that, his head falling back, though he shakes it.

“I’m not, baby. I’ve got so much to give you, gonna show you what it’s like to be loved right, fucked right, needed right. I need you, y/n. I-I fucking need you so bad. Always have.”

You were supposed to be turning him on, not getting choked up, but you pulled back and covered your face. Jackson was still a little breathless and out of it, but he grabbed at your wrists.

“Sorry, fuck, was that…was that bad? I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, wiping helplessly at tears that slide down your cheeks. Jackson pulls you forward, crushing you to his chest. He wraps both arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. You love it.

What else do you love?

You love that you can feel his cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, that you can feel how much he wants from you. You swallow your tears and reach between you, your palm finding the thick outline beneath his boxers and squeezing.

Jackson’s reaction is visceral and downright sinful. He jumps, then buries his face into your hair.

“Again, p-please,” he mumbles. You do it again. There’s a weird mix between sadness and horniness between you, but you keep going, sliding your hand up and down his clothed length. He’s definitely thick and a little longer than average, but not frighteningly so.

Thick enough to make you choke, but not enough to bruise your cervix. Perfect. Somehow, you think you know exactly what it feels like to be fucked by him.

“Jesus fuck—I don’t care if I get to fuck you, just please…let me taste you, baby,” Jackson grunts, hips lazily bucking against you.

That…sounds alright with you. You take your hand off his cock and grab his wrist to pull him to his room, but he twists you around so that your back is to the counter. You open your mouth to ask what he’s doing, but the words die on your tongue when he drops to his knees.

“J-Jackson, you don’t have t-to…”

“Shh, baby,” he mumbles, cupping the backs of your thighs. You feel dumb, forgetting how to speak. “Let me make you feel good. Wanna hear those pretty sounds you make when you play with yourself.”

Your cheeks flush pink, Jackson’s words hardly registering in your brain. He hooks his fingers into the elastic of your pajama shorts, leaning forward to kiss the front of your thigh before he begins tugging them down.

“W-What do you mean when I pla—oh…”

Jackson doesn’t hesitate, going face first between your legs and groaning. The vibrations ring through your inner thighs and go straight to your clit, nearly sending you down. He hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“If you tell me you didn’t want me to hear you fucking yourself, I’m gonna call you a liar,” he whispers. His lips graze over the hair you keep trimmed—you could be a little self conscious about that at times, a couple past partners even commenting on it, but Jackson is worshipping your pussy without words and you’ve never felt so perfectly adequate.

You think over what he said once you regain a little bit of consciousness. And fuck.

You were tired of this sort of hindsight ability you had now, the way you felt when you thought back to the times you were so obviously head over heels in love with him and had convinced yourself you were friends.

Like fucking yourself with your favorite toy, back to the wall splitting your rooms. Moaning loud even though you didn’t do that when he wasn’t home.

“S-Sorry,” you whimper, because what the fuck else are you supposed to say? You feel warmth as Jackson breathes a laugh against your thighs, teeth grazing the sensitive skin near your labia.

“It’s okay, baby. Just do it again for me, hm? While I’m in the same room at least?”

Did he have to be such a fucking brat? You thought “pie” and his attitude would disappear after all of this, but you were sorely mistaken. You opened your mouth to complain.

Jackson pushed your thighs open wider, settling between them and looking up at you from his knees. You squeaked, and the last thing you saw before his face disappeared was that smug grin underneath his pretty brown eyes.

You learned two lessons very quickly. One:

Jackson Wang ate pussy like his life depended on it.

And two, you were immediately jealous of any woman who’d ever had him like this, on his knees between their legs. This should be illegal.

His tongue slid between your tender pussy lips, expertly finding your clit and daring to flick at it beneath the hood. Your knees did buckle, but he hugged your thighs and kept you upright, taking the opportunity to squeeze and knead at your ass. You reached down and gripped his hair for purchase, tugging, eliciting a groan from him that felt better than any dick you’d ever had. You did it again, and this time he practically sang praises into you—he was literally fucking you with his moans.

“Jesus fuck, Jackson?” you ask, unable to do much else other than feel and squeak out your needs. His fingers dug into the plushness of your thighs, though one hand slipped beneath your shirt. His thumb grazed over your nipple before gently pinching it, and you were ready to die.

When he sucked the tender flesh of your clit into his mouth, you stumbled forward, nearly sending him back until he caught you by the waist. You whimper and tug at him to let you go until finally, he pulls away from your cunt, looking far too pleased with shiny lips. He licks them and you fall into his lap, shuddering as you cling to him.

“That bad, huh? Should I keep my day job?” He teases you gently, one hand cupping the back of your head while the other hugs you tighter. You can still feel his cock straining against his boxers, nearly perfectly aligned as it presses against your ass.

“S-Shut up, a-asshole,” you stammer out, gripping his shoulders tightly for comfort—or maybe dear life. Jackson chuckles in a way that makes you feel safe and annoyed—because how can he send you to fucking space and then try to convince you it’s all good and dandy with the same mouth?

“You okay baby?” he asks softly. When you nod, he pulls back enough to kiss your temple, though keeps his lips there. You swallow, having a feeling that he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

“Was it good?” he asks.

“Very c-classy,” you manage to huff, but Jackson only laughs.

“Mmm. Knew you’d taste good. Knew you’d love me on my knees,” he hums. You shiver, and he moves to your ear, nipping at your lobe. “Knew you’d look so pretty while I eat it.”

You let out a soft whine, your hips rolling into his. You’re spreading your sticky juices along his clothed cock, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he grabs your waist and bites his lower lip.

“Are you done? Hm? Or can I take you to my room and finish you off?” Jackson asks, tilting his head to kiss below your ear. “Lay you down and hold you open until that pretty clit is nice and swollen…”

“F-Fuck,” you whine, digging your nails into his shoulders. “N-No.”

“M’kay, need me to run you a bath then? I bought some new bath bombs—”

“No I meant…” you breathe, letting your head drop to his shoulder. You were dizzy, but your thoughts had never been more clear. Not necessarily a decision out of desperation, just…it needed to happen. You needed it.

“I-I don’t want you to eat me out, Jackson,” you say as you swallow.

You lift your head, relieved to see there’s no frustration in his gaze, no disappointment. God, he’s really just here to make sure you’re happy, safe, comfortable.

“I want…I want you to fuck me.”

“Why are we in your room?”

“My bed is bigger.”

“When’s the last time you washed your sheets?”

“I don’t know, pie. When’s the last time you washed my sheets?”

You crinkle your nose, but Jackson just rolls his eyes. He drags you onto the bed with him, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it in your face. You sniff, your eyes immediately narrowing.

“Have you seriously been washing your bedding regularly now under the implication that we’d fuck soon?” you hiss, sitting up to glare at him. He was sprawled out, looking much too happy for your liking.

“Yes,” he says gleefully. You grab the pillow and make an attempt to suffocate him, but he doesn’t fight back, and that’s not very fun.

Oh yeah! You’re also only wearing his a t-shirt, and he’s only wearing boxers, and his cock is very hard and you’d very much like to put it in your mouth now that you’ve recovered somewhat from his tongue.

“You’re such a boy,” you groan, throwing the pillow back to the headboard. Jackson nods, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Yeah. Take this off and sit on my face please,” he hums, lying back as though preparing to be sacrificed to the thigh smothering gods.

“How romantic,” you scoff.

“Come sit on my face so I can make you cry the only way a man should make a woman cry, please~”

“Better.”

With the back and forth out of the way, you can’t bring yourself to smile, pulling your knees to your chest. Jackson sits up, reaching out to take one of your hands in his large one.

“Hey, no expectations, remember? You wanna stop right now, we’ll stop and never do anything like this again. You want me to finish you off, that’s fine too,” he says, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles. You shake your head.

“No. I think…I think we should. We need to, I mean, otherwise we’re gonna be in limbo forever. But…” you pause, feeling your eyes burn a little damn it. When you look up at him, his boyish charm is gone, replaced completely by a concerned man who almost looks in love with you.

“Hm? What is it, pie?” he asks, coaxing you gently. Ugh—why did sex have to be so god damn complicated?

“Promise me,” you say, biting your lower lip as you gather your words. “Promise me if we hate it, if it’s bad, just…stay with me? Like, forever? Please don’t move out? I mean if you have to get married just try to find someone who’s nice enough to let me stay? I’ll do the laundry. We can be like a throuple except you both just have to feed me and nothing else.”

“I love you, y/n.”

“Nevermind, let’s just do it.”

Jackson laughed as you flopped onto your back, though he leaned over you and caught your chin in his hand. You avoided looking at him, but he tilted your head down and pressed his forehead to yours to prevent you from escaping his eyes.

“I know you’re allergic to that word—”

“I am not—”

“But I love you. I love y/n and I love pie and I love the girl who thinks ‘coinkydink’ is an appropriate alternative for ‘coincidence’—”

“It is but okay—”

Jackson rolls his eyes, cupping your cheek under the romantic guise of making you shut up by pressing his thumb to your lips.

“Do you know why I want to fuck you?” he asks, his voice oddly gentle for such an erotic question. You blink, he lifts his thumb.

“Um, ‘cause I’m hot?” you offer with a shrug. His thumb goes back to your lips.

“Yes, but the truth? I want to make love to you but I assumed your reaction to that phrasing would be…”

Jackson lifts his thumb.

“Cringe?”

“Correct,” he smiles. “I’m gonna do what I can so the next man you meet has to climb to fucking heaven to reach the lowest bar for you. I’m nowhere near perfect, but I’ll be damned if you leave my bed able to call your best friend and complain that your inner thigh got more action than you did.”

You pout and push his hand away.

“That was one time,” you mumble. “If sex with you sucks, who am I gonna call? Yugyeom?”

“I dare you to fucking try,” Jackson says, narrowing his eyes. You beam, attempting to boop his nose, but he leans forward and kisses you instead. “If you leave this bed and hate me after, I’ll move out before sunset. And if you want me to l-o-v-e you for the rest of your life, I’ll do that too. I told you, pie. I’m yours.”

You kiss him this time, turning into him and cupping his jaw. Why couldn’t he see that the more of this he showed you, the less you wanted to risk it all disappearing?

You tilt your head to the side, nuzzling your face against his throat to plant kisses there. He inhales, leg sliding between yours as a hand strokes your hair.

“Mm…what do you want, y/n?” he asks, groaning when you suck beneath his jaw.

“Wanna suck you off,” you mumble against his skin, relishing in the heavy groan you feel from him. “Then I want you to fuck me.”

“I can do that,” Jackson nods, licking his lips. You release him and sit up, looking over his stretched out form. He was so fucking gorgeous, and you were in his bed.

You place a hand in the center of his chest, and Jackson sits up on his elbows, his thighs parting eagerly. You giggle, gently kneeing his side.

“Patience,” you hum, dragging your hand down to his abs, letting your fingertips dip between the muscles. You remembered all those times you fantasized about drawing your tongue against them—realizing you can. So you throw a leg over his, sliding down until you’re hovering over his thighs, face level with his hips.

One hand rests on the elastic of his boxers while the other palms his abs. You look up at him as you drag your finger through the lines, following the shape of his muscles. He’s tense, but still coherent, so your other hand slides down to palm him again.

Jackson curses under his breath, eyes never leaving yours. So you lean down and flatten your tongue below his navel. He gasps as you lick down the thin trail of hair that disappears beneath his boxers, kissing the sensitive skin there before moving up again. Jackson whines, and you lift a brow.

“You’re not being very patient,” you say, kissing his stomach before licking up to his chest. Jackson’s head falls back, one hand moving to your hair.

“It’s been almost a year, pie,” he groans. “Want this…want you…”

You giggle softly. When you palm him again, curling your fingers around his constricted length, Jackson practically flies off the bed, grabbing your wrist.

“Baby, I will let you suck my cock until the sun explodes, just…please not now, I’m so fucking close, wanna be inside you…” he breathes. You’re surprised to see his chest flushed and heaving, not having realized how worked up he was over just a few light touches. You swallow and nod.

He smiles in relief, pulling you in for a kiss before sitting up on his knees, gently guiding you back. It’s a little jarring, suddenly being underneath your best friend, but Jackson immediately gives you gentle kisses, whispering your name and promises to make you feel good. You believe him.

You lie there awkwardly as he reaches over you to the bedside table, removing a foil packet. You feel your cheeks redden, which makes him chuckle, and you mumble a quiet shut up. When he holds the condom packet between his teeth and thumbs the waist of his boxers, you realize that you should probably be naked, too. So you cross your arms over the hem of the t-shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it to the side.

The condom drops and bounces off your thigh as Jackson’s lips part in shock.

“What?” you mumble shyly, bringing your arms to your chest. He clears his throat and fumbles for the condom, shaking his head.

“Nothing. You’re gorgeous. Knew you were, just..." he sucks in air through his teeth.

You blush harder, resisting the urge to tell him to hurry.

Jackson manages to slide his boxers down to his thighs. His cock, once freed, smacks his toned stomach and you grip the covers at your sides as you watch an enticing bead of precum slide down the shaft. It’s exactly as you’d imagined; a little bigger than average, thick, and so beautifully veiny. God it’d feel so good on your tongue, but later. The idea that, hopefully in the future you could suck his beautiful cock whenever you wanted to, made you happier than you’d ever admit to anyone.

You watch as he rolls the condom down his length, swallowing down your doubts as he drops to his forearms on either side of you.

“You okay?” he asks, no humor, no teasing, just genuine concern. You nod and lick your lips.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you say with a shaky breath. Jackson smiles, leaning forward until your noses bump. The action makes you giggle until you realize he’s fitting your mouths together, and suddenly he’s kissing you.

It’s gentle and soft, his lips sucking at your lower one but moving no further than that. Your arms move to loosely hang around his shoulders, where both of his slip beneath you. You feel the head of his cock brush over your clit and jump. Jackson chuckles. It happens again, but this time, the swollen head catches against the opening between your folds, and you can already feel the stretch, wriggling your hips as if to wedge him in.

Jackson begins to push.

The stretch is slow, heavy, delicious, both of you releasing sounds of relief with eyes rolling back into your skulls as though you’ve both spent four years pretending you don’t want this. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, he squeezes you tight beneath him as he sinks deeper and deeper. At last, his hips meet yours, and Jackson Wang, your best friend, is balls deep inside of you. You squeeze your eyes closed, overwhelmed by the sudden and intense sensations and emotions.

“Are you okay? Feels okay, baby?” he asks softly, clearly restraining himself. You nod, licking your lips.

“Mhm. It’s good. So good,” you babble. Jackson chuckles, nodding as he kisses you again. It’s sweeter this time, moreso as he begins to slide out. The drag of his cock makes you shudder, and you clamp your thighs tight around his waist.

“That’s it,” he hums, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Lock me up inside you, baby. So fucking pretty.”

You purr in response, arching your back. Jackson takes this as a go ahead, pushing himself up to his palms as he begins to fuck you properly.

You feel your mouth open in shock as he thrusts rhythmically, the switch between emptiness and fullness making your head spin. Every time his hips smack the backs of your thighs, another grunt escapes his mouth, and fuck if you couldn’t listen to that sound for the rest of your life.

Jackson leans down and kisses you. This time, you make sure it’s not as sweet, sucking his tongue and letting him lick yours. You taste his groan as he bucks heavily, pausing to collect himself. Your legs hook around his waist, heel digging into his lower spine, making him moan.

“F-Fuck baby, gonna make me come already,” he breathes, letting his head hang down. You smile, cupping his face and pulling him into you.

“So sensitive,” you purr. Jackson huffs.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he hums, wincing at his own sharp thrust. “Maybe I should pull out and leave that gorgeous head to wonder what it’d be like.”

“You won’t,” you reply, calling his bluff. “If I begged you, I bet you’d go raw.”

Jackson surges forward, hands moving behind your knees as he folds you nearly in half. You choke on air and look up at him, wondering why the fuck you've forced yourself to wait for this.

“You don’t have to beg for shit. Don’t fucking tempt me, y/n.”

Your mouth opens at his tone, but he begins to fuck you harder, gripping your form against him as he gives you everything he has. Your whines turn into muffled cries as he tucks your face into his shoulder.

“Shh…let’s not let the neighbors know I’m finally inside you baby…that’s it, quietly…take it for me, yeah?” he hums, and you whimper, digging your nails into his skin. Your legs bounce uselessly where he holds them in place, giving him room to be flush against your ass each time he bottoms out.

“Can’t wait for you to let me lick this sweet little cunt until you cry,” he murmurs, leaning back to slip a hand between you. You jump when he immediately finds your clit, index and middle finger repeatedly alternating pressure. He’s a god damned expert, and you feel yourself clenching tight around the obstruction of his cock.

“Fuck…is that all it takes? You’re squeezing me like a fucking vice, y/n," Jackson groans. “More, baby. That’s it…fuck. So fucking good.”

“J-Jackson,” you huff, squirming beneath the pressure of his weight. “Nng…f-feels so good…”

“Yeah, princess? Just like you've dreamed about?"

Fuck. He always knew, knew you too well, were you made of glass?

"Y-yeah," you whimper, choosing not to lie. "B-Better."

Jackson kisses you again, his hand slowing its movements to match his hips.

“Show me,” he says roughly, obviously close himself. “I wanna feel you cum, baby. Want my cock shiny and sticky like my tongue was.”

“Mm..don’t stop, ‘m close,” you breathe. You tuck your hands into his hair, tugging at the strands, knowing what kind of response you’d experience. He groans, as expected, though pulls back and pushes your thighs apart.

He looks down at your cunt swallowing his cock whole as he rubs at your hooded clit, cursing and biting his lip. Your cheeks flush despite everything, and when his eyes flicker to your face—you’re not sure what to call that expression if not love.

You want him to cum first. You bring his hand away from your clit and up to your lips, kissing the wet pads of his fingers before slipping them into your mouth. Jackson lets out a high pitched noise that you can’t wait to tease him over later as he watches you suck them.

He swallows and leans forwards, pulling your fingers away from your mouth to kiss you. You think it’s an accident, the intimacy, but the kiss is soft, so soft that he stops thrusting and you stop trying to make him cum, so soft that you’re suddenly crying and hugging him and apologizing for being a fucking idiot.

“Hey, ‘s okay baby, I’m here,” he whispers, his own eyes wet. “Stop crying, y/n. I’m right here. I’m yours. I’ll still be yours tomorrow. Shh...”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you breathe, burying your head against his throat despite the fact that his cock is kissing the opening of your cervix currently. “I was scared, Jackson, so fucking scared, I-I think I loved you so much that I scared myself into thinking I couldn’t.”

“Huh?” he asks, knowing damn well what you said according to the stupid grin on his face. You roll your eyes, using the back of your hand to wipe at your tears.

“I said I love you, asshole,” you whisper, sniffling. “And ‘m not gonna say it again.”

“Okay,” he chuckles, pulling your hands down to wipe your tears himself. “Fine. I’ll just memorize the way you sound when you say it and play it over and over until we live in a nursing home together."

"You roll your eyes, smiling through the teariness. Only you would cry in the middle of sex, but Jackson seemed to love this, taking it as your not-so-silent confession.

He eventually shifts again, making you shudder despite the fact that he was only getting comfortable. He prepares to ask—you already know—want me to stop? So you shake your head before he gets the words out.

“I want it, you know, without,” you say instead, shyly looking up at him from your elbows. Jackson looks a little confused, and you sigh, gesturing around as if that’s helpful at all. “You know. Without.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying, pie—”

“I’m saying I want you to fuck me, and then I want you to tell me you love me so I can say it back without dying, and then I want to go to the pharmacy with you and get plan b even though I’m on birth control because we’d make cute babies but I wanna wait like 10 years probably. So, like, without? If you want?”

You finish your monologue, your cheeks burning hot. You flop to your back and cover your face, once again forgetting about the cock buried inside of you. Jackson doesn’t, of course.

“Are you asking me to hit it raw—”

“Must you be so unromantic—”

“Shut up and c’mere,” he mumbles. He leans down, pulling you up enough to kiss you. You feel him shuffling between you, embarrassed by the gasp that slips out when he pulls back. Jackson smirks. There’s a snap of rubber and he winces as he removes the condom, tossing it into his desk trash can.

“Easy, baby. He’ll be back,” he chuckles.

“I’m actually going to kill you,” you groan. But then he’s pushing into you again, and fuck if the look on his face doesn’t make you want to buy a first class ticket to hell.

“Fucking…jesus…baby…” he gasps. You giggle, though he just pushes you back to hide the apparent blush on his cheeks.

“That bad huh?” you mock him, feeling him bottom out, completely. He curses and dips his head to kiss you, but it’s messy and desperate and feeds the fire that’s been burning inside of you for too long.

“So fucking…nng…so fucking pretty,” he says with a sharp snap of his hips. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he leans down. He kisses you again, hard, palms flattening on the bed on either side of your hips. He uses the leverage to fuck you harder, leaning over you until you’re pinned beneath him.

“D-Didn’t know it’d turn you into an animal,” you giggle breathlessly, hand fisting his hair. He groans and tilts his head to the side.

“You turn me into a fucking animal, baby,” Jackson grunts. “Makes me…makes me want to do stupid things, like fuck you without a condom and cum so deep the pill doesn’t do shit to stop it—”

“Jackson—”

“You said it first. Still gonna make you swallow the pill with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You squeak and tug him down for a filthy kiss, tongues barely missing the mark as his thrusts become loose and sloppy. He’s fucking himself dumb, gripping the sheets and whining against your mouth like a dog.

“G-Gotta make you cum. Gotta make it good for you,” he breathes, reaching between you. You pull his hand away, shaking your head. He begins to argue but you squeeze your thighs around his waist, making him shudder and stumble. He falls against you, cursing into your hair as he continues his thrusts.

“Want you to cum first,” you whisper, hugging him tight. “Want you to fill me up like you said, so fucking deep—"

He groans, leaning on you and thrusting heavy as he snaps his hips forward. His speed remains the same, but you can hear the sound of his hips meeting your ass like he's trying to bury himself in you indefinitely.

"T-That's...fuck..." you whimper, nodding. "Good, that's good."

“Ah…ah…” Jackson whines, shaking his head. “F-Fuck, baby…gonna cum, is that…is that okay? Fucking…ah…c-can I cum?”

Oh. Oh.

You were going to explore this later, him asking permission to cum. But not now.

“Please, Jax. Please cum for me, in me?” you beg softly. “Promise, I’ll take it so good."

“Fuck, I know you will, princess. Know you’ll take it all so good for me…so perfect, so fucking beautiful…all mine, baby…”

Jackson clings to you so tight you have trouble breathing, but you feel him shudder, hear him gasp, and you squeeze him back just as much. He releases a sob into your hair, his muscles tensing as he cums hard. You feel his cock pulsing, the warmth spreading inside of you, and realize with a start that you’re feeling his actual cum seeping into your womb.

You rub his back for a few minutes while he recovers, until he finally sits up and hisses at the sensitivity of his softening cock still buried in you. When he tugs away, it’s your turn to gasp, shivering at the cool emptiness you feel.

“Was that okay?” he asks quietly, hands pushing your thighs apart. You nod.

“Yeah, ‘s good. What are you—shit.”

Jackson knelt between your legs, lips first kissing your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. You all but scream, trying to clamp your legs together, but his easy strength prevents that.

“F…Jackson...fuck, w-what are you doing?” you whimper again, trying to push yourself up to look at him. He uses a hand on the soft of your belly, pushing you back down. He pops off of your clit, free hand taking over the strokes.

“My babygirl didn’t cum. I’m gonna make sure she does,” he explains as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“B-But you…your cum…”

“Mhm, keep reminding me,” he moans, tongue slipping beneath the hood of your clit while two long fingers prod at your sore hole. You wince, but he slowly eases them in, his own cum working as lube. Rather than move them, he holds them there, gently stroking inside of your walls while he laps freely between your labia.

In a frighteningly short amount of time, you’re coming off the bed (literally) with a cry of surprise, mumbling his name over and over again as though he could save you from the crushing pleasure you felt. Your thighs clamped around his head, though he made no move to escape, apparently right where he wanted to be as it allowed him to continue sucking and licking the sensitive bundle of nerves until your legs trembled violently.

It stole your breath, and you saw stars, mixed in a few moments later with a boyish grin and someone peppering your face with kisses. It was the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, definitely if you were comparing him to other men. Well. There was no comparison.

You could only imagine how it'd feel with his cock as deep as it was. Next time. You'd suck his cock, cum on it...maybe make him beg to do the same.

Jackson is patient enough to wait until you’ve mostly returned to your body before he smugly proclaims that he was right, the sex was great, and you owe him a backrub (don’t you usually have to make bets to win them in the first place?) but whatever, because you were fucked out and your boy was happy and probably planning your wedding.

But once you attempted to sit up, wincing at the soreness of keeping your legs open, Jackson kissed you sweetly and urged you to lie down again. He left for a few minutes, returning with boxers (darn it) and a bottle of water, which he forced you to sip whilst he ran you a bath.

You were helped down the hall, feeling like a frail old lady after you insisted you could do it—and had to catch yourself by the doorframe as you walked like a baby deer. You informed him it wasn’t polite to laugh at people you’ve nearly fucked to death, regretting your words immediately as a somehow cocky Jackson became even cockier.

He guided you into the bath, telling you to relax while he ran to the pharmacy. Before he left though, he knelt beside the tub, fingers tapping at the lava-like water you were soaking in.

“Do you like the smell?” he asks, resting his chin on his fist. You nod, letting your fingers find his and trying to pull them beneath the water. He compromised by pulling yours out, kissing the back of your knuckles. “Good. It’s strawberry scented.”

“Fucking me doesn’t make my bath bombs free real estate,” you say pointedly.

“Fucking me doesn’t make my clothes free real estate.”

You open your mouth, then purse your lips.

“Touche.”

“I have something to ask,” he sighs, resting his lips on your hand. “It’s really important.”

Oh god. What.

“Yeah?” you ask, your voice shaky. Jackson grins.

“Just…did you like my cream, pie?”

You stare at him for a few seconds, contemplating the last hour and four years of your life. “I want a divorce.”

“I love you.”

“How…how long have you thought of that joke?” you ask. You didn’t really want to know the answer.

“Um…about 20 seconds after I called you pie for the first time? Not with you of course.”