#moni!

[eoieopda]

I am here to request some silly, sweet Channie fluff 🥺🥺 as mild or spicy as you want, idm, just want some deep comfort feat. my favourite fun-sized snack 🥰��

the one with chan and the promotion (i)

pairing: bang chan x gn!reader type: drabble (fluff, hurt/comfort) au: fuck buddies to ?, pining rating: 18+ wc: 2.2k (don’t look at me) summary: you need a ride home after getting your wisdom teeth removed. chan just so happens to be free. | part two (4/20/24) cw: chan’s pov, minimal pronoun use (they), no smut but it’s referenced, reader has outpatient dental surgery (not depicted), reference to blood/swelling, reader is doped the hell up. 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

You’re drifting off in some twilight on the other side of a closed door, but Chan’s the one that’s stupefied.

Mechanically speaking, he knows how he got himself into this position: drove here in his car, parked in the lot outside, walked into the front door. His ass is in this very seat because he dropped himself there, and he hasn’t moved in the two hours that have passed since.

None of that explains why he’s in his current position, though — why you reached out to him, of all people, to come with you to something like this.

Why he’s more giddy over that choice than confused by it, even if it turns out that he was your last resort.

He’s lost in thought when your oral surgeon’s head peeks out through the doorway to the recovery room. She asks if he’s “the boyfriend”, and he has no idea how to explain that he’s more of a “semi-consistent fuck buddy”, so he simply says “yes” before allowing her to usher him into the room.

You’re slumped in a reclining chair when Chan walks in, heavy eyelids fluttering as you try hard to fight off sleep. Better still, the gauze in your mouth makes your chipmunk cheeks stick out while your still-numb lips fumble with words. The urge to reach for his phone and snap a picture makes his fingers twitch, but he doesn’t; you’d absolutely murder him if he tried.

“Mmfph?” You grunt when your narrowed eyes manage to clock him standing there.

He grins automatically, fingers reaching up to tip a hat he isn’t wearing. “Mmfph to you, too.”

Whatever drugs they gave you to knock you on your ass aren’t strong enough to overcome your personality; you roll your eyes much more easily than you keep them fully open. That trademark sass must’ve taken a lot out of you, though. You doze off again before he can blink, slumping further in your chair with your head lolled uncomfortably to the side.

Your neck is going to hurt later, he thinks with a frown. 

“Once they get their sea legs back, you should be okay to go.”

Chan jumps when the surgeon pipes up, having completely forgotten anyone else was in the room.

She clears her throat sheepishly, clearly aware that she’s interrupting something. Breezing right past that awkwardness, she pulls a prescription pad from her coat pocket. The top page is promptly ripped off and passed to him with a stern look. 

She warns, “Make sure they don’t take this medication on an empty stomach.”

Damn — only two hours in, and he’s already being promoted from chauffeur to caretaker? It should embarrass him that this fact tickles him thoroughly pink, but it doesn’t. Inwardly, he high-fives himself.

Nice one, Chan!

“Soup is best,” the surgeon continues, once again pulling him out of his own head. There’s a pause before she remembers the kicker; she waves her hand urgently when she finally does. “Nothing spicy, though.”

He nods in understanding, and just like that, she pats his shoulder and disappears out the door. Unsure what else to do, Chan takes a seat on the small stool next to your chair and waits.

And wait, and waits, and waits.

Jesus. What did they give you — a horse tranquilizer?

When your eyes open the second time, they find him immediately. They’re still a bit glassy, but they’re much more alert. Bright, even, which is a bit of a wonder, given the circumstances. Right away, he can tell that the space cadet has — sort of — returned to Earth.

“Can —?” You gesture to your mouth, which struggles to frown around the gauze. 

Uselessly, you flick out your tongue in an attempt to wet your lips. They're dry from all the time you must’ve spent with your mouth open, and his fingers twitch again when he pictures the chapstick in his pocket.

You distract him with what he assumes are words, prompting him to shift his gaze from your mouth to your eyes.

Everything that comes next is garbled, totally incoherent, but he gets the gist. With a quick glance at his watch, he confirms that it’s been thirty minutes since he started watching you sleep, and that feels like enough time. 

Right?

So, he shrugs permissively; you perk up the second you’re given the green light. Bravely, you only whine a little bit when you lay eyes on the slightly bloody, thoroughly spit-soaked material as you pull it away from your gums. 

Chan can’t tell if you’re trying to pout when you hold that mess out to him and stare expectantly, but the intent doesn’t matter much in the long run; the effect is the same. He takes your drooled-on trash without a second thought.

Squinting as he concentrates, he fires it off towards the bin in the corner like he’s trying to beat a buzzer. The pair of you watch as it ricochets off the wall, then drops perfectly in the basket below.

Immediately, he turns back to you with wiggling eyebrows and a smirk. “Bank shot,” he brags.

You ignore the true purpose of his raised hand — a well-deserved high-five — and instead latch onto it.  Gripping tightly as if your life depends on it, you drag yourself up and out of your chair. 

Before you can throw yourself entirely off balance, Chan swoops in to tuck you under his arm. You’re independent to a fault, however; and you glare up at him exactly like he guessed you would. Apologetic, he keeps his distance with his hands raised.

Go for it, then.

All it takes for you to accept defeat is a few wobbly steps toward the door and some curse words muttered under your breath, for zest. You give in faster than you want to and dive into his side with a long-suffering groan. You’re not looking, so he doesn't bother to hide the triumphant smirk that spreads when your arms wrap around his waist.

The walk back to his car takes a lot more effort than he initially expected. Though you cling to him like you’ll float off without him, you insist on attempting to wander in every direction except the one you need to head in. To the best of his ability, Chan steers you across the pavement; you babble through every stumbled step.

“I’m going to open your door now, okay?” He coos once you finally reach his car.

It surprises him slightly — the softness he’s exuding, and how much like a reflex it feels — but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s got a far more difficult puzzle to solve: getting your wriggling body into his car.

After a few unsuccessful tries, you finally let him usher you out of the way of the door. You spill into his passenger seat like you’re more jelly than bones, knocking your skull against the doorframe as you go.

Jesus Christ.

Eyes wide, Chan ducks down to run his fingers gingerly over what will likely be a goose egg tomorrow. Nervously, he chuckles, “That — uhh — that was quite the entrance. You okay?”

Tilting your chin just so, you push your cheek into his palm and blink up at him slowly like you’ve already forgotten the question. Suddenly, so has he. Several moments whizz by just like that — with his arm raised uncomfortably and your heavy head resting against his hand.

Never in his life has he wanted to kiss a forehead as badly as he does yours. It’s like you’ve got a magnet where your orbital bone should be, and it’s a bit shocking. Whatever magic you’ve got — some sort of tractor beam in your eyes, perhaps — pulls, pulls, pulls, but he stops himself.

That’s not what this is, he reminds himself as he backs away and shuts your door carefully in his place. That’s not who I am to you.

In this moment, Chan is your taxi driver, carting you off to the apartment he’s been in a hundred times — but never once in the daytime.

As he goes, it becomes a little clearer with every kilometer: the sun can’t be beating down overhead because he feels it next to him, warming his arm through his jacket; blinding him whenever his gaze drifts over to the passenger side.

“Chan,” you pout out of nowhere.

Again, your head droops fast and bumps his shoulder. You don’t react to this second knock, but he does, sucking air in through his teeth.

“Need to get you a helmet,” he mutters with a sheepish laugh. “You’re gonna give yourself a concussion at this rate.”

“Don’t need a helmet,” you argue. “I need pork belly, bad. Stop, please?”

Glancing quickly down at you, Chan bites back a smile. You look so adorably pitiful with your hazy eyes blinking one at a time, lips all puffy to match your cheeks. It takes all he’s got to tear his eyes off you and put them back on the road ahead.

He sighs, genuinely sorry. “No can do, champ.”

You repeat the nickname, pop the last letter, and make yourself laugh so hard that you hiccup.

“Your options currently are soup or… well, soup.” He tries to sound firm, but if you pout at him a second time, Chan might throw your dentist’s warning right out the window. “Think it over while I stop at the pharmacy, yeah?”

In the quiet that follows, he swears he can hear the gears turning in your head. He doubts it has anything to do with what he just told you, but he doesn’t mind. Come to think of it, he doesn’t mind any of what this day has turned out to be so far. That doesn’t necessarily surprise him, either.

With the way things currently are between you, you don’t feature much in his everyday life; only weekends and the occasional weeknight. It works well, this thing you’ve got going. He enjoys what you do — that head game of yours is otherworldly — but judging by the glimpses he’s seen so far, he likes who you are, too.

Despite not knowing you on some deeper level, shit like this — being around you for some profoundly asexual purpose — feels natural. Like he could do it more often; be a little more than just a recurring character. If you let him, that is.

Would you let him?

That question rattles around his brain when he pulls up to the pharmacy and dashes inside, too wary to leave you alone for long but wholly unprepared to guide you through a shop in your current state. He’s still thinking about it when he jogs back to his car with your prescription in hand.

That bag is nearly dropped to the pavement below when he sees you, however; and he can’t remember what he was thinking about before because you’re weeping now. In a flash, Chan throws himself into his seat and jerks the door shut behind him, metal groaning in the process. 

“What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so forceful, but he can feel his pulse in his ears. On instinct, he reaches out and places gentle hands on your temples. Eyes scanning for any sign of injury, he tries to bury his urgency in a soothing voice. “Hey — talk to me. Are you okay?”

You blink up at him with wide, wet eyes. Oh, fuck, you’re breaking my heart. His stomach drops at the sight of your lower lip trembling, but then you whimper:

“What if worms don’t have best friends?”

And Chan needs a minute because he can’t believe you’re real, that you’re borderline bereft over worms, or that he’s this fucking enamored.

Before he knows it, he starts giggling so hard that his eyes start to swim. Thankfully, it’s with mirth and not utter devastation like yours. Pinching his bottom lip between his teeth, he wipes a tear off your cheek with the side of his thumb. Just as gently, he tries his best to reassure you, “I’m sure they do.”

“You’re sure?” You repeat with a sniffle. Chan nods; he’s never been more so.

Successfully placated, you fall into thoughtful silence next to him. It doesn’t last long, though. Abruptly, you and your goldfish memory change course: “Can we get pork belly?”

Something in him wants to give you the world in this moment — the moon on a string, or whatever — but he shakes his head, unwilling to budge. But then your face falls, and he blurts out, “When you’re better, I’ll take you out for some.”

And he means it.

You peep, “Maybe next week.”

Chan laughs while he puts the key in the ignition and turns it. Maybe, he thinks, if you remember having this conversation. As the engine roars back to life, a new thought bubbles to the surface in his mind:

Maybe you will remember.

If you do — and if he’s brave enough then — maybe he’ll confess that he’s a liar. He might own up to the fact that, when you called to ask for his help, he didn’t already have the day off like he claimed to; or that the sick time he rushed to claim in the aftermath wasn’t attributable to his health at all. 

Maybe he’ll admit that he doesn’t care how many people you asked before you turned to him because you ultimately did.

Just maybe.

As he backs out of his parking space, Chan casts another glance your way. It takes all the effort in the world for you to do it, but you smile at him with your whole damn face. 

That settles it, then.

He nods once — firmly — and corrects you, “Definitely next week.”

Part two.

[sliceofdyke]

MADDIE!! DID U SEE THE NEW BUILD A BEAR BLOBFISH?!?!?!? 🥹🥹🥹

AWESOMEEEE THANK YOU MONI

[mxwhore]

so right now a whole ass chunk of chile is burning down and it is really Fucking Bad. it hit and spreaded so fast im like. 90%!!!!! of the jardín botánico de viña del mar burned down in one night. four in ground workers died. i am absolutely heartbroken for them and the treasure in biodiversity gone. and thats just 4 out of +100? lives lost in this chaos, that is still ongoing.

because of this, i will be splitting my patreon income evenly between care for gaza and techo chile, for the foreseable future. donate if can you can! it would really make a difference

[eoieopda]

asdfghjkl

gorgeous, gorgeous girls hit the curb!! idk what to tell you 😌

yes yes you’re very beautiful. Bewitching, even. AWFUL parking job, by the way

[doephin]

modern au with till and io

[namchyoon]

they get it

[eoieopda]

oh, i am absolutely flustered. like, i’m sitting here at 5:00pm on a sunday, and i am

who do i have to kill to get this man in my house?

A Dream Come True

Pairing: Jin x reader (afab)

Genre: roommates-to-lovers, smut/pwp

Content: masturbation (reader), use of a vibrator, protected sex

Word count: 3k

Summary: You've been fantasising about your roommate (and making it obvious) for weeks; Jin has been a little slow on the uptake, desperate to avoid awkwardness and embarrassment. It's only when he's tired and worn down from work that he finds himself able to skip over his self-consciousness and you get to find out what happens when dreams come true.

A/N: hehe, it's another repost! I feel like I haven't reposted anything for a bit. This one has had a pretty reasonable facelift but is not unrecognisable haha. The smut has (i hope) been improved significantly but that's really where most of the editing went (shocking, in a pwp, huh). It's not been read over or edited since the editing, so I might nip back and check it over tomorrow when I'm better rested haha. anyway, hope you enjoy! Missing Jin hours are always open!

* * *

It’s been a long day. You’re tired. You’re frustrated. You feel all this pent-up aggression inside you that won’t go away. You’ve been to the gym; you’ve hit that punching bag a thousand times, but you’re still too tightly-wound to sleep. You look at your phone. It’s late. You pick it up and unlock it, then pause. You were about to message a particular ‘friend’ of yours, but you think better of it. You’re not sure when Seokjin will get back and you don’t want him overhearing – not because you’re embarrassed; you just don’t want him to think you’re unavailable. You need it to be clear to him that there’s nothing standing in his way… if he wants to go there, that is. 

Truth be told, you’re not sure he does want that. You feel as if you’ve been obvious enough recently; you live together, for god’s sake, so there’s plenty of opportunity! But he hasn’t taken the bait. You can’t decide whether this is because he’s not noticed (possible) or he has noticed but is pretending not to so he doesn’t have to out-and-out reject you (also possible, but you hope not the case). You feel reasonably confident, knowing him as well as you do, that he would do the right thing and tell you if you were barking up the wrong tree. But that doesn’t explain why he hasn’t given any indication that he’s picked up on your feelings. Short of walking around naked or grabbing and kissing him on a random Thursday night, there’s not a lot you haven’t done to make it clear. Or that’s what you think anyway; you’ve never had to work quite this hard before. Sometimes it makes it difficult to hope. Other times (like right now), it makes you frustrated. 

You were already frustrated and this has not helped. you shake your head and blow out a a deep breath; there’s no point getting annoyed about it and there’s no point making any sort of decision or taking any kind of action now: it’s late and brains do not work well at night. No good decisions are made after 9pm. You know this. 

You finish brushing your hair and slide into bed, taking some slow, calming breaths. You close your eyes and continue thinking about Jin but in slightly different terms. You fantasise about what you would do if you were together; when he comes in from work, so late, so over-worked, and you kiss him gently and take off his clothes. He wraps his long arms around you and sucks at your neck. He’s tired, but never too tired for you. As if your lips were electricity, each kiss makes him feel more alive. He lifts you and carries you over to the bed where you straddle him and grind your hips, his cock already hard, already straining against the thin fabric of his underwear. 

You imagine wrapping your fingers around him then your lips. You don’t just imagine your hand running down your body and slipping into your own underwear. You’re wet and aching for him. Naturally.  

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself; you have got it bad. Big time.  

A thought passes fleetingly into your head: god, what would happen if he came in right now? if he knew what I was thinking? A tremor of excitement runs through your body like an electric shock. 

What if he liked it? 

You know, somewhere in your Smart Brain, that if he came in right now, things would not unfold in the way you are fantasising, that it would likely be awkward and embarrassing and could ruin things between you forever. But your Smart Brain is so not in control anymore. So you let your mind continue to roam around his body—his body and yours, tangled, entwined, hot, sticky, hearts racing, blood rushing. You bite your lip, trying to be quiet and then remember that he’s not even home, so you let yourself be loud. It’s not the real deal but this is as close as you can get and besides, who knows your body better than you do? 

*  *  * 

It’s been a long day. Jin is tired. He looks at the clock and can’t believe he’s not even left the building yet. They had been promised that they’d get off at a reasonable hour today; it was assured. Then things just kept coming up and now it’s almost 11pm and he’s still at work. He rubs a hand across his eyes and sighs, blinking hard. His contacts are bothering him but he doesn’t have his glasses – it was supposed to be a short day after all. It’s giving him a headache and he can’t concentrate. What is even the point of their being there? No one makes good decisions so late at night. 

He stands suddenly and announces that he’s off home. He tells the others to do the same; they can get back to work tomorrow but, right now, they all need their rest. 

He had cycled in this morning, but there’s no way he’s going to ride his bike all the way back home. He takes a taxi and almost nods off in the backseat. He trudges into the building, leaning heavily against the lift wall as it takes him to his floor. He has to heave himself off it when the doors open, moving so slowly that they almost shut before he makes it out.  

When he gets into the apartment, he sighs with relief: finally home. Like a weight instantly lifted, he feels lighter, more comfortable, even just standing in the hallway.  

He walks to the kitchen and grabs a glass of water, drinking it at the sink, wondering if you’re still awake. He feels grumpy and frustrated and would really like to hang out for a bit, chill and unwind, but he doesn’t want to disturb you. 

He’s felt things change between you recently and he’s not sure what to do about it. Initially flustered by your sudden flirting, he feels like he has missed his window to respond appropriately and has just made things awkward. It’s not that he’s not interested, not at all, but it’s different when you live with someone. You can’t go home from a date when you live with the person you’re dating; it’s like living on a date and who wants that? It’s complicated- well, it would be complicated if anything happened between you. He’s thought about it; he really has. A lot, actually. Come to think of it now, he looks towards your bedroom door – slightly ajar – and, in the silence of the apartment, his ears focused, he hears you. 

*  *  * 

One hand tightly grips the sheets whilst the other holds your favourite vibrator against you. You rut against it, trying to let go and give in, but frustration lingers. It’s not the same. All you can think about is Jin, the mysteries of his long, lean body, his unknown face as he comes, the unheard sounds of pleasure escaping his lips. 

Jin stands just outside your room, and he’s about to knock but something stops him. He knows this could be a disastrous move. Awful. Could ruin everything. But he’s tired and not necessarily thinking straight and he also knows that this could be the very thing to get the two of you over this hump. 

He opens your door and walks in. With your eyes shut, you don’t see him enter but you notice his presence and your eyes fly open as he shuts the door with a click. Your eyes meet and his expression is unreadable. You aren’t sure what to do; this could be the very thing you’ve just been fantasising about or it could be the most excruciatingly embarrassing moment you’ve ever shared. 

“Are you thinking about me?” Jin asks, not breaking eye contact.  

He starts to unbutton his shirt and it’s discarded on the floor before you’ve even processed his question. 

Your heart is beating even faster now as adrenalin floods your system. You feel your mouth suddenly go dry as you take in his bare chest, his fingers unbuckling his belt, pushing his trousers to the floor. You must be dreaming. Literally. You’ve fallen asleep and this is a dream because there’s no way Jin just walked into your room, no way he’s standing over you looking at you with thinly veiled desire in his eyes, no way he’s palming at his cock, stiffening quickly under his touch, straining against the fabric of his underwear. 

“Yes,” you whisper in response, your voice taken by your breathlessness. You nod for good measure. 

He nods. 

“I’ve been thinking about you, too.” 

Then he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and drags them down his legs, stepping out of them, coming closer, kneeling over you. Your mouth opens and closes, trying to catch a word, a sound, something but there’s nothing, nothing until he slips two fingers inside you and you can’t stop the whine that leaves your mouth. Nor can you stop the tilt of your hips, the clench of your walls. He smirks, withdraws, and puts those two fingers at your mouth. Still eye-to-eye, you close your lips around his fingers and suck. His eyelids flutter briefly and you see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. You’re transfixed just looking at him. 

Having licked his fingers clean, he pulls them back from your mouth and the world seems to stop spinning for a moment. Time holds its breath as you and Seokjin look at each other, pausing for a fraction of a second... 

Then it passes and, instantly, you’re in each other’s arms. You bite at his bee-stung lips and he sweeps your hair aside to kiss your jaw and your neck and your shoulder. Your bodies press so closely together, you can feel his heart thumping in his chest; you run your hands through his hair, across his shoulders, down his arms. You can feel him pressed against your thigh and your walls clench in anticipation. It’s quick and frantic and a blur of lips and limbs and breathless words barely uttered, barely heard. It really is like a dream, everything moving simultaneously too fast and too slow, everything a blur and everything in hyper-focus; real and fantastical and you feel so fully in your body as he touches you whilst also feeling disembodied, like you’re floating above yourself watching this happen. Your skin is alight, everywhere, burning where he presses his lips, tingling where he lays his hands. They wander down your body and spread goosebumps all over, a spark shivering down your spine. It’s already almost overwhelming. And you had been so, so close before he interrupted.  

You’re suddenly impatient. As much as you are enjoying this part, you can’t wait any longer. Turning quickly, you grab a condom from your bedside table and make quick work of its application. You grab Jin’s shoulders and pull him around, pushing him back against the headboard. Without wasting another second, you take his hot, heavy cock and lower yourself onto it, sighing as you take him all the way to the hilt. Then you pause. 

You stay like that for a beat. It feels so fucking good to be so fucking full of him but there’s a stretch to accommodate all of him and you give yourself a second to adjust. A second in which his hands squeeze hard at your glutes, in which his lips press lightly at your jaw and his teeth graze at the delicate skin of your neck. There’s a shudder as he bites down and you keen, clenching against him until he groans.  

You start to roll your hips and it somehow isn’t anything at all like you imagined. Reality has obliterated your fantasies and you can’t even remember what you had been thinking about minutes prior. He’s hotter and leaner and bigger and smoother and stronger. As you stare into his dark, dark eyes, you still can’t bring yourself to believe that this is real, but you can‘t believe it is a dream either because you couldn’t have imagined the exact way the head of his cock hits your g-spot just right with each stroke; you couldn’t have imagined the sounds he’s making or the words he’s saying. He fills your vision, the rest of the room – the rest of the world – a blur to you now.  

You lean your head on his shoulder to catch your breath for a moment and Jin wraps his arms around you, rolling and then lowering you onto your back. He kisses you deeply and guides himself back into you, thrusting slowly at first, then picking up the pace. His eyebrows are brought together in a light frown, his mouth pouty and slack; you look at him, making a study of his face, this face that you’ve imagined a thousand times but never seen before. You think he is a work of art.  

You tip your head back and he kisses your chest, sucking on your nipple as his fingers rub teasingly at your clit. You feel full and tight, your entire body stretched to its limits, ready to burst, ready to pop. You’re back at the cliff’s edge again, teetering over it, and then Jin’s fingers press harder, move faster and your rhythm stumbles. Every muscle in your body goes tense, your teeth catching flesh between them, your nails digging into his shoulders as you come. You hear him pant, vocal little ‘ah’s as your cunt clutches him in spasm. Then all the tension and frustration leaves your body at once.  

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” you whisper in his ear, hands wandering to any part of his body you can reach. “I’ve imagined this so many times.” 

He kisses your cheek and his hair tickles your face. So many times you’ve thought about this happening and so many details you’ve missed: the smell of his shampoo, the long dip in his back where his spine sits, the flush in his cheeks, the way his fingers wrap all the way around your wrist. 

“And is it like you imagined?” he asks, his voice breathy and strained. 

“No.” 

He stutters and looks at you, surprised, confused. 

“It’s so much better,” you purr. 

He laughs and shakes his head. You tilt your hips and bring your legs up, allowing him to get even deeper, and he thrusts harder in response, gripping your thigh tightly. It hits you, this post-orgasm clarity, the reality of this situation. It is happening. Really, truly for real. A thousand and one of your fantasies coming true at once. A shiver ripples through you and you can feel the pressure building inside you again.  

Jin is fucking you. Jin, with one hand tangled in your hair. Jin with those big, brown eyes looking, right at you, right now. Jin whose stupid laugh wakes you up when he’s gaming at 3am. Jin who will watch whatever you put on the telly, no matter how much he claims to hate it. Jin who cooks for you. Jin who tells his mother when you’re ill so she will make her home remedies to make you better. Jin who is kind and sweet and funny and (not so) secretly sensitive and wise and-… that Jin. That Jin. Your Jin. Your friend. Your roommate. That Jin is fucking you. That Jin is kissing you and praising you and putting one hand between your flushed, hot bodies to find your clit.  

“Fuck,” you whimper, your toes starting to curl. 

He starts moving faster and the wave of pleasure hits you again. Submerged in a sea of ecstasy, you pull him under with you and feel his muscles twitch as he comes with a grunt, with a gasp, with you. He presses his forehead against yours and you pull his face closer, kissing him so hard you can’t breathe. He kisses your lips and your cheeks, your ear and jaw and neck. He lies heavily on top of you, breathing deeply. 

There’s not a breath of space between you and the moment hangs suspended, like a sword of Damocles. This probably shouldn’t have happened like this. One of you is going to have to say something, shine the light on this now that you’re both sated and spent. You’re going to have to talk about this, properly. But, right at this moment, neither of you is thinking about that. Neither of you is thinking much at all. Just feeling: your hot skin pressed together, the tiny breeze of his breath against your neck, the pounding of your heart in your chest; you’ve never been more fully in your body than you are now.  

Jin groans as he lifts himself up and off you, crossing the room to throw away the condom. You see his eyes glance down at his discarded clothes, but you don’t want him to put them on. It’s cold in the space that he’s left in your bed and you want him back there. You beckon him and he obeys, crawling in next to you and curling into your side.  

“You were back late,” you say after a minutes or two’s silence, mostly just for something to say, because it feels like one of you has to. 

Jin grunts in response and you aren’t even sure if he’s still conscious, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.  

“Work,” he mumbles eventually. “I’m going to call in sick tomorrow.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, you should, too.”  

“Why’s that?” 

“We’ve come down with something terrible,” he explains, tightening his grip on you. “We can’t even make it out of bed.” 

You can feel his lips stretch against your skin as he grins and you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, too.  

“Is that right?” 

He nods. 

“Yeah, I think it’ll be at least 24 hours until we’re better.”  

“I was thinking 48.” 

“Exactly.” 

[mauvedemon]

Harbinger of chaos

[magicshop]

their bond ♡

[delioncourtes]

I'm gonna get the humans out of here and then I'm coming back. I won't leave you on your own.

GOOD OMENS - 2.06 Every Day (for queerbuck)

[eoieopda]

You said no more Hobi or Jin so:

Taehyung x fake marriage/marriage roleplay

Just don't tell anyone I made a Tae request lmaooooooo 🤣

moni, my love, i hate to break it to you, but….. the people know. they see you and they know.

the one with taehyung’s indecent proposal

pairing: kim taehyung x afab!reader type: drabble (smut, fluff) | rating: 18+ | wc: 1.4k au: fake relationship, fuck buddies to ? cw: oral sex (f), fingering, alcohol mention summary: your fuck buddy’s class reunion is coming up. that’s not something you expected to learn about. it’s definitely not something you expected to be implicated in. 🔞 minors & ageless blogs who interact with my content will be blocked. my stuff is not for you.

For whatever it’s worth, you consider yourself to be intuitive. It doesn’t take long for you to read a person, to start predicting their next moves with enough accuracy to spook yourself. You anticipate the direction their footsteps will take long before their feet hit the ground; and more often than not, you’re right. 

But then you look at Kim Taehyung, and you can’t tell if you’re illiterate or if he’s illegible because you have never — not once — been able to tell what the fuck he’s up to. He exists outside the matrix, you think, vibrating on a frequency you may not be evolved enough to hear. His mind is flying ahead at warp speed, and you’re usually stuck staring at the sky, wondering where he’s zoomed off to.

That’s how you ended up where you are at this moment — in the metaphorical dust.

The way your head is spinning has a lot to do with where his head is, but you heard him. You know you heard him, and there’s no mistaking what he said, no matter how muffled his voice is.

With fistfuls of bedsheets, you lift your head from the pillows it’d just crashed back upon moments ago. Panting, you balk, “What?”

Taehyung pulls his face away from your cunt long enough for you to see his dark eyes brighten. Before he blinked, they were hazy with lust, and now — ?

Oh, god.

He licks remnants of you off his lips, and you forget what the fuck it was you were startled by.

“I said —” He clears his throat before repeating himself with a lazy, half-grin. “— Marry me.”

You blink at him. He blinks back at you.

One of you recalls that the two of you met at a party two (2) months ago and have kept semi-regular dick appointments in the time since. The other seems to have forgotten that, forgotten that this is the only context you know each other in: naked, sweat-slicked, and fuck-drunk.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Taehyung frowns. Then, to ease the tension between your raised eyebrows, he places an open-mouthed kiss at the very top of your inner thigh. 

Like it’s all casual. 

It’s supposed to be casual.

“You — ” You lose the next part of your sentence when he dives back into you, tongue so eager that it’s lapped up your words. You shake your head to clear it. Focus. “You want me to marry you? Taehyung, respectfully, what the — fuuuuck.”

Lost marbles scatter around your brain. There isn’t so much as a thought to stop them, just fireworks, echoing in the empty space. Relentless, Taehyung suckles hard against your clit, and you slump back fully against the mattress, groaning and gasping.

“What are you…?” 

You give up when his tongue flattens, presses deep into your folds as he drags a thick, languid line up your center.

Words. 

Words? 

What even are those? Where can I acquire them?

Can I buy a vowel?

He laughs, like you’re the one making the joke. Above all, he seems confused by your confusion.

“Not for real,” Taehyung clarifies. He pauses to flick his tongue against your swollen bud, leaving you twitching where you lay. “Just for a night. Gotta class reunion I have to go to and I, uhhh…”

“Holy shit,” you wail as his middle digit slips in to fill the void his mouth left behind.

The assault on your g-spot is fastidious and unrelenting, in total juxtaposition to the way he speaks. Casual and confoundingly chipper. If he wasn’t two knuckles deep, his tone might indicate that he was talking about his latest trip to the grocery store, or a movie he’d just seen.

Taehyung barely reacts to the way you clench around one finger; he certainly doesn’t bat an eye when he adds a second. Instead, he smiles sheepishly. 

Bashful? At a time like this?

“I may have told some of my old teammates that I was married.” He shrugs. “But, hey, if you saw the shit they’ve accomplished so far in life, you wouldn’t blame me for trying to save face somehow.”

Well. 

You sought an explanation, and you received one. What did you expect?

“T-teammates?” You mutter as he curls his finger upwards, rubbing so painfully perfect where you need the friction most. “W-what sport?”

Why are you making small talk right now?

Taehyung grins at the interest you’ve displayed; it’s the first time you’ve ever discussed hobbies. You can’t unpack that because your back is arching up off the mattress like he’s conducting an exorcism, not finger-fucking you to the brink of collapse. Worst of all, there’s no effort showing on his face. No acknowledgement in his sparkling eyes that he’s ruining you, with only one hand.

“Soccer,” he replies easily.

You squeak, “Oh, that’s nice,” and then your stream of consciousness sends you barreling over the waterfall. 

Convulsing, you cum so hard that your vision turns to static. Writhing and whimpering, you have to clamp your knees together to combat the overstimulation he’s — either knowingly or unknowingly, hard to say — dragged you towards.

When your limbs stop tingling, you scoot over to make room for him beside you on the bed. He drops himself into the space you’ve created, one arm tucked under his head and the other snaking its way under your neck. You accept his bicep as a pillow for your heavy head, and then you tilt it to stare up at him.

“So, what? You said you were married, and everyone else you asked to be your fake spouse said no,” you assume. 

Of course, as his biweekly fuck buddy, you wouldn’t be the first one on his list. You wonder how many other people he’d asked ahead of you, and if the offer only crossed his mind when they were squirming, naked, right in front of him.

Taehyung snorts. “Better get me an ice pack for the bruised ego.” He scrubs his free hand over his face as he laughs. “You really think I’ve been shot down that many times?”

You don’t know what to do with this statement, so you furrow your eyebrows. He finally looks at you, and once again, he’s shy. 

Either those are butterflies in your stomach, or your body is trying to remind you to flush out your bladder. Either way, you ignore the sensation. Elbowing him gently, you try to nudge loose whatever words are caught in his mouth.

“Might’ve dropped your name, specifically,” he admits with a grimace. He misreads the stunned look on your face as something else — offense or annoyance, maybe — because he continues quickly, “You were just the first person that came to mind, I dunno. Would’ve been easier if my lie wasn’t so… detailed.”

You can’t help but warble: “Aww, Taehyungie wants to fake marry me?”

He knocks your shoulder with his to hide how red his cheeks have gone.

—

“Does this look as bad as I think it does?” You mutter as you run your hands down the skirt of your dress for the hundredth time.

Taehyung gulps the remainder of his beer and sets the empty pint glass down against the bar. Hand now free, he grabs yours and holds it hostage. Affectionately — not annoyed by your fidgeting the way you yourself are. And he ignores your question. He should, after all; he’s told you two hundred times that you look pretty.

Pretty.

That stupid word has you tickled pink, which is ridiculous.

Ridiculous and pretty.

The brief nod of his head towards the doorway catches your attention. You follow his eyes to the other end of the hotel ballroom where a group of gorgeous men and their objectively more gorgeous wives cross the threshold.

“Damn, TaeTae’s all grown up!” The tall one shouts through cupped hands, even though he’s only a few meters away.

Your eyes shift upwards to Taehyung’s face. His boxy grin doesn’t quite meet his eyes; and he looks down at you as if he’s silently asking you to bolt with him out the back door.

You snort, voice low. “TaeTae?”

“Don’t,” he pleads. And he must be settling into character because he leans down to kiss your temple. Lips still near your ear, he whispers, “We may be pushing thirty, but I guarantee they’re still not above a titty-twister if I push back on it.”

You wiggle your eyebrows. “Kinky.”

And, just for a second, that fond look in his eye makes you forget that this is a hoax. So does that laugh as he shakes his head, the one that silently says, “oh, you.”

The stocky one is beaming when the group finally reaches you. He eyes you up and down with an amazed — albeit not inherently gross — whistle. He laughs as he claps Taehyung on the shoulder. “And he wasn’t exaggerating! Traded in those too-big ears for a smoke show, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember saying the bit about the ears, but the rest is accurate.” Taehyung shoots you a wink that reads authentic. He squeezes your hand and your swooning heart, too. “Couldn’t have picked better if I tried.”

[sliceofdyke]

11, 21 🐬

YAAY ty moni >:)

[zephyrine-gale]

day 5 of drawing one dan heng dan feng a day until he comes out

[eoieopda]

moni, this is my first foray into your writing, and i have to tell you that i am kicking myself right in the ass for not doing this sooner. goddamn it 😩

i actually got a lil teary-eyed, i think? just a little?? this was so familiar to me (which, uh, didn’t feel great to see my flaws represented so accurately in someone else’s writing — did you bug my brain or something?) and 😮‍💨 you really nailed this very niche corner of angst.

on top of the very palpable fear of vulnerability and the way my heart just ached for the hoseoks of the world, this was stunning from a structural standpoint. i loved the choice you made for them to ramble on in what was essentially a long sentence — like it was one breath, and if they stopped to punctuate, they wouldn’t have the courage to keep talking. that was so effective and (unfortunately) also extremely relatable 🤪

one of the lines that i liked was “— you went up like a bonfire, ecstasy roaring through you, consuming everything,” because a) it was just a genuinely creative way to portray smut, which gets harder to do after a while (lol); and WOW, that shit’s poetry??

more please 🤲🏻

Even Though

Pairing: Hoseok x reader

Genre: friends/FWB(?)-to-lovers, smut

Summary: Hoseok comes running every time you call, even though he knows you don't want the same things. Unless, of course... you do?

Word count: 7.4k

Content: alcohol consumption/drunkenness, oral sex (m. and f. receiving inc. deepthroat and face-sitting), unprotected sex

A/N: It's almost Hobi's birthday, so have a repost because I won't be writing a new fic for it lmaooooo! This one has had a bit of an edit and I think is much improved for it tbh; I was always quite fond of this one (esp for having written it in one sitting between midnight at 2:30am lmao) but I've added a few bits and changed the ending so it feels a little more ~realistic I guess. I've also (I hope) knocked out the bajillion typos that I had left in it before whoops! anyway, enjoy!

* * *

You turned, huddled into a corner of the club, carefully cradling your phone against your cheek as if that would, in any way, block out the noise. The voice at the other end was quiet, groggy.

“Hello?” 

“Hoseok?!” you shouted into your phone. “Hoseokieeee! Can you hear me?”

“y/n? Are you ok?”

“No! I miss you! I miss you so much! I wish you were here; no one else is any fun. Can you come out, please? Come out and playyyyy.” 

You swayed on your feet and had to brace yourself against the wall with one hand, staring pointedly at a chip in the paint, studiously focusing on it, trying to get it to stop swimming in front of you, doubling and twisting before your eyes. 

“y/n, I was sleeping-”

“No! No sleeping! Come and play with me, Hoseok; I want to play.”

“How drunk are you?”

“Hardly,” you said with a snort, almost tripping over your own feet. “I’m basically fine, actually. I don’t even really feel drunk anymore.”

“Are you with people? Who are you out with?”

“I’m at work!”

“No, who are you out with?”

“Work! I’m at work with club at the people.”

“You’re at a club with people from work.”

“That’s what I said. But I don’t care about them... I just want you. I miss you. I want you. Please come out. Please, pretty please a thousand times.”

“Is someone looking after you?”

“Noooo. No one looks after me like you do. You’re the only one. You’re my favourite. Of all everyone, you’re my best one.”

You didn’t hear him sigh, didn’t see him rub his face with his free hand, staring up at the ceiling, facing off with the inevitable. He would come and get you. Of course, he would. That’s what he did. He’d come and get you and take you home and tuck you up in bed and leave water and painkillers on your bedside table and you’d tell him how much you love him and how much you miss him and you’d list everything you like about him and then you’d pass out and wake up in the morning and say you couldn’t remember what you said the night before. The texts would be right there in your phone but no one would mention them. Hoseok didn’t know if your amnesia was real or feigned but it didn’t really matter either way. 

He knew this is what would happen, and he knew that it would slice through his heart like a knife, but he agreed to come and pick you up anyway. Like always.

* * *

“Hoseok-y! Ho-socky and mittens! My yang-mal and jang-gab-yyy. You came!” 

You stumbled over to his car and made grabby motions at him through the open window. He got out and walked to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you in. You grabbed at his jumper and pulled his face close to yours. You sprinkled kisses all over his face as he tried to extricate himself from your clutches and return to the driver’s side. 

“-ease please please please please,” you were saying as he sat down, shut the door, and buckled his seatbelt.

“Hm? What do you want?”

“I want to kiss you, please!”

You took his hand in yours and kissed the back of it with a loud, noisy smack.

“Not while I’m driving.” 

“Plleeeeaaassse,” you insisted, leaning in as close to him as you can. “If I ask really, really nicely?”

“Not while I’m driving, ok? It’s dangerous.”

You groaned, frustrated, and threw your hands in the air. The world whipping by so quickly outside made you feel dizzy and then, suddenly, tired. The kind of drunken tiredness that was like an unexpectedly strong wave that knocks you into the sea, pulls you under. If you didn’t lie down now, immediately, you thought you would pass out. So you fumbled down the side of the seat for the lever to adjust the angle and flew back with an anguished wail when it tipped all the way backwards. 

“Are you ok?” Hoseok asked, eyes flicking briefly in your direction before returning to the road.

You were kicking your feet in the air, pressing your shoes against the roof of the car. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” he said softly, tapping your leg gently, encouraging them down.

Hoseok was just glad you weren’t trying to kiss him anymore. 

* * *

“Daisy, daisy, give me your answer, dooo,” you sang, with little consideration for your neighbours, as Hoseok half-carried you to your front door. “I’m half-crazy all for the love of you!” 

He carefully propped you up as he unlocked your door and helped you inside. As he shut the door, you took his face in your hands and continued.

“It won’t be a styyyyylish marriage! I can’t afford a carriage-”

A squeak interrupted your song as he lifted you, carrying you to your bed.

“But you’d look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle made for two! 

“Have we ever gone bicycling, Seoky? Can I ride a bike? I think so... I don’t own one, though, but we can rent them, right?”

You blathered on as he took off your socks and pulled the clips out of your hair and hung up your jacket.

“Come here, please!” you called for him as he brought you a stack of reusable cotton pads and your make-up remover. You took both from him and chucked them on the bed, then pulled him down next to you.

“I love you,” you cooed, rubbing your nose against his. “I love you I love you I love you.” 

You flopped back, head against the pillow, and dragged him with you. 

“I think you are the most best, probab- Stop it! Stop it!” You swatted at his hands as he tried to wipe your make-up off for you. “I don’t want you to do that. I want you to kiss me, please.” 

He turned his head as you reached for him and you kissed his cheek and his temple and his brow bone. 

“Hoseok-y, why don’t you want to kiss me?” You were whiny and pouting and your big, shining eyes were boring into him.

“You’re drunk, love.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are.”

“But I still want to kiss you!”

He gently, but firmly, took your hands from his face and held them by your side. 

“If you want to kiss me that badly, you can wait eight hours and kiss m-”

“Eight hours?! No, I can’t wait eight hours! I can’t wait even eight whole seconds!” 

He wished more than anything that you weren’t drunk. He wished that you would be sober, sober and still this keen, still this loving. He knew wishes didn’t come true. 

You sighed, growling at the end, frustrated and pouting and pretending to be angry. But you did, at least, stop trying to kiss him.

“I just love you, that’s all,” you said, as he lay down next to you.

You turned on your side and pressed your finger against his bottom lip, flipping it up and down. 

“My name’s Hoseok,” you said, as if he were your ventriloquist dummy. “And I’m so pretty and I’m so smart and I’m so kind and I’m the best person in the world but I won’t let my girlfriend kiss m-”

Girlfriend. There was that word again. You wouldn’t dare utter it sober, and nor would he. He distinctly remembered the time he tried to get you to agree to a ‘date’ and how badly that went, so he wouldn’t dream of even thinking that word in your presence. But this wasn’t the first time you’d drunkenly referred to yourself as his girlfriend. Which was what made this all the more difficult for him. Somewhere, in whatever walled-off section of your mind (and heart), you were his; you were his girlfriend and you loved him and you were willing to let him love you. And the key to this little cage was, apparently, copious amounts of alcohol. So, you went out and you drank too much and you called him up and he came running because he loved that you need him, loved that he was the one you called even in the middle of the night. And you called yourself his girlfriend and he pretended for five minutes that it might really happen. 

“Just go to sleep, ok?” he said softly, tucking your hair behind your ear, pulling the covers up over you. 

“Not if you’re going to leave me.”

“No, I’ll stay. I’ll stay here.”

“Good.” 

You waited for him to lie down and then flung your limbs over him, holding him close to you, fisting his T-shirt. He kissed the top of your head and waited for you to pass out. 

* * *

You woke, in the morning (later that same morning), thick-headed and dry-mouthed. You chugged the glass of water Hoseok left on your bedside table, finishing it before you could reach for the painkillers, which you opted to dry-swallow and then immediately regretted doing. You unlocked your phone and grimaced as you noticed the time: it was 7am, which meant you’d been asleep for all of three hours. You felt ghastly but, somehow, also wide awake. You scrolled through your phone, looking through your fingers at the messages you sent last night. There were so many. 

You: Hoseeereeokkkkjjyyyy.

You: are ayou sleep?

You: I msiss you so mchu. I wish you wer hreeeeee. 

You: if u coome, I wlll love youf roever. 

You felt movement from the other side of the bed and rolled over, away from the embarrassment of your phone, to see Hoseok standing up. You watched him as he put his phone in his pocket, ran a hand through his hair once, twice, then turned around.

“Oh, you’re awake.” 

“Catching you in the disappearing act this time.” 

You sounded annoyed, but you weren’t really sure why. Just hungover. Probably.

He smiled and you wondered why he looked so shy. He was usually gone before you woke up, at least these days. Maybe he actually was embarrassed to be caught running out on you. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

You shrugged. 

“Like I drank an entire bar and then had three hours’ sleep.” 

“You should sleep it off; it’s still early.” 

You didn’t know what compelled you to ask, didn’t know why now was the time, but you didn’t have the capacity to filter your thoughts from your mouth.

“What’s the point of you staying if you always run off so early?” 

He blinked, taken aback. He replied slowly, hesitantly, almost reluctantly.

“You don’t like it when I overstay my welcome.” 

It was such a specific turn of phrase, you could hear a bell ringing distantly in your brain, as if you’d had this conversation before – though, if you had, you didn’t remember having it. 

“You don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn, though, just to get away from me. You can sleep in; you were also up at 4am so I’m hardly going to kick you out at 7.”

You thought he looked as if he was biting something back; his face was heavy with all the things he wasn't saying and you felt frustration settling on you, slowly taking the reins. 

“I don’t know why you bother, to be honest,” you told him, your lack of sleep and excess of booze making you sound meaner than you really intended. “Why get up, pick me up, take care of me and then just disappear? What’s in it for you if you don’t even stay for breakfast?”

“Well, it’s the only time you’re ever really nice to me, so...”

It hit you like a slap in the face.

“What?”

“What?” he threw back. 

“What do you mean it’s the only time I’m ever nice to you?”

“You and I both know what I mean. Take a look at your phone if you’re confused.” 

He turned and, after a second’s pause, started to walk out of the room.

“Hey!” you called after him. “You can’t just say that and leave! Come back here!”

He looked at you from the door and you almost didn’t recognise him; you realised you’d never seen him angry.

“What do you want me to say? We both know what this is. This...”

He floundered, looking for a word, betraying the fact that, actually, neither of you knew what this was, what had become of you.

“I want more than you will ever want; that’s a fact. I want what you can’t or won’t give me. I made my peace with that. But then you call me in the middle of the night and you tell me that you want me and need me and that you miss me and you love me and I come running every time because I know you will never say that to me sober, will never look at me in the cold light of day in the same way you look at me in the small hours of the morning. Maybe I shouldn’t. In fact, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. That’s what I mean.”

Without another word – not that you could’ve managed one anyway – he turned on his heel and you heard the front door slam shut. 

He wasn’t wrong. You knew. You didn’t want to know but you knew. It had always been complicated between the two of you. 

* * *

A mutual friend introduced you because he thought you would like each other and he wasn’t wrong. But you hadn’t expected him to be so right; you were entirely unprepared for Hoseok. Entirely unprepared for the most perfect man to just waltz into your life and lay himself at your feet. You weren’t ready for that. You thought you would meet a guy who was basically fine (hopefully a little better than fine); a guy who would be fun for a few dates, good for a casual sort of arrangement, nothing serious. You thought you could see this guy and continue to sow your wild oats elsewhere. But Hoseok was different. 

You hit it off immediately. Yoongi introduced you at a party and you instantly connected, forgetting anyone else was there, talking all night. Drinking, too. When he offered to walk you home, you knew you would offer him a nightcap in your apartment. He knew he would accept if you did. Your memories of that night were slightly hazy but you knew the sex had been good because you had sent almost everyone you knew a message that was simply five mind-blown emojis. 

Hoseok had a party the following week and you were invited. He had been a perfect host and you had spent hours, desperately frustrated, trying to convince him to forget about all his guests and come rail you in his bedroom. By the time everyone else had left and he could finally give you his undivided attention, you had sobered up and your memories of that night are crystal clear. You had sent your best friend a text that read ‘I will never sleep with another man ever again’.

That was not a vow you kept. 

Hoseok was kind and caring and considerate in a way no one had ever really been with you before. It almost began to annoy you, the way he took care of you, looked out for you, thought of you when he passed something in a shop window. You had begun to feel claustrophobic in his affections; this wasn’t supposed to be a relationship. He wasn’t supposed to like you or, heaven forbid, fall in love with you. 

Your ‘dates’ had been casual up to that point because you had forced them to be. You would swing by his apartment after dinner with your friends or invite him over to yours when you had no plans for the weekend. When he had asked you, finally, to go on a real date with him, out to dinner somewhere, your response had been ‘why would we do that?’. That was when things had started crumbling. 

He had insisted you could keep it casual and still go out to eat together. He had insisted that it didn’t matter what it was called and, if you didn’t want to call it a date, he wouldn’t call it a date; he just wanted to spend more time with you. You had called your mutual friend and given him an earful for introducing you; you had got several earfuls back. Hoseok dropped the subject. 

Then he had started talking about a weekend away, going into the country, getting a cabin or something, going swimming in the lake and walking up the hills and stuff that all sounded far too romantic to you. You had asked him why the hell he kept insisting on treating you like you were his girlfriend. You had told him repeatedly and emphatically throughout that conversation that you were not his girlfriend. You kept telling him that you were friends and he kept telling you that he doesn’t fuck his friends like that. You told him maybe he should so he might lighten up a bit. 

You stopped sleeping together after that. Mostly. Kind of. You hung out more often and you thought that maybe you had been right, maybe you were just friends and you told yourself that this was probably the ideal outcome. But a few weeks later, at another party, you had both got drunk and immediately sought each other out across the crowded room and left without so much as saying goodbye. You tumbled into bed and you cursed yourself for ever giving this up, for ever thinking you could go without him. Until the morning came anyway. 

This happened a few more times and, each time, you grew colder and more distant in the morning. Hoseok wasn’t stupid and it wasn't as if he thought you would magically change your mind about dating him if only you had sex just one more time, one more time, but he wasn’t expecting you to behave the way you did. He had asked if you could at the very least not be rude to him, and you had shot back that overstaying one’s welcome was also considered rude and maybe he should think about that. He decided he wouldn’t sleep with you again.

It happened a few more times after that, too. Then he decided to give up drinking around you. It would’ve been easier to just cut you out, take you out of his life completely, but he was too far gone to do that. He would walk over hot coals for you; he knew it and so did you. 

* * *

You woke again much later that morning and thought about what Hoseok had said. You dialled Yoongi’s number.

“On a scale of 1-10,” you began as soon as he picked up the phone, not even bothering with a greeting, “how much of a dick am I to Hoseok?”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Please just answer the question.”

“Ok, well, what’s included on the scale? Does the worst include like, violence and murder?”

“No! Obviously not. Just like, for normal friends, scale of 1-10, how badly do I treat him?”

“Is 10 the worst?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, then 10.”

“What?!” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Everyone knows. You know.”

“I’m not that bad, surely.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well then why haven’t you done anything? Why would you let your friend treat your other friend like that?”

“Well, firstly, because I don’t actually control you. Secondly, you may recall that we have spoken about this on a number of occasions and I have always made it very clear that you are being a dick and you are hurting his feelings and always told you that you need to stop dicking him about. But like I said, I don’t control you. And I don’t control him, either. I have also had numerous conversations with him about you and I have told him he deserves better-”

“Hey!”

“Are you seriously trying to argue with that?” 

“Well-”

“Exactly. I don’t know what answer you wanted from me but, of course, the answer is 10. On a scale of 1-10, you absolutely treat him the worst.”

“Surely he takes some responsibility for it at this point.”

Yoongi interrupted you before you could say more.

“Don’t you dare go there. You are my friend and I am saying this because I do actually value you as a person and, this aside, I do think you’re a decent person: you are treating him like a cunt and he deserves better and, if you were anyone else in the world, I would’ve cut him off from you months ago and literally kept him under lock and key to keep him away from you if that’s what it would’ve taken. 

“That said, I’m glad you’re asking the question. I hope this means you’re actually giving it some thought? You’re actually considering his feelings now? Considering your own, maybe?”

“What do you mean my own?”

“Your own feelings for him.”

“I don’t have feelings.” 

Yoongi hummed non-committally and you could almost hear his eyes rolling through the phone.

“Well, anyway, let me repeat one more time for the record that you are a total dick to Hoseok and you should treat him better.”

“Thanks very much.”

“You’re welcome!” he rang off brightly, ignoring the sarcasm of your comment. 

* * *

You were grumpy and hungover and tired and feeling unsettled, disturbed. It had been some time since you and Hoseok had discussed anything to do with... whatever it was that you were or had been or wanted to be, and it always made you uncomfortable. You did know, really, deep down, somewhere you tried not to look, that you were treating him badly, and on days when the hangover anxiety was at its worst, you felt sick with guilt about it. But you also felt sick at the thought of more. He wanted so much of you. More than you felt you had to give. He saw things in you that you were sure just weren’t there. And you didn’t want him to see the things you kept hidden, the dark things, the bad things, the things that would make him turn and run for the hills if he knew. He was too good for you and it scared you and it hurt you and you chose, simply, not to address it. To run away from it as far as you possibly could, which, when you’d had a drink or six, was not very far at all.

You showered to try to wash the discomfort away; you stuffed yourself full to try to distract yourself from the anxiety in your guts; you, briefly, considered drinking again but the thought brought bile to your throat. You stared, unseeing, at the TV, ostensibly watching a drama, but really replaying your own, real-life drama over and over in your head.

You wanted to be reasonable about it but the guilt and embarrassment and anxiety curdling in your gut made you feel sick and you couldn’t face it, so you chose not to be reasonable. You kept butting your head up against the fact that, if he really hated it that much, he could just not answer your calls. Sure, you could stop calling him, but you only did it when you’re drunk and who had that level of self-control after that many drinks? He didn’t have to come and get you; he didn’t have to walk you into your apartment; he didn’t have to put you to bed. He did all of that on his own. And maybe if he actually slept with you, it might've made a difference...

You tossed that thought aside because you knew both that it wasn't true and that you would not want to be anywhere near someone who would soberly fuck anyone even close to as drunk as you usually got. Hoseok was not that guy. 

The more you thought about it, the more annoyed you got. You knew that you couldn’t really think straight; you were not at your best right now, but you were annoyed. You were annoyed that you had to be tired and hungover and thinking about this. Why couldn’t he just keep it simple for you both and leave you alone? Or, at least, ignore you when you didn’t leave him alone? You felt like he was making his feelings your problem. And you were done with it.

* * *

You stood outside his door, hesitating. The taxi ride over had taken just long enough that your immediate anger was subsiding and a tiny part of your rational brain was waking up again. Then you thought about the texts you sent him last night and were so embarrassed at yourself that you needed to feel something else: guilt, shame, anxiety, anything would do. You hammered at the door. 

Hoseok opened it and looked surprised to see you, but nevertheless stepped back to let you in. 

“What’s up?” he asked. 

“We’re finishing this,” you told him and he looked at you blankly. “We’re finishing this now.”

“What do you mean? Finishing what?”

“This!” 

You gestured frantically between the two of you.

“I’m fucking sick of this!” you cried. “You want me so fucking badly? Then why don’t you do something about it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying do something! I’m not drunk anymore! Why don’t you do something?” 

“Listen to what you’re suggesting. We’ve done that. And it’s ended up with us here. How do you think doing it again is going to lead somewhere different?”

You opened your mouth to argue but he wasn't finished.

“Besides which, I don’t want to just ‘do something’. That’s the whole problem. We’re in this because I want more than just something, I want more than just sex and you don’t. And when I made it clear to you that I wanted more, you ran for the fucking hills. Before you came running back, that is.”

You were surprised because he’d never argued with you like this before. You realised, with a lurch, that he’d never been angry with you before. You couldn’t put a name to what it made you feel; you were too busy swimming with frustration and anxiety and anger to be able to think clearly. You just knew that this was different so, maybe, this was good. 

“And why do you let me back, then? If I’m so awful and I treat you like such shit, why do you pick up?”

“I already told you. And you don’t need to tell me I’ve lost my fucking dignity and pride; you don’t need to tell me that I should be better than that, that I shouldn’t be begging at your table for scraps. I already know. Trust me, no one is as sickened by me as I am.”

“Sickened? Wanting me sickens you, does it? I sicken you, do I?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Fuck you, Hoseok.” 

You stalked closer to him, stuck a finger hard against his chest.

“Fuck you for putting that on me,” you spat. 

The world held its breath for one second and, the next, you were tangled up in each other, his mouth finally on yours again, his hands against your skin, yours in his hair. He lifted your T-shirt over your head and you sighed as his fingers grazed your nipple, quickly teasing it to a tight bud. You pushed down his trousers and he stepped out of them, pushing you backwards until your legs hit the sofa. He ripped off his own top before guiding you down until you were lying on the sofa with Hoseok at your feet, tugging on your jogging bottoms. You tilted your hips to allow him to pull them off and he brought his hands up to relieve you of your underwear. 

His eyes were black, darker than you’d ever seen them and he looked at you like you were in trouble, like he was imagining all the things he could do to you. You gulped and arousal pooled in your core; you were suddenly desperate for him, clawing at him until his mouth was on yours so you could taste him one more time. You palmed him through his boxers and he groaned into your mouth, swearing softly as he pulled away.

You were tingling all over with anticipation as he trailed kisses down your neck and onto your chest. He licked a broad strip across the mound of your breast and bit down hard on your soft flesh. You whimpered and arched your back into him, urging for more. He clamped his teeth around your nipple and sucked, rubbing his tongue over the stiff nub and you shivered.

“Oh god,” you whispered. You had forgotten it was this good. 

“Touch me, please,” you asked quietly. You didn’t want to break whatever spell was over you, but you were aching with a desire so strong, it almost hurt. And you knew how much he liked to hear you beg. “Please, Hoseok, please touch me.”

“Why should I give you what you want?” he asked, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes, his mouth slack, breathing heavy, voice rough. “When do I get what I want, huh?”

“Anything. I’ll do anything, please.”

If you had both been thinking with your brains, you would both have known this was not true. Your brains were, however, otherwise indisposed.

Hoseok sat back on his knees, looking at you, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. He stood, briefly, to discard his boxers and then he looked down at you, slowly pumping the thick length of his hot, stiff cock.

You were on your knees in an instant, replacing his hand with your own. You brought your open mouth to his tip, softly licking across his slit, keeping your eyes on his as you wrapped your lips around him and sank slowly, slowly down his shaft. He grunted when he hit the back of your throat and outright moaned when you kept going.

“God, I’ve missed this mouth,” he said, his voice tight and gruff. He gripped your hair with one hand and slowly pulled you back. Then he kept your head still as he thrust back in, still slowly at first, gentle almost, and then, when you moaned around him, faster, and then harder when your fingernails dug into his thighs. His eyes never left yours, even though yours were swimming with tears and he was no more than a blur above you. He was always looking at you. Until his eyes fluttered closed and you knew he was close to coming, could see it when his eyes opened again, piercing in their intensity; you could feel his cock twitch in your mouth and you tapped his leg, signalling him to stop. 

He fell from you in an instant and you pushed him onto the sofa.

“Don’t think you’re the only one who gets to have their fun,” you told him.

You pushed him back until he was lying and you pinned him down with your knees either side of his head. He was impatient, wrapping his arms around your legs and pulling you down to him, your core wet and dripping over his mouth. He looked at you, making sure your eyes met as licked through your folds.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “I forgot just how wet you get. I’m going to fucking drown in you." 

He licked into your centre, drinking you in, taking you for everything you’d got while you rolled your hips against him, rubbing your clit against his nose, desperate for contact, for friction. You heard him chuckle low in his throat and you whimpered.

He was impatient to get started but he liked to take his time with you. He wanted you to beg: beg him to start, beg him to keep going, beg him to finish you off. He licked languidly through your folds, he sucked, he nipped, he returned again to fuck you with his tongue, all while you shivered and whined above him, pleasure building in you, urgency mounting. You grabbed his hair with both hands and tried to hold him still so you could direct yourself above him, but he was stronger than you and his arms kept you in place. 

“Hoseok, please. Please, I need to come.”

He hummed against you and you tugged on his hair. 

“Please, please.”

You tried harder to grind against his face, your clit throbbing and burning under the absence of his touch. He held you still. His face was buried in your cunt and you could just see his eyes, glinting at you, watching you fall apart under your desperate need for him. 

“Hoseok,” you panted. “Hoseok, please.” Your voice broke as your desperation peaked, every part of you alert and armed, like tinder just millimetres from a flame. 

He finally sealed his lips around your clit and you went up like a bonfire, ecstasy roaring through you, consuming everything. You were hot and sweating and writhing on top of him as he licked and lapped and sucked at you, pulling sounds out of you that only he could: loud, desperate, animal cries and his name over and over and over again. 

It was only when you let loose his hair and your legs quivered either side of his head that he loosened his own grip on you and you flopped backwards, lying on top of him with your head on his hip. 

“See how good I am to you?” he asked, wiping his mouth, sliding out from underneath you, towering over you once more. 

“Yeah,” you whimpered. You nodded. “Yeah, yeah, so good.”

“But you don’t fucking want me.”

“Yeah, I do. I do, Hoseok, god, I do. Please.” 

He rested his hands against the arm of the sofa above your head and lowered his face to yours.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he said low, menacing.

He kissed you lightly and you lifted your head to meet him again but he moved too far off. He knelt over you, his heavy cock resting on your mound, and considered you for a while. This wasn’t usually part of your game and you were impatient, still needy for him, remembering the way he split you open, the glorious stretch of him inside you, the fluidity and power with which he moved. 

“Fuck. What do you want from me?” you asked.

He tipped forward, back over you, hands either side of your head, his face so close, you could barely see him. He moved and kissed you lightly just below the ear.

“Everything.”

He stood and put on his boxers and you were overwhelmed with anger again. 

“For fuck’s sake, seriously?!” you shouted, hitting him with a scatter cushion. “Are you fucking kidding?”

He turned to you, pulling his trousers back up and shrugged.

“No, I’m not kidding. I told you. I want everything. I want you, all of you, even this shitty part of you that treats me like crap, even the part of you that tells me you love me and then pretends to forget all about it in the morning, even the part of you that pretends to be sickened by the very idea of being my girlfriend, despite the fact that you refer to yourself as mine in the dead of night. Even your excessive drinking, even your emotional constipation, even your big, fat heart that you try to hide from everyone, even your insistence that you don’t give a shit despite giving a hell of a lot of a shit all the damn time, even your stupid fucking determination to do everything by yourself even when you actually need help, even your terrible taste in films and those god-awful reality TV programs you like, even your snoring, even your back turned back against me. All of it. All of you. I fucking want all of you, all the fucking time.” 

You stared breathlessly at him as his chest heaved, his breathing ragged. Your heart was in your throat, blood roaring in your ears. He was waiting for you to say something but you’d lost the ability to speak. Words flew into and out of your head without your being able to catch any of them. You couldn’t think. Your mind was buzzing, static blaring, nothing but white noise. You could only stare at him, bewildered, overwhelmed, utterly naked. 

His breathing slowly settled and he rolled his eyes and turned away from you. 

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath. 

He was walking away from you and you knew you had to stop him. Your brain had no capacity to filter anything on its way to your mouth and you said it before you even really knew you were feeling it.

“I love you. I fucking love you.” 

He turned quickly and watched you, wary, unsure. You didn’t let yourself think anymore. You staggered to your feet and took his hands and pulled him close to you. 

“I fucking love you,” you said again. “I love you, ok? And I'm not drunk this time and fucking fine, if I’m such a piece of shit but you still want me, then fine. Fine. Have me.” 

He was still looking at you, looking into your eyes like he was trying to solve a riddle.

“I’m not fucking with you. I’m not lying. I want you. I want you and have always wanted you and always wanted not to want you as much I do because you’re terrifying. Ever looked directly at the sun? Ever looked at the fucking face of god? ‘Cause I have and it’s you. Ok? It’s you. When I get drunk and I call you and I tell you that I love you, it’s true – that's true. It’s only you I call.” Your skin was hot, flushed, but from embarrassment now, from feeling skinned, raw, exposing yourself in a way that you never did, never wanted to. Your voice broke and you desperately didn’t want to cry, didn’t want this to be more embarrassing than it needed to be, didn’t want him to see how pathetic you really were even as you were telling him. “It’s only you I want. And it’s only when I’m not sober enough to fight myself that I can admit it. I’m a piece of shit and you’re a literal angel, a fucking god, but fine, if you really want to have me, have me. I’m yours.” 

He gently nudged your nose with his and whispered your name, his eyes carefully watching you. Then he kissed you, soft and slow, and wrapped his arms around you. His hands wandered, exploring your body, caressing any part of you he could reach, as his tongue rolled with yours, as you raked your fingers through his hair, as he moaned into your mouth, as he picked you up and took you into the bedroom. 

He lay you gently on the bed and slipped off his clothes once more. He covered your body with his and pressed kisses into your neck. Then he bit down and you keened, arching your back into him, suddenly violently, urgently aware of the slick between your legs, of your fluttering walls, desperate for him now. 

“Please, Hoseok,” you whispered. “Please fuck me, now.”

This was where you were comfortable. No more talking. Just Hoseok with his body over yours, his soft skin and softer lips, his nimble fingers and strong body, his eyes black as pitch as he looked at you like you were prey.

“Gladly,” he whispered back, his lips just grazing yours. 

He pressed himself against your entrance, eyes flicking between your face and your cunt as he watched himself disappear into you and watched your face, lest you betray any sign of pain or discomfort. But there was none. There was only the perfect, overwhelming fullness of him inside you and then the tight drag, feeling every contour of his cock, as he pulled back and thrust in again. 

“God, no one compares to you- fuck...”

He liked to watch your face as you whined and whimpered beneath him when he lifted your legs, pushing against the backs of your thighs, hitting you deeper, harder. You were hot and sticky everywhere; your skin was slick with sweat, your cunt slick with arousal. Every part of you was fit to bursting, coming apart at the seams. You felt like a dam about to break and then he took his hand down between your bodies and pressed hard, the motion of his thrusts knocking his hand until you were crying out for more, much more, crying out that you were close, crying out please, please let me come, let me come. And he did. The flood engulfed you; you were pulled through a riptide of pleasure, unable to scream, unable to breathe, suffocating in the swirling pool of your orgasm. Hoseok kept going, fucking you through your climax until he was coming, too, painting your walls white, falling under the surface of ecstasy with you. 

He fell down next to you and you lay, quiet save for your heavy breathing. When he took your hand in his, you let him, despite the thrum of anxiety in your heart.

“So,” he said, and he looked nervous when you turned towards him.

You were nervous but you’d said it now. And you’d missed him—you had. And Yoongi’s words were ringing in your ears, about your feelings, about how badly you treated Hoseok, and words from much, much longer ago, about how much you’d like him, what a great guy he was, how much Hoseok had liked meeting you, how much he liked you.

He was waiting for you to speak, not daring to go first. You looked down at your joined hands, looked up at the ceiling, looked at his face.

“I’m,” you began, your voice quiet and croaky. You cleared your throat but still didn’t know what words were going to come out. “I’m… I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?”

He rolled onto his side, facing you, and you took your hand from his so you could use both to cover your face. You gave a frustrated sigh and slapped them onto the mattress on either side of you.

“I don’t know how to be a girlfriend. Not to you.”

“’Not to me’? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing! That’s my whole point!”

You squirmed, embarrassment heating your cheeks again, and ended up on your side, facing him.

“There’s nothing wrong with you and it’s… intimidating. I’m not like that. You said it yourself. There’s a lot wrong with me and-”

“That’s not what I said. I actually think you’re perfect.”

You blinked, stunned into silence.

“But you said all those things.”

“I still think you’re perfect. Even though I said all those things, even though you do snore and even though you have handled this situation in about the worst possible way and even though it’s hurt my feelings. Even though all of it. I still think you’re perfect and I still love you.”

You turned onto your back, staring at the ceiling, blinking away fresh tears.

“I think you’re crazy,” you told him.

“There you go; there is something wrong with me after all.”

He leant over you and cupped your cheek with his hand. When he kissed you, it was soft and sweet and it wasn’t going to go anywhere—nor did you need it to.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” you whispered to him, his face still close to yours, his breath fanning over your face.

He shrugged lightly.

“It’s ok if you do. We can’t be right all the time.”

“You’ll still love me?”

“Yes. After all this, I still love you. I’ve tried not to, I promise. So, yes, I will still love you if you get it wrong. As long as you love me.”

“I do.” You wanted to say it back, felt it stick in your throat. You swallowed hard, blinked slowly, took a deep breath. “I love you, too.”

He kissed you again, still soft, still gentle, and then settled back on his side.

“So…”

“So?”

“So can I actually call you my girlfriend now?”

You rolled your eyes playfully and couldn’t stop the little thrill in your heart or grin on your lips.

“I guess, if you must.”

He grinned back at you, wide, beaming.

“Yes, I fucking must!”

You thought that sounded just fine.

[swan2swan]

Until someone from the staff says otherwise, I will stake actual, genuine money that this was an exchange from the writer's room that made it into the show.

[doephin]

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