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The Take-Home Test

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Class came to a close twenty minutes early, and everyone in the room cheered. The sounds of binders and papers shuffling into backpacks followed by zippers and chairs dragging against the tile filled the air, and the professor laughed and wished everyone a happy holidays.

“____, can I borrow you for a moment?”

…Except you.

You stiffened at first, anxious at what your professor might have to say to you so suddenly. However, with no choice, you had to be optimistic and plastered on a smile as you walked up to his desk, trying not to watch as everyone else filed out of the room.

Get me the fuck out of here in one piece, please.

Cheerfully, you asked, “Am I in trouble?”

“What? No, no! I just wanted to know if you’d be able to bring Namjoon the D.F.W. assignment he missed.”

Sweet relief.

“Oh! Right, I totally forgot – that’s fine. I’ll get it to him.”

Kim Namjoon, teacher’s pet and over-achiever extraordinaire, had been out for the week, as he was busy a few hundred miles away at one of the largest Student Philosophy Conferences in the area. Invite-only. And that left you with the responsibility of bringing him his homework.

The journey to Namjoon’s felt like an eternity. You slept like hell that night, waking up too many times from your pillow creating cricks in your neck and shoulders, and finally at 7:30 you gave up and crawled out from under the warm covers. It was freezing outside and you stumbled to the shower, rubbing your hands up and down your arms as you waited for the water to warm up.

Toast, eggs, and coffee later, you were dressed in your thickest coat and heading out into the snow. You took the bus, as usual, and cursed the three short blocks you had to walk to get to his house.

Okay, you told yourself. No bullshit. Give him the papers and say hi and leave. You’ve known him since middle school. You know he doesn’t like you like that. His roommates will be there anyway, so no awkwardness. In and out.

You were frowning by the end of your pep talk, but your boots confidently moved forward to the front door. Your hand only hesitated in the air for a second before you forced yourself to knock.

It crossed your mind then that it was approximately nine o’clock in the morning, and any reasonable, sane college student would be sleeping right now. And then the door opened. Almost immediately. A burst of warmth and abrupt movement of the door made you flinch, and then you were staring up at the disarming, dimpled smirk of Kim Namjoon.

No bullshit! your mind hissed, and powerless, you awkwardly smiled back.

“Hi,” you said, proffering the paper-clipped stack. “I was sent to give you homework, because you can’t be happy on Christmas break.”

…Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say. Namjoon laughed with a thousand-watt grin that left you slightly dazed, and you swiftly put a leash on the emotions warring in your body and brought yourself back down to earth.

“Sounds good. Come in first before you get cold,” he said good-naturedly. His voice was still roughened with sleep, and it sent unwilling shivers up your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You were shuffled into the blessed warmth, and the first thing you did was flicker your eyes around the suspiciously clean and quiet bachelor pad. The last time you’d been here was a month ago for a house party that resulted in a broken window (courtesy of Environmental Science major Kim Taehyung) and a slightly buzzed too-close moment that you hoped Namjoon was too drunk to remember. Regardless, this looked… exactly the opposite of how it did that night. Which made no sense.

“Where’s the others?” you asked, hovering tentatively on the welcome mat inside. You didn’t take off your coat or boots, lest you give the impression of getting too comfortable.

“Home for the holidays like normal people. My flight’s not until Tuesday.”

Huh.

So it was just you and him, alone. A trickle of caution lodged itself in you, and despite all your efforts to look normal and unfazed by the vehemently and successfully repressed crush you’d had for eight or so years, Namjoon ran a hand across his face and sighed.

This gave you the chance to actually look at him – he was obviously freshly showered, and in a clean, comfortable t-shirt with a pair of sweatpants that shouldn’t have looked that sexy on anyone. His faithful beanie was stuffed on his head, and yes it was all plain, solid monochromes but he made it work. Effortlessly. This was how he had no problem finding a friend who was only a quick phone call away – this was how he crumbled your self-control. He’d always been clever and smooth, even back in middle school when everyone should’ve been awkward penguins with too many hormones to function. Everyone liked him. And the same thing went for high school.

Funnily enough, you didn’t even have the good excuse of being best friends or anything remotely like that. He was always just Namjoon, A Friend You Had Been In The Same Class With Since 6th Grade, and you were just ____, A Girl He Had Been In The Same Class With Since 6th Grade. No sugarcoating or fireworks or anything fancy – you and he stood as good ol’ Just Friends, and you’d accepted that years ago.

So it was barely painful. Maybe a little sting to the heart, and a bit wistful, yeah, but nothing life-altering. You still dated other guys and had fun. Nothing was different now except for the institution and the teachers, and him managing to get hotter than pretty much any other human being you’d ever seen, but that was beside the point.

Well, all that and the party. But you were too busy pretending that never happened (sort of) (not really).

These thoughts made you oblivious as Namjoon gazed at you, wondering where he had gone wrong, and if there had even been a way to fix it. He wanted to ask you what you were thinking about – you had that specific little knit in your brow that meant you were dwelling on something uneasy – but he knew better than to say anything. You were skittish, and he wasn’t good enough. He was only good at scaring you away.

“So… how was the thing?” You tried to make appropriate small talk, not budging from your spot. Namjoon idly flipped through the papers, examining the assignment.

“Good! Really good… I met some really great people that I might get to work with. Fuck, ten pages on this? It’s Christmas break…”

“Oh, suck it up, D.F.W. isn’t hard to do ten pages on,” you teased in turn. Served him right for being such a fucking nerd (not that you had any right to say that with your 3.8).

He grumbled back, “You’re not hard to do ten pages on.”

There was an off-beat that followed the implications of the sentence; just a slight hiccup in the air as you inhaled and his eyes flickered up to yours too quickly. Your boots were shuffling backwards before you could even process the thought.

I shouldn’t have come here. I’m weak.

“Do you want coffee?”

The only reason you stopped, about to make up an excuse to leave and head out the door and never come back, was from the edge in his voice as he asked his question. The tall boy didn’t seem angry at all, though. Something more intimate lurked in his eyes, even if his expression was unguarded and perfectly friendly.

“You have to be freezing. It’s like subzero out there and you haven’t even taken your jacket off. At least have a cup before you go,” he insisted.

Well, wow you couldn’t leave without looking like a heartless jackass. At least that’s what you told yourself. Hugging yourself a little bit, you nodded, praying you didn’t look as strung-out as you felt. And coffee did sound nice right now, anyway. Nothing you could do about it.

“Sure,” you said. “Sounds good. I could use some heat.”

The thick tinge to the air thankfully vanished as you both transferred to the kitchen; Namjoon had just been pouring your cup when the wind picked up, and the lights flickered in the house. That wasn’t good. You knew there was going to be a snowstorm coming in again, but the weatherman had said it wasn’t due til tomorrow. You wouldn’t have left your house otherwise.

“Damn it,” he said under his breath, frowning.

“What’s wrong? Should… we be worried?” you asked hesitantly.

He gently replaced the pot in the maker and went to the fridge. “The house is old as shit so it tends to not fare well under any conditions outside of room temperature. I’m just a little worried the power’s going to go out or something. Cream and sugar, yeah?”

“Yes,” you answered automatically. You were significantly more worried, but now it was for him more than anything. If he didn’t have heating, he’d be miserable. Three days in a freezing house sounded uninhabitable. “But that didn’t answer my question. Should we be worried?”

Namjoon returned with the steaming mug, clinking the tiny spoon on the side as he passed it to you. The drink was soothingly hot in your hands, and after one sip where you kept your eyes on him, waiting for an answer, you realized he’d put the perfect amount of cream and sugar. You had no idea how he knew how you took your coffee – down to Bailey’s creamer, even? How was that possible? – but maybe it was just a lucky guess. It had to be. Just a weird coincidence.

Namjoon held your gaze evenly, watching your expression to see if you liked it, and his dimples appeared when he saw your eyes light up.

“Good?”

“It’s so good! Thank you? Like… this is some of the nicest coffee I’ve ever had.” Still a little stunned, you took another generous sip, this time closing your eyes to savor the heat going down your throat. “Fuck, that’s good… Mmmm… Wait, stop distracting me! Answer the questiooon.”

When you opened your eyes to scowl at him, you were taken aback to see him slightly dazed and completely silent. His pupils were wide and you could see the tendons in his neck, and he swallowed before he licked his lips. Then, they parted as if to say something, and–

A rumble grew from deep within the walls and a violent whirring came with it, the volume peaking and going out within the space of two seconds. The house went dark like a blanket had been pulled over the windows. Everything turned soundless — no running electronics, heating, anything.

The power was absolutely, completely, 100% out, and left you in an eerie quiet.

“Fuck. Did that just happen? That really just happened. Fuck.”

To his credit, his phone’s radio was on in less than thirty seconds, and you both listened as the traitorous, bastard weatherman detailed the inches of frozen wet bullshit that would be piling up outside merrily for the next several, several hours. You could feel yourself deflating visibly the longer he spoke – power outages, downed wires, stay inside – and worse, the speed in which the icy temperature consumed the cozy warmth of the house was unprecedented.

Neither of you had spoken a word as the verdict was given, and your coffee was cold by the time he finally turned the radio off.

Both of you looked at each other for a long moment – a little apprehensive, searching for something intangible to hold onto – and as you accepted that you were going to be trapped in here with him, your heartbeat skipped and then slowed. A peculiar sense of peace washed over you like bathwater, along with the fact that if you had to be snowed in with anyone in the world, it might as well be Kim Namjoon.

…Right?

The first thing he did was zip up your jacket. You protested at first, but his teasing, roguish grin was so entrancing that your mind blanked and when you came back to life he was across the room, digging up flashlights and lighters from the drawers.

“Let me help,” you spoke up, not that you had any idea where to begin.

Namjoon ducked behind the dining room table and reappeared with an assortment of religious candles in his arms that you had no clue why he owned. Noticing your stare, he sheepishly explained, “Had to try out some paganism for a little bit. Wanna insulate the house?”

Insulating the house turned out to be stripping Jimin and Taehyung’s beds of their sheets, rolling them up, and then stuffing them along the cracks and edges of the windows and doors that led outside. It was still miserable by the time you were done, and your fingers were numb, but at least it was probably going to prevent it from getting colder than it would. If that made a difference.

Standing there and just staring at all the bizarre laundry placed along the framework, the surrealness of the situation began to sink in. You were really, truly well and good stuck here with Namjoon. Your heart stuttered and you weren’t sure if it was from nerves or anticipation or both.

“How you holding up?”

His voice startled you and you flinched, but he chuckled and wandered over with a thick comforter that he wrapped around your shoulders.

The considerate and unexpected gesture made your cheeks warm. “A little cold,” you admitted, “but I’ll survive, I th-think.” Damn it, you had been trying hard not to chatter, and hoped he hadn’t noticed, but…

“Oh fuck, you’re really cold.” Namjoon’s eyes widened and immediate concern flooded his features.

You frowned. “I’m f-fine. The blanket’s enough. Moving around will help-p.”

“Don’t pull that. Here, this will be better.”

Without giving you a choice in the matter, his large hands found your back and began guiding you down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. He steered you into his, and you were met with a charmingly cluttered space – it was almost entirely crammed-full bookshelves, papers strewn amongst dirty laundry, and an oversized poster of Voltaire on one wall. Only slightly out of place was the tiny cactus with a pink flower sat in the windowsill.

The door shut behind you and Namjoon nudged a heap of clothes in front of it, covering the crack between it and the floor, insulating his room as well.

“We camping out in here?” You gingerly made your way around some wrinkled t-shirts to sit on his unmade bed. It creaked, but was surprisingly comfy and you eagerly kicked your boots off before you swung your legs up and curled into it.

“Warmest room in the house. I see you’re making yourself at home?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He admired your snuggled lump with private fondness; truthfully, he never thought he’d get to see you in his bed.

You wrestled around some to get more comfortable, and felt a dizzying rush when you were hit with the scent of him imprinted in his pillows. You were torn between turning over for clean oxygen and savouring the rare opportunity to loaf around in Namjoon’s bed, but your heart won out. Being selfish was nice, especially when you were freezing. But wait, didn’t that mean he should’ve been cold, too?

You peeped out from the covers and made a strangled noise at the sight of him. Namjoon hadn’t even put on a jacket.

“What’s wrong?”

“Joonie, you’re… you’re practically naked! How are you not freezing?!”

He blinked, and his responding laugh made you frustratingly tingly.

“Naked? How so?” he teased, stretching lazily and just barely giving you a glimpse of his slender waist as his shirt rode up. You swallowed thickly and averted your eyes.

“A normal person would have like, a thousand layers on right now. Do you have that disease where you can’t feel things? Because if you do, I’m telling you right now that it’s colder than hell on the devil’s day off and you’re going to turn blue and your fingers are going to fall off. Then we’ll really be screwed. You’ll have to learn to do everything with your feet.” You took a breath, frowning, and then added, “What I’m trying to say is you should get dressed.”

The intensity of his snorting added quite a few points to your self-esteem. Doubled-over, Namjoon had no choice but to stumble to his bed, palming his eyes as he tried to breathe normally through his cussing.

“Are you always like this?” he managed to get out, and you playfully shoved him with your buried foot.

“Only when your life is at stake. Really though, please stay warm, you’re worrying me.”

Finally, his throaty laughter abated, and you were once again trapped under the heavy-lidded gaze of your classmate. His dimples still lingered on the corners of his mouth as he said, “I’m kind of a human furnace, you know.”

“That’s… so unfair.” You pulled the blankets around you tighter, wistful at the idea of being naturally warm all the time. Maybe you just had bad circulation.

“Are you still cold?” he asked.

You gave him a look from your blanket fortress. “I might maybe.”

“Want me to sit with you?”

The offer was too tempting and suspect. You checked his eyes, objectively, waiting for the punchline to your undoubtedly hopeful “yes!”, but it never came.

“If… I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t say no to that.” It was said half-hearted on your part, but he didn’t seem to mind that. With a grunt of “scoot” you were smushed to the side and Namjoon’s body proceeded to dwarf yours in the bed. Just as he promised, he was a thousand degrees minimum and after swaddling both of you back in the blankets, he tugged them over your heads and you were insulated with your own personal space heater.

“Jesus!” you moaned; his skin was smooth and felt like the incarnation of summer. Without thinking, you plastered your hands to him to soak up the warmth. The delicious sensation of the cold melting away was nothing short of heavenly, and Namjoon made a noise like a choking cat as he hissed and squirmed.

“God — damn you, fuck, you’re freezing! No! Why are you like this?!”

“Why are you like this? You feel like the sun.”

He struggled as hard as he could, but the proximity left him with nowhere to go. It only took a handful of seconds for your hands to warm to an endurable temperature, and Namjoon begrudgingly simmered down to a grumble and stiff posture.

“Fuck. C’mere… might as well.”

You thought he was going to pry you away at first, and you dug in, ready to fight back — no way in hell were you going to let him take away your precious warmth — but instead of being pulled away, his arms wrapped around you and he adjusted enough to let you cocoon into his lap. He was a furnace. He was the size of a small galaxy, and infinitely filled with lit candles that made your skin perspire as it chased away the bite of cold, and smelled like sandalwood and something seductively sharp.

“Oh,” you breathed out without meaning to. “This is… good.”

He half-laughed, “Glad you’re enjoying it. You’re not getting frostbite on my watch. Imagine what the paramedics would say.”

“‘Good riddance’, probably.”

“Shut up. You’re so bitter.”

“Okay, well, I’m bitter and blissfully warm and happy, and did I mention warm? I love being warm. You’ve been holding out on me, Jooniper.”

Jooniper?” he repeated, and all this time, the light banter between you both that flowed easily — too easily — distracted you from your self-control. Your hands had come to lay comfortably around his waist, and your cheek pressed gratefully up against the thin material of his shirt, nuzzling a little. His scent was overpowering now, and your mind flickered with a hint of he smells really good that made you stiffen.

Shit, play it off, play it off

“Haven’t heard that one yet,” Namjoon commented, actually amused. “Not bad.”

And then a hand rested on your head and glided down, petting your hair and stroking the back of your neck. You inhaled sharply, eyes shooting open, and you had been lucky enough that he hadn’t noticed the flinch, but this? This he noticed.

There was a steady pause, a lingering, before his unfairly silky voice added, “Sensitive here?” and his fingertips repeated the motion across your crown. This time you shivered visibly and it went straight to your toes and then back up to settle distractingly in the cradle of your hips.

“You totally are.” You could hear him grinning and wondered what the fuck you were going to do now. “Where else?”

Did he… just…?

Before you could protest, his evil hands abandoned your head and instead traveled delicately down either side of your neck, slipping just barely under your jacket to find your collarbone. In the worst possible scenario, you inadvertently squeaked —squeaked! — and then it was his turn to momentarily freeze.

“Oh.” His voice had dropped impossibly low, and he vaguely smiled. “You’re a mess, huh.”

Every alarm and warning bell and distress signal went off in your brain at once at his words, demanding you leave this room and house and walk out into the blizzard and save your soul. And you were just about to listen, too, when he said the words that would damn you for all eternity.

“I can keep doing this, if you want,” he offered quietly, and the devil himself was there in it. “Nothing crazy. Just this.” His touch ran carefully down your covered-up curves to your hips, then feathered over your thighs for a split second before returning to rubbing circles against your neck.

The alarms in your head went deafeningly silent. A voice that sounded scarily similar to yours replaced them with, ‘He asked first. Are you really going to turn him down? You’ll stay warm, after all…’

Your throat constricted and you fought to fill your lungs with air and give him an answer.

Namjoon was on the verge of apologizing with not a little embarrassment, and especially apologizing for being so forward, when you suddenly settled in his hold and said, “Okay. If you’re sure, I’m down. Really. That felt… good.”

Oh fuck.

Namjoon didn’t pray often, but at the way you said that last part his blood supply went straight for his groin, and god in heaven how he prayed you couldn’t tell he was half-hard already.

“Good,” he said, his voice somehow even and not at all anxious and earnest like he was about to indulge in one of his longest-running fantasies. “Okay. Good. I can do better than good.”

And then he pulled your hair from its feeble ponytail, ran his fingers through it to loosen it, and dragged his nails across your scalp.

Oh fuck.

The sensation was sinfully good, like scratching an itch you didn’t realize you had. It was just light enough to elicit tingles down your spine and make you want more, and he gave you more. The massaging drifted to your neck, the barest trail of his fingertips against the bumps of your vertebrae, spurning off into teasing avenues under each of your ears. He reversed, though, and you didn’t expect him to suddenly thumb your lobes, toying gently with the small earrings in them (just tiny gold roses from your mom; you were very fond of them and never took them off) before skimming the cusp. But confusion turned to a strange, fluttery pleasantness; you’d never had someone touch your ears. You couldn’t have known how much you’d like it. Wasn’t that weird? Wasn’t it weird that he was trying it to begin with? Did he just know? The worries cut short at his fingers nipping at the top of the soft rim over the cartilage, as if he were biting them with his touch, and oh that sent a jolt through you. You didn’t know how long he spent circling your newfound erogenous zone, building up the sensation until you were well on your way to lightheadedness, but it seemed like a long time before he trailed elsewhere.

This time, his digits dipped into the pools of your clavicle, drumming against it faintly, like he was playing an instrument. He ran against the invisible strings, up and down, back and forth, and if you thought your reddened ears had felt good to be touched, then this was another thing entirely. Something about the proximity to your throat and heart and chest made you feel exposed and too-warm, like you were boiling under his caress.

“You mind?” he asked roughly, and he tilted his head at your jacket. When you realized what he was asking, you mumbled “sure” and in one movement he unzipped it and slid it off your shoulders. The constraining tangle of blanket-fort-slash-nest made it much harder than it should’ve been, but once it was off, his insistent hands were right back to where they were and there with less clothes in the way than before.

Against your collarbone, he palmed the entirety of it, letting his fingers curl over the smooth dip between your neck and shoulders as he applied a light, firm pressure. His thumbs grazed up and rest just at the edge of your throat, and for a split second as you breathed in you were aware of how he could feel it, the exact rise of your chest and lungs expanding, and how he could slide his grip a few, simple inches, and he would be choking you.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would just hold you like that, able to cut off your breathing at any second, and only that knowledge being his method of torment.

His thumbs stroked idly and you felt a tightly-wound breath in your chest get stuck, over and over, making your heart skip and stutter. Your pupils were blown and your cheeks were hotly flushed, and you were grateful he couldn’t see what state this had you in.

In the end, your imagined scenario did not come true, and you were more aware of the unexpected amount of disappointment (it was a lot) than the negligible relief the smart side of your brain had to offer.

“Good?” he asked.

You almost laughed at the absurdity.

“Great,” you answered against his shirt sideways, and he hummed.

“Good. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

That was as much of a warning as you were going to get. Not that it crossed your mind. Namjoon’s efforts renewed and his next stop was to drift over the swell of your breasts, making you gasp sharply, but they were at your stomach just as quickly. You swore you heard the faint sound of his throaty chuckle, but then he began to massage the swell of your hips, fingers kneading the soft skin under your shirt wonderfully. You breathed out with a shudder, and licked your lips, wondering when it had gotten so fucking hot under these blankets, and were abruptly aware of the pronounced slip at the crest of your thighs as you squirmed.

His fingertips found any tense spot in your lower back and dug in, working out all the nerves and tightness. You melted under his ministrations and for every inch of skin that relaxed, your insides swelled shut.

Palming up and around your ribcage, still fretting blissfully against your back, you straightened up and the movement gave him more room. He adjusted to have better access to you, and that was when you felt the very obvious hardness that was trapped in his sweatpants.

“S… sorry,” he muttered, hands hesitating for the first time. He was fully expecting you to pull away, so he winced when you cleared your throat.

And you pretended not to have noticed at all.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” you rasped flippantly. “Keep going.”

There was only a beat before Namjoon continued with renewed fervor. You could almost hear the constricted growl that rose up from his chest, and the sound did things to you you could hardly believe.

A little rougher, he smoothed up your belly and traced your ribs. It was almost ticklish, but it blended in with the thrilling little rush and left you squirming instead, trying to tamp down the noises that threatened to come out of your throat.

“Quit it,” he hummed, sounding too satisfied for his own good. “Be nice or I’ll make you scream instead.”

Your thoughts blipped in and out of existence, and if you weren’t wet before, you were unquestionably so now.

“What’dyou mean be nice?” you almost stammered, fingernails clutching at his t-shirt as his fingertips found the hem of your bra under your shirt.

“I’m the only one who’s going to hear you if you make noise,” he rolled his eyes. A thumb hooked under the strap and snapped it meanly against your skin with a taunting sting that almost felt… good. Screwing your eyes shut, you bit your lip and struggled to breathe right, creeping close towards overwhelmed by all the sensations.

Then, without warning, he snapped it against your skin once more — harder this time.

“Hear me?”

You swallowed and didn’t think about all the implications of all of this and who you were and who he was and where you were and what was happening. The executive decision was made, right then and there, to just savor this while it lasted and deal with the consequences afterwards. Fuck your GPA and feelings and self-preservation.

“Fuck,” you muttered into his collarbone, resigning yourself to the sinful sweetness with a shaky breath before answering him. “Yes.”

The tension in the air spiraled to an eleven. Namjoon sensed whatever shift had happened, and felt it in the way your hold on him tightened and trembled needily. This was more like what he was used to when he got intimate; his partner openly pining for more of whatever he was willing to give. Except this wasn’t anything like that. Both of you were still completely dressed, for one, and there was a pronounced edge to his desire that he had lacked in every other conquest.

“Good,” he murmured, and then his large hands swallowed your breasts in a surge of heat and a gentle squeeze. He pressed in his palms, twisting them over where your nipples strained against the inside of your bra, and he repeated the motion unhurriedly. The pleasure it brought was a slow burn, mild and insistent and meant to drive you up the wall at an aching pace.

Namjoon was rewarded with your first, gasping squeak, and it was music to his ears.

“See? Isn’t that better?” His voice was low and hypnotizing, and you could hardly catch your breath.

Stretching his digits, he thumbed at the vague, hardened points at the center of your bra, rubbing the pads of his fingertips over your nipples through the fabric. You thrust your chest into the touch with more embarrassing noises, forcing yourself to cling to him so you wouldn’t be tempted to touch yourself.

Thumbing turned to pinching, and soft squeaks turned to pitchy groans. Namjoon was scarily good at this, making you question why you hadn’t just given in at the party and—

“Your nipples are really sensitive,” he commented, and gave your breasts a teasing grope to punctuate his words. You spluttered, mortified at his completely accurate observation, but he added, “It’s not bad, dumbass. I’m not complaining. I like it.”

You had no idea what to say to that, and your head was spinning with lust and stupidity too much to be coherent.

“I-I’ll keep that in mind,” you said into his shirt, immediately regretting it. Didn’t that imply that… it would be useful information? For later? As in there might be a repeat of this? Your face burned with shame, but all of it vanished with the soft, quiet groan you heard from him.

“You’re killing me, kid,” he admitted half-jokingly, and you reflexively went to pull back except his arms turned to rebar and steeled you in place. “Uh-uh. You’re not going anywhere. But if you keep clawing my sides like that I might do something stupid.”

Forget burned. Your face was an inferno. Instantly freaking out, you apologized, “Oh my god, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I like it, ____.”

“…Oh.”

The information hung in the air for a moment, and then, a little dumb with desire, you experimentally dug your nails in again. Namjoon automatically stiffened and there was a distinct jump of something hard against your thigh that made your pupils dilate.

“Oh,” you said again, and this time with a note of subtle satisfaction. You didn’t let up on him; in fact, you went further and dragged your nails down his flanks lightly as you mused, “Figures you’d like that. I always thought so.”

“You’ve thought about my fetishes before?”

Whoops. “Wh-what? I didn’t say that, I—”

He cut you off, “What else do you think I’m into?”

There was a delightfully mocking tone to his question, and you inwardly berated yourself for saying anything. Stupid, traitorous mouth! Stupid stupid stupid. Petulantly, you smushed your cheek against his chest and bit your lip, and tried to stay silent as he gleefully toyed with your nipples. It felt so fucking good and you were a soaking mess below, desperate for something more substantial, but at this rate he was going to make you come from just playing with your breasts…

“___.”

The sudden roughness of his pinch stung and you gasped, flinching and sighing as it immediately turned into a pleasurable flush. Your skin felt itchy and if you’d been braver, you would’ve taken your shirt off to soothe the sensation.

“I can do it again, and it won’t feel good this time,” he warned, and you scowled unhappily.

“That’s… I’m embarrassed, I don’t want to,” you protested weakly, glad he couldn’t see your face. But Namjoon snickered warmly and your dumb heart fluttered over a few beats in retaliation.

“Okay… What if I tell you if you’re right or not? And if you’re wrong, I’ll give you answers.”

That was terribly, terribly tempting fodder for all your future fantasies, was your first thought. You shooed away that idea and whined before relenting.

“I think you’re into weird shit,” you said reluctantly, and this time Namjoon straight up, honest to god laughed. It was so mellifluous and infectious and you were beaming ear to ear before you even realized it.

“You’re not wrong,” he agreed after a second, still chuckling, and his hands answered with alternating insistent tugs and soothing circles on the pebbled peaks of your breasts. “Does it bother you if I’m into weird shit?”

“No.” You answered truthfully, repressing a deep shiver down your spine. “I’m okay with weird shit.”

“Name something.”

“Tentacle porn.”

He snorted, and one hand moved upwards, back to your collarbone. “Yeah. What else?”

“U-um… BDSM?”

“That’s too easy. Throw out something creative, use your noggin.”

The wandering hand didn’t stop there, though. It wove around your throat and settled, and you paused mid-breath as your asphyxiated thoughts from before flooded back to you like a dam breaking.

“Knew it,” he mumbled, and you could hear his crooked smile. “Didn’t think you were into this.”

Swallowing, he felt your throat bob under his palm and bit his lip. You murmured, “I didn’t know until now,” and he literally shook with silent laughter as his hand simultaneously squeezed, making your heart leap.

“You’re funny.” But he sounded much more serious than amused, and the pressure increased carefully. “And cute when you’re nervous.”

“Who said I’m nervous?” you warbled, and you were entirely unconvincing. Namjoon couldn’t seem to stop laughing softly at your pitiful attempts, and then the vice around your neck reached a point where you could really feel it. Your blood sang as the adrenaline hit and rushed through your jugular, leaving you light-headed and hyperaware of every passing second. You were going to go crazy from anticipation, from the not knowing what he was going to do next.

And you smell good,” he added, his other hand squeezing your breast lazily. Just to make his point, he craned in close — not letting his lips touch you, but the tip of his nose grazed your cheek as he inhaled the crook of your neck, causing you to shiver reflexively.

He didn’t stop there.

“Remember I can stop whenever you say so. I’m at your mercy, sweetpea.”

“Sweetpea?” you stumbled, still marveling at how his control on your oxygen was having such an addicting effect on you. Your underwear was soaked through and sticking outright to your sensitive lower lips, and the sensation was only making you more willing to get on your knees and beg for him to fuck you until you forgot your own name.

“‘Juniper’,” was all he said. “And for the record, this is what I qualify as ‘weird shit’.”

Since he hadn’t stopped as he went down your neck, his face was now right at chest level. Your heart jumped into your throat at the possibilities, and swelled up when he started tugging up your shirt. The fabric went up, up, over your breasts, exposing the hot skin to the only slightly less-warm air inside your blanket hiding place, and you remembered that you hadn’t picked out a nice bra, and… and you didn’t put on deodorant, did you?

Before you could abort mission, Namjoon spoke again, and the reverence in his voice left you dumbstruck.

Fuck, have I mentioned you smell good? You smell amazing. Jesus.”

Your mouth shut, opened, and then shut again. All your vocabulary seemed to vanish when you needed it most, and just as you began to wonder what fetish he was hiding, he released your throat and tilted you, hooking his arms around you and taking your weight. You were slanted back with your torso exposed now, and you had less than a second to prepare yourself for him undoing your bra and panic. Were your breasts too small, or too large, or not sexy enough, or…?

Fingers latched onto the fabric of your shirt, he pinned it out of the way and you in place, and just like that you were a full-course meal laid out for him to devour with his hungry eyes.

And then he craned down to meet your skin.

Your breath hitched at the first touch of his open mouth on the flesh below your collarbone, damp and warm. His head cocked, and he inhaled deeply, then let it out with a guttural groan that made you bite the inside of your cheek.

There was no deliberation after that. He forced your shoulder up and his treacherous lips skimmed the soft juncture of your arm before diving in.

It took you a second to comprehend what he was doing — your body was wound-up beyond reason and currently being assailed by the most oddly, bizarrely arousing sensation you’d ever felt as his tongue licked up your underarm. Your knee-jerk reaction was to lock-up and pull away, but you wrestled down the urge and made yourself stay as you were and only freak out a little bit. Because it didn’t feel bad. Weird, yes. And maybe it tickled a little. But more than anything, in the most unbelievable way, it actually felt good.

With your other hand, you shakily covered your mouth, hoping you could stay quiet and contained as his tongue lapped at you and awakened an entirely new world of pleasure. The movements were long and languorous, like he was licking up ice cream. You tried not to tremble and squirm under the unfamiliar sensation, but it was difficult.

“Bad?” he asked as he stopped, glancing up at you worriedly. His cheek pressed against your tricep adorably, and you instantly felt awful for making him feel bad.

“NO!”

Namjoon jumped at the exclamation, and your stupid mouth ran on without you, “I mean, no. I liked that. I’m not gonna lie, I’m so self-conscious I could implode right now, but I… That… You don’t have to stop?”

One. Two. Three. Then, a heart-stopping grin stretched on his face, dimples and all, and you had the distinct feeling you might be in love.

“So I can keep going?”

You were completely red-faced and your pulse was pounding in your head. Sanity long-gone, you finally nodded, and nearly died when his teeth appeared to bite his bottom lip — tongue running over it afterwards. Something starving had hit his eyes, darkening them, and you weren’t sure how much more of this torment you could take without kissing him.

“Are you sure it isn’t… y-you know…” Gross? Unappealing? Unpleasant? The bajillion other negative adjectives that could be applied?

Almost instantly, Namjoon responded with a firm, “No. You smell good. You taste delicious.“ He paused to try and explain. “I… I don’t know how to explain this, but I mean, sweat has pheromones in it and all, and… I guess, you know that really nice girl smell? Well, guy for you, maybe, but the natural fragrance that is just plain girl. It’s like a faint spice and flowers or something. But it’s got a lot to do with pheromones, and you can taste it here, and… Please make me shut up if I’m ruining this.”

On the contrary — you knew exactly what he was talking about, and it made sense in a backwards way. Namjoon had that nice boy smell — a little sweet like seawater and musky — and you had fallen victim to it many times.

You shook your head, smiling meekly. “I never thought about it like that. But I get it. I don’t think I’d let anybody else do this to me, but…”

The grin turned into a smirk real fast. “But…?”

Shit. You had no intentions of finishing that sentence. Face hot, you looked away, at anything, but you were both surrounded by sheets and the only options remaining were his shirt or your partially undressed body. Not to mention he still had you cradled in his hold, perfectly trapped.

“Nothing,” you said innocently. “There was no end to that sentence.”

“Liar.”

His head dipped down and the hot, wet muscle of his tongue lapped against your underarm again, causing you to yelp, and he hummed with smug satisfaction.

He was gentle but persistent. His nose would lightly bump your tricep at the peak of every swipe, and the measured strokes once again left you trembling. Every time you thought it tickled, it would dull into something pleasurable, and you were left squirming and sighing once more.

Who am I kidding? This is sexy as hell. He was ten-out-of-ten right, and knowing he was getting off on your taste and smell like this was incredibly flattering.

“Can I touch your hair?” Your thoughts had imbued you with some confidence, so you managed to ask.

“‘Course, princess. Be my guest.” Namjoon’s eyes glinted as he glanced up at you again, and you saw his shiny his lips were from the wetness. “I’m all yours.”

I’m all yours.

The simple sentence sent something like a lightning bolt through you, and you promptly ignored it. You had secretly wanted to do this forever, so when your fingers tangled into his silvery strands and clung tight, it was like some piece of your soul had found relief. Unable to help yourself, you rubbed your fingers against each other to feel the silky, thick texture of it, caressing it against your palm.

He opted, meanwhile, to switch sides. You had to go through the process of getting accustomed to his tongue being there and the tickle that turned into pleasure all over again. If you stopped to think about it, it was hilarious that he hadn’t even so much as tried to remove your bra, and it was— it was just so… him. That’s exactly what Namjoon would do, wouldn’t he? Skip the tits and straight to the armpits.

The laughter bubbled out of you before you could stop it, and said boy grumbled against your ribcage. You were already massaging his scalp in apology and simultaneously processing the sensation of saliva that was smeared across your shoulder and outwards. It was messy and disgusting for the first second before something like humiliation sunk in — what would people think of you? — but instead of feeling guilt, your insides throbbed and ruined your underwear further.

“Wha’s funny? Ticklish here?”

You stifled a giggle to answer his question and distract yourself from your highly inappropriate thoughts. “Y-you’re just cute, that’s all.”

His lick stopped mid-motion and he turned so you could see his eyes narrow at you.

“‘Cute’?” he echoed.

You bit your lip and grinned back. “I can’t think of anyone else who would skip a girl’s tits for armpits instead.”

“I appreciate your honesty.” Did you imagine a hard edge to his voice? Some undercurrent of dark promise lingered in his words and the way his eyes set on you steadily. Fire tingled in your skin, and he cut you off before you could speak again. “Let me correct your impression of me.”

All at once, he was wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, yanking you onto his lap, and jammed one hand against your crotch while the other clutched the column of your neck. The friction of your jeans sent the blood rushing to your head and flames crackling under your skin, but it all capped suddenly as he squeezed your throat and you gasped. Your exhale was a long, brutal whine of blissful overload that caused him to groan back quietly in response — because it was unfair, absolutely unfair, that you could be so devastatingly fucking hot. Everything about you was painfully enticing, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t visualizing all the ways he could fuck you right here in his bed.

Namjoon swore under his breath at the sight — your eyes glazed over and the skin from your cheeks to your sternum a splotchy, flushed shade of rose. The way you gave yourself to him like this. The way you writhed and panted and couldn’t see straight from the sheer pleasure he had you drowning in.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He shouldn’t be doing this.

“F-fuhhck, oh f-fuck, fuck, fuck m-me—”

Namjoon’s head shot up like a rocket, hold slackening, and you blinked blearily a few times before you realized what you’d said and balked. You hurried to explain, voice a few octaves too high, “I-I didn’t…! I mean, that was just, me, rambling. Fuck. Please don’t stop.”

There probably wasn’t a single universe where he could’ve denied your request.

“Jeans off?” he asked huskily.

Oh no.

He sensed your uncertainty instantly. His hands were large enough that when he stretched out his thumb to stroke your jaw reassuringly he didn’t even have to move it.

“S’alright, little lady. I can make you cum like this anyway.” He said it so casually you almost choked, and that finally spurned you to protest.

“Jeans can come off,” you said quickly, unable to meet his eyes. “But I’m letting you know I’ve got tights on underneath and they stay on.”

That earned a devastatingly sexy smirk from him, and he sounded far too pleased as he purred, “Deal.”

With only a little readjusting and twisting of limbs you both managed to unbutton and unzip your jeans and drag them off of your legs. Namjoon kicked them away with his foot and then immediately put you back where he wanted you on his lap, and without the denim in the way his erection was like steel against your thigh.

“Now… where were we?” The words dripped from his lips like honey, and he took your chin in his hand to force you to look at him as the other slipped back down between your legs.

You didn’t dare breathe. Embarrassment unlike anything before had halted your lungs, your heart, your blood, your thoughts, and his eyes went wide and he inhaled sharply as he felt it.

For the first time that morning, Namjoon was speechless.

His fingers twitched against your covered slit. They drifted across it wide, up and then down, and Namjoon’s mouth parted in a complete loss for words.

You were unbelievably, ridiculously, amazingly, soaking wet.

He looked like he was going to die. The silence stretched on, and you watched helplessly as his shock turned into barely-contained lust and dominance.

“Oh,” he croaked out, a little breathless. “Christ.”

You were probably a fine shade of crimson by this point, and then his fingers moved again. He removed them to hold his hand up between both of you and display the translucent string that stretched between his fingertips and coated them with thick gloss.

“Flattering,” he said, quietly. His lips curved up and it took every ounce of your control not to just kiss him and get it over with.

But you can’t kiss him, because that would definitely be crossing another line entirely.

It’s nothing short of all-consuming pleasure when he finally starts working on your clit. His experience shows in the way he laces circles and applies just the right rhythm of pressure. He thumbs back and forth repetitively, the simple motion leaving you keening and scratching desperately at him. You hadn’t fooled around with anyone in months and months apart from yourself, late at night in the quiet of your room, and he made sure that his ministrations couldn’t compare to another soul on the earth. It was like he knew your body than you ever could have.

Already a sensitive, strung-out mess, the generous glaze of your nectar made the fabric of your panties drag, adding an extra layer of stimulation that somehow made it so much better and so, so much worse. Barely cognizant, you whimpered and ground back into him, running on pure animalistic desire to heighten the feeling, and Namjoon hummed a low, pleased note that ran shivers down your spine.

“F-fuck,” you gasped. “Nnh… Namjoon…”

You were ruined for life. Nothing would compare to this ever again. But your imagination churned and for a moment, you entertained the idea of being that girl. Maybe if you begged long enough he’d touch you like this again after this was over. You could sign your life over to him on a contract and be collared for all you cared — as long as it meant he’d just touch you.

“Yes, pet?” he asked softly, and something in you twisted tortuously at it.

Scarcely able to catch your breath, you spluttered, “D-don’t stop. Ever. Evereverever. D-don’t ever ever st-st-stop.” You didn’t care what came out of your mouth at this point, mostly due to the ruthless pace of his fingers on you. Just when your orgasm lingered suddenly and sharply, he stopped and cupped you with his entire palm instead, his other hand reaching back to grab your hair and hold tight.

“Ever ever?” He tugged on your locks with cold amusement, and his eyes flickered to your swollen lips. “Want me to do this to you til baby’s all cummed out? Maybe until you’ve forgotten all those big five dollar words you know except my name? It is so, so pretty hearing from your lips, so much better than I could’ve imagined. I think I wouldn’t mind that… You writhing around on my cock and begging me to let you cum.”

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, his palm began to massage into your cunt, eliciting a dull, thick ache of pleasure. All the urgent tingles that had bundled in you at a point began to multiply and spread, creeping deep inside you and threatening to spill over at any moment. You couldn’t take a single breath that wasn’t a whine of some variety, and still he didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. If his mission was to make you lose your mind from ecstasy, he was going to succeed.

“I haven’t even taken your clothes off.” His cruel voice dropped to an electric whisper that dripped around you and kept you under his control, hanging onto every word he said. “Look at you. I barely touch you and lick your sweat clean and this is how—” His fingers dug into the soft, yielding flesh of your crotch and ass to emphasize the staggering slipperiness you’d worked up. “—fucking wet you get. I almost feel bad for you… Al-most.” He sang the last word and your hips moved on their own. It was a last-ditch effort to snatch up that last little bit you needed to reach the edge and finally, finally cum, but Namjoon made a sharp noise and yanked on your scalp tersely.

“…Look at me.”

Bound to obey, you tentatively opened your eyes and were forced to gaze into his. The look in them made your heart jump into your throat, on the verge of wilting away. It was like you could see every vulgar thing he wanted to do you, could do to you, things you would do for him without batting an eye. He had ensnared you that easily, and you’d let him, and fuck if you could just— just…

Then, his gaze softened. The hardly-contained wickedness still seared into your skin and set your blood ablaze, but it struck you as familiar; he’d looked at you like that before.

In a faint, vivid blur, a memory played through your head like a filmed dream: that same look in his eyes as he closes in on you, hands on either side of you against the wall, the scent of whiskey lingering around him as he bites his lip. The party carried on around both of you, leaving you to your own little world in the hallway, mere steps away from his bedroom. Your head swims with the alcohol, coaxing you into closing that gap, into giving in. It would be so easy. How could you ever, ever turn down the opportunity to tear off his clothes and taste him and feel him.

Like

all

the

other

girls.

The sound of glass shattering distracted everyone, and it was Taehyung’s howling swears that followed made Namjoon groan — well, it was more of a growl than a groan — and reason took hold long enough to smother you heart and make you duck and stumble away long enough to get outside and call an Uber before you did something you’d regret.

And now, here you were. In his bed. Doing exactly what you had meant not to do.

The silence stretched into heaviness, but the air remained charged with thick static and he never broke eye contact. Neither of you need to say how badly you want to fuck each other, and it was that single fact that made Kim Namjoon push away all his poisonous desires and choose to be a gentleman.

The clasp on your hair relaxed and let go, leaving his touch to drift around your neck and up to your jawline. He admired it tenderly, tracing the line of it, before reaching your chin. The fire in his eyes had tempered, and his smirk faded to a somber smile, dimples and all. And then, he gave you a small, sweet poke on the nose.

“Would you have slept with me at the party?”

The question doesn’t register to you immediately — you’re still woefully distracted by how attractive his face is and how he definitely just booped your nose in the middle of saying some of the most obscene things you’d ever heard — but then it does, and the blood drains from your face.

He wasn’t supposed to remember. He was drunk. It had only been a few, tense minutes with you against the wall and him coming in closer and closer, rattling off all his best flirtatious lines that you responded to with a surprisingly impressive ease. Maybe because it was Namjoon, and thinking back on it, that was how things had always been between you.

“You… you remember,” you croaked out, voice barely audible. Blinking rapidly, you strove to not hyperventilate as panic welled up in you like a fountain. But what did any of this matter, anyway? You couldn’t remember for the life of you, except that this was the worst thing that could happen. “Oh my god. I-I—”

“No, no, no!” Namjoon’s eyes went wide and his hands abandoned all they were doing to gingerly cup your face. “No, no. Please don’t feel bad. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, or upset you, or… or… I…” Too many things sat on the tip of his tongue and his brow furrowed in some sort of unspoken frustration that ended up culminating into a pathetic, “Yaaah, don’t let me ruin this, ____.”

The misery is written on his face like an open book, and you felt your heart crack and break over and over again at the sight. You scrambled for the right words, anything you could say to just make him not look at you like that, but came up with nothing.

So, you could do nothing except weakly murmured the truth.

“I think I would have.”

The implications hit him like an avalanche and he groaned, sending a thrill through your nerves. You forced yourself to tack on, “But we can! Um. I-I mean, not that, but… we can do… other things… with clothes on… um. I-if you want.”

Namjoon glances up, and he looks at you. Really, really looks at you. And you see the smolder in his dark gaze unfurl into an inferno that claims your soul and calls it his.

The atmosphere repaired itself; all the invisible ties that bound you seemed to knot and pull at your hearts, demanding you to come closer. His thumbs stroked your cheek bones delicately, almost innocently, and he leaned in. You can taste his breath he gets so close, and your heart is beating so fast you’re afraid it’s going to burst out of your chest.

Right when his lips should find yours he smiles teasingly and purrs, “Why thank you; I think I will.”

You don’t have time to respond; in a flurry of sheets and cold air, he tears the blankets away from your heads and leaves them strewn across you and the bed in rumpled piles. In the same motion he grabs your hips and lays back on the mattress, wrenching you on top of him so your drenched crotch is anchored to his erection beneath the barrier of his sweatpants. The suddenness of the switch leaves you reeling and off-balance, but Namjoon holds you steady and then his hand runs up your front, shamelessly catching on your shirt and exposing your midriff before it falls back down, until it’s wrapped securely around your throat in a way you’d almost call loving.

With one tantalizing roll of his hips into yours, a jolt runs through your pussy and you come to life with a cry of his name. You shamelessly rut against him, relishing the feeling of his cock still sliding your lips apart. The mess of your juices lubricated the frantic bucking of your hips and consequently soak through to his sweats rapidly, leaving a dark stain all along his length.

“F-ffuckk, babe, you’re doing s-so good,” he rasped, nails digging in as he rose up into you harder. The term of endearment sent a pang of something potent and fuzzy through your veins, and your insides clenched, tempting you to tell him to take the rest of your clothes off. Namjoon tightened his hold on your throat and smirked tauntingly. “S-so… so good. You’re a natural.”

He knew you were going to try and respond, and for the first time, his grip turned to iron and your breath caught in your throat. You could still breathe, yes, but your blood sizzled and pounded deliciously in your head as he choked you and rammed into you through your panties. You were quite the picture to behold, and he ate it up: your breasts bouncing underneath your shirt, the drool you didn’t notice smeared across your chin, the fucked-out look in your dilated irises, and the constant stream of tiny noises you made as you rode him.

Namjoon couldn’t take much more of this torture. His cock was so hard it almost hurt, and the closer you got to cumming, the more desperate your grinding became. He was panting roughly and almost arching off the bed, clinging to your hip so hard it would be bruised by the next day.

“Nnngh… N-Naa… N-Namj-jooonnah-ah-ah… I…!” you moaned.

“____,” he gasped back. “D-don’t stop. Y-you’re gonna mm… m-make me cum.”

The tightly wound coil in your belly was reaching its breaking point. Trembling wildly, you blinked tears from your eyes and realized this would be the only time you’d get to see him lose himself to pleasure because of you. So nursing your bottom lip, you stared at him fiercely, gritting your teeth as you tried to stave off your orgasm just a few seconds longer—

Namjoon smiled crookedly, eyes glazed, and said without thinking, “Y-you’re perfect.”

The single morsel of praise shot straight through you, sending you buzzing with happiness, and you let out a strangled mewl of his name as release crept into your entire body. The pressure started at your womb and shuddered outwards to every inch of you when his growl reached your ears and you were promptly yanked down. His mouth was suddenly smothered against yours as he thrusted into you erratically, and then both your orgasms came crashing down, pulsing through every nerve and alighting them in a brutal, all-consuming euphoria. You weren’t sure if your vision went black or white, if you were seeing stars, only that you throbbed and gushed and the sloppy kiss that swallowed your gasps of his name was heaven and felt perfectly, perfectly right.

As you slowly came down from your high, the kiss turned into a shaky, desperate, yet ridiculously sweet make-out that blew away every fantasy you’d ever had of it. Namjoon was a frighteningly good kisser. His tongue rolled against yours, tasting you deeply and always breaking away to plant quick, affectionate full-mouth kisses — like little reminders of something you didn’t quite grasp — before resuming where he left off. You were aware of the sticky warmth against your belly that meant, yes, he totally blew his load in his pants, and both of you were unquestionably a sweaty mess covered in cum… and Namjoon refused to stop kissing you. Maybe, secretly, because he was terrified it would be his only chance he’d get.

You knew something was wrong. So finally, when you were coherent enough to maybeform a full sentence, you reluctantly pried yourself away from his horribly addicting mouth.

“Namjoon.” Your voice cracked, but you pushed forward. “What’s wrong?”

You saw a split second of something on his expression before he buried it away and answered, “Just… stupid shit. Don’t worry about it.”

He’s a good liar, ordinarily, but there wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in his words — if anything, you heard bitterness. You frowned, hands curling against his shoulders, and he reached up to smooth the knit between your brow.

“Quit that,” he half-smiled, poking your nose again. “I mean it when I say don’t worry.”

Unfortunately for him, that was impossible for you to do. Something in you that felt too big and uncontrollable strove to fix whatever was happening, and you swallowed and looked away from his captivating face.

“I don’t mind stupid shit,” you mumbled.

Namjoon’s sigh feathered across your neck, and after thinking about it for a moment, he wrapped his arms around you and held you close and tight to him. You thought about asking if you were too heavy, considering you were still on top of him, but when he took a long breath of your hair and exhaled it contentedly into your neck, you stayed quiet and savoured the feeling instead.

Carefully, Namjoon swept your hair to one side after that, tucking it behind your ear before flicking affectionately at your little gold earring.

“I’m greedy,” he admitted, quietly. “And wouldn’t mind doing this again some time.”

Oh. You allowed yourself to wallow in private elation for one short, sweet moment, before you bit back the tears and had to say the words you didn’t want to say.

Your cheeks flushed deeply as you swallowed the lump in your throat and stumbled, “Joonie, I… I-I know you sleep around a lot, and I don’t want to be one of those girls.”

You felt his eyes on you, burning wherever they flitted across your skin, but didn’t meet them. Instead, you prepared for the backlash, the awkward conversation; you needed to be ready to go curl up on the couch and stay out of his way after ruining this.

And then, what he said was not at all what you anticipated.

“…But what if you were the only one?”

Head turning in surprise at the underlying hope in his tone, you frowned again and said, “Like exclusive friends with benefits?”

Namjoon frowned back, wincing. “No. I mean— If you wanted, I would in a heartbeat. But I… meant…” He took a deep breath, sighed, and ran his hand through his hair. His smile was self-deprecating. “I really mean just you. …Only you. It’s always been just you.”

For the first time since you’d met him all those years ago, you realized if you really peered close and paid attention, something extra glinted in his gaze. Something sad and thoughtful that you caught in the mirror sometimes: the tranquil agony of unrequited love.

“Always,” he murmured.

Understanding dawned on you, and you could scarcely believe it. You covered your mouth and whispered, “Really?”

Namjoon half-smiled, and looked at you adoringly, fully expecting his heart to be broken. “Really.”

“Namjoon, I’ve, I’ve had the b-biggest crush, or, you know, on you since m-middle school. This whole time,” you stammered, still too stunned to comprehend that this feeling had been mutual for some unknown amount of time. That Namjoon liked you.

Exactly five point three seconds passed before his entire face lit up and he blurted, “Gimme two seconds.” Before grabbing a pillow, shoving it on his face, and then screaming bloody murder. When he was done, he calmed himself, replaced the pillow, and had slightly pinker cheeks than before.

“Alright, I’m good. I’m going to kiss you until you ask me to stop, that alright?”

“I-I… What? What?” He was already moving in to pick up where you left off. Halfway to your mouth, he paused and said, “How long is this blizzard supposed to last.”

Blinking, you automatically found yourself answering, “Two or three days at the very least?”

All the ravenous desire flooded his gaze again, and this time it was tinged with devilish promise and no attempt at holding any of it back.

“Perfect,” he crooned, and leaned in to close the gap. His voice dropped low and your breath hitched as he crawled on top of you. “Then I have plenty of time.”