Work Text:
Saturday 4:42 PM
“Great, I was wondering whether this day would get any better.”
The sideways, questioning, but dazed glance that your best friend gives you is as flat as the tone with which your words fall to the, as-of-yet, unreplaced carpet in your apartment building’s lobby. Her lips are obscured by the tall, heavy stack of boxes contained in a brown bag, safely clutched and pinned to her body. And her face is mostly hidden by the massive bunch of pink and yellow balloons that are tied around her shoulder to keep them from floating away. But you know that she’s shooting you a pout of confusion.
You couldn’t lift your arms to press the elevator call button the first time, given that you’re weighed down by all the shopping bags. So you jut your elbow out again to gesture backwards and focus her attention on the nightmare who has just walked into your building.
To the unwitting soul, the navy, knit beanie and matching navy t-shirt and sweatpants shuffling toward you might have been pleasant to look at. Thrilling, even, judging by the look in your best friend’s eye, squinting and appraising, like a jeweller’s eye behind a glass.
She doesn’t really know what she’s looking at.
“The answer, by the way, is a resounding no,” you say quickly, hoping to head off further questioning.
“But he’s hot,” she raves, the brown paper crinkling at her breath.
The elevator’s friendly ding! can’t come soon enough, and when it does, you quickly step into the back corner.
“Hold the door!” the navy-clad man calls from the entryway. His voice booms throughout the lobby. Even your doorman turns to peek inside.
Your best friend — or, now, ex- best friend — plants herself between the elevator doors. “That giant, steamy slice of beefcake is a no?” she asks, turning to face you.
“You heard me!” you repeat.
You step forward, kicking at her feet to move her out of the way. She kicks back, at a slight advantage with her heels. But then a new set of toes come into view. Toes outlined by navy plastic.
“Namjoon,” you grumble as politely as you can, as you look up from his toes and into his face.
He smirks back at you, and it feels like so much of an insult that you almost start launching into a tirade, stopped by his curt, “Hey.” He turns to your friend and widens his smile expectantly. “And, uh, hi.”
Before she opens her mouth, you quickly say, “This is Rae. Don’t talk to her.” You elbow her farther back into the elevator car, positioning your body between her and Namjoon before he can spill some of his evil onto her pure, sweet soul. “Stay away.” You blink. “We’re busy.”
Namjoon rolls his eyes, but then he jumps at the sound and feel of the doors starting to close on him. Rae shoots you a smug smile before backing all the way into the elevator, making space for Namjoon to walk his bike forward and crowd into the space with you.
“This elevator is tiny enough as it is,” you mutter pointedly, kicking one of Namjoon’s tires to keep it from crowding your personal space.
“What do you want me to do? Carry it up seven flights of stairs?” Namjoon demands.
“Probably could,” Rae mumbles, eyeing his biceps.
“You could’ve waited for the elevator to come back down,” you respond. You frown. You click your teeth. “Man, I bet you don’t even ride that thing.”
“So you live on the seventh floor?” Rae asks Namjoon, her eyebrow arching above the tiny, sawed, brown paper teeth of the bag.
Namjoon smiles serenely at her. Which makes you balk.
“Yeah, right above this one,” Namjoon answers, shifting into a sneer when he looks at you.
The full picture finally comes together in Rae’s mind. “You know, I was part of the clean-up crew when your pipe burst,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “We lost a lot of good ensembles that day.” She turns to you. “The crushed velvet jumpsuit.”
“Agh!” you groan, closing your eyes in pained remembrance.
Rae nods knowingly and turns back to Namjoon. “It was a tragedy.”
Namjoon, as always, is quick to defend himself. “Wasn’t my fault! I don’t control the pipes! Just like I don’t control how big the elevator is!”
Air shoots out of your throat, bringing along with it the most dramatic, jagged grunt of impatience and frustration. “Have either of you pressed our floor buttons yet?! We’re already running late!”
“You’re always running late,” Namjoon comments, hitting buttons 6 and 7 on the panel.
The elevator whirs, and then you feel it start to move.
“Don’t mind her,” Rae replies. “We are late, but it’s totally my fault.”
Namjoon surveys your bags, boxes, and balloons. “Some kind of party?”
Rae lets her arms relax a little, showing more of her face. “Yeah! A welcome home party! You should join us!” Her lips are turned up into a friendly smile that Namjoon mirrors. If you bash Rae’s face in with one of the six-pack of beers you have in the bag at your wrist, will Namjoon also feel the hurt?
“Who are you welcoming home?” Namjoon asks. His eyes flick over to you. “Thought you lived alone.”
“I do,” you say. “I like doing everything alone. Running errands. Planning parties. Especially riding elevators.”
Namjoon scowls.
“It’s for our friend,” Rae responds. “She was gone for a work thing, and now she’s back.”
The elevator ding! s again, letting you know that you’re mere feet away from your apartment and mere seconds away from the end of this horrible conversation.
Namjoon walks his bike out of the elevator car and watches as you and Rae struggle to get everything into the hallway. When one yellow balloon threatens to unknot and fly through the breezeway, Namjoon grasps it and places a hand on Rae’s shoulder, just in case.
“Let me help you,” he replies.
“We don’t need help,” you snap.
Namjoon points to your arm. You look down and see that all of your shopping bags are so heavy, and you’ve been carrying them for so long, that you now have deep, red creases along your arms.
“Bye,” you say anyway.
Namjoon points to another spot on your arm. “This one’s turning white.” He reaches for that bag and lifts it up a little. “What’s in here?”
“Three bottles of wine,” Rae observes. “It’s OK though. There are three more on the other arm for counterbalance.”
Namjoon scoffs. “I could easily loop some of those bags on my handlebars and—”
“We’re really fine,” you say, starting to march in the other direction. “C’mon, Rae, let’s—”
“Well, actually, if you want to put this bag on your seat?” Rae asks, lifting her shoulders and batting her eyelashes.
Charmed, Namjoon says, “Sure. But let me take the balloons from you first, before any more fly away.”
You and Rae both watch as his nimble fingers gently undo the knot that you had sloppily rigged. Rae’s teeth skim her lip as he straightens her sleeve, and then turns to start tying the mass of ribbon to his left handlebar.
You grunt. “Look, you’re going to miss the—”
Even the elevator isn’t on your side. It ding! s once more to let you know that it’s moving to the seventh floor without Namjoon.
He shoots you a smirk. “That’s OK,” he says. “I’ll wait for the next one.” He looks up after securing his knot. “That’s much better.”
You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and let it out of your nostrils with pressured, full, loud force. If your nose had vocal chords, the sound would echo like twin screams.
“This friend of yours,” Namjoon says, as he takes the stack of food from Rae and places it on his bicycle’s seat, “you said you know her from work?”
Rae nods enthusiastically, reaching for the bags on your left arm to help lighten your load. Defeated, you let her. And you let her have this conversation for you, though you don’t want to have it at all.
“Met each other when we moved out here,” she begins. “Now we’re in the industry. Been a wild ride. Our friend was on set for this cool experimental film.”
“Ah, so you’re porn stars?” Namjoon asks, chuckling.
Rae snorts, and you seethe. You throw your head back to capture as much momentum as you can in your reply. “NO, we’re NOT—”
“We wish we were that talented,” Rae replies, starting to lead you all down the short bit of hallway before your door. “Doing porn would have potentially helped us out in the early days. When we all lived together, we entertained selling feet pics. Streaming. Cam girl stuff. Although, some of us—” She nods her head over to you before winking at Namjoon. “—are rumored to have certain skill sets that elicit delightfully enthusiastic responses from—”
“Home sweet home!” you interrupt, using your freer arms to shove your key into your lock and throw open the door, “OK, thanks for the help, bye now!”
“I haven’t even undone the balloons yet,” Namjoon points out, still standing in your hall. “I’ll need a bit of time. This knot was tied properly.”
After you and Rae set your shopping down on your kitchen floor, Rae takes the food from Namjoon and starts to unpack it, while you grab the scissors from your knife block.
“You don’t have to untie any—”
But Namjoon’s already in your apartment, leaning his bike against the closed front door, and carefully untying and sorting yellow ribbon from pink.
“What, were you a Boy Scout or something?” you ask.
Namjoon just shrugs.
You wonder how hard you’d have to jam the scissors into his neck to really make a point.
“Anyway,” Rae replies, swooping next to you and pulling the scissors out of your hand, “Namjoon, you should join us!”
You look Rae up and down and figure you could get two or three really good blows in at this distance.
“It’s the least we could do, seeing as you helped us bring all this stuff up,” Rae goes on to explain, clearly getting tired of your effrontery.
Namjoon hands Rae all of the pink balloons. “Nah, I’ve gotta go.”
“Well, thanks,” Rae replies, smiling warmly as her hand curls around the ribbons.
“Don’t mention it.” He grins and looks at you. “Seriously, don’t. Or she’ll blow a gasket.”
He hands you the yellow balloons and has the audacity to smile.
**
You’ve eaten enough cake that it now reads, “PY RETIREMENT” on the top row, and “ISTINE” on the bottom row.
Rae looks thoughtfully as she cuts another piece. “I wonder what Christine will do first,” she wonders aloud. “Probably pay off some bills. Get Medicare in order. Maybe she’ll travel.”
“Maybe to the Maldives!” Dina pipes up in a dramatic, resonant, Mermanesque vibrato, “Like she’s aaaalways waaaaanted!” She raises her glass, and in her regular voice, she adds, “To going after what you’ve always wanted, once you’re done paying your dues and waiting for the patriarchy to finally get out of the way and give you a decent shot!”
You all raise your glasses and yell more drunken platitudes before guzzling down the remainder of the fourth bottle of wine.
“Speaking of going after what you’ve always wanted,” you gush, “tell us more about what it was like to be on set!”
“Honestly, it was kinda dumb,” Dina replies, sinking a little. “Athens, Georgia is nowhere near the Maldives. I got eaten by mosquitos and did two punch-ups on the script. The rest of the time, I missed everyone. Especially you two.” She smiles gratefully. “Thanks for throwing me this party. And thanks for inviting everyone. That was fun.”
“Sorry again about the cake mix-up,” Rae apologizes, joining you and Dina in the living room, passing out more slices. She looks at you when she hands you your plate. “And sorry for taking so long to fight that pastry chef about the mix-up.”
“It all worked out,” you say, shrugging. “No one even noticed.”
“Because no one had any cake,” Rae says sadly.
“No one eats cake around here. Which is fine by me,” Dina says, shoveling some into her mouth. “More for us.”
Rae brightens at the idea of cake to spare. “Hey! Why don’t we give some to—”
“NO,” you reply, pointing your fork at her.
“She’s been so violent today,” Rae comments to Dina. “Stabbing. Kicking.”
Dina smiles. “Kicking? Tell me more.”
Rae giggles. “Well, we ran into one of her neighbors.” She leans into Dina, shoulder touching shoulder. “Namjoon. From upstairs.”
Dina laughs, bits of cake flying out of her mouth. “Ah, the asshole!” She takes some time to swallow what she hasn’t spat out in glee. “You saw him?”
“In the flesh,” Rae answers. “And when I say flesh…”
Her eyes widen to make room for the haunting memory of Namjoon’s biceps.
“Ooh,” Dina sighs in admiration. She straightens in her seat and turns to you. “I wanna see! Give Namjoon the TINE piece.” She grins. “With how you just threatened to kill Rae with your fork, it’s kind of like a bit of wordplay.”
“I’m more interested in the foreplay,” Rae comments. She shakes her head at Dina, smiling. “And that was a long walk.”
“Y’all, this is past cake,” you say defiantly, folding your arms.
“Past cake?” Dina asks, a bit of frosting stuck to her upper lip. “Nothing’s past cake!”
“Burst pipes are past cake!” you exclaim. “Shoving that bike in my space is past cake! Reading Jordan Peterson is past cake!”
Dina grimaces at Rae, who perks and straightens in surprise. “Wait—” Rae clears her throat. “Jordan Peterson?”
“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you!” you exclaim. Your arm shoots out, fingers slashing through the air as they aim themselves at your door. “Every time I walk down that hallway, I am gearing up for whatever insipid battle that he’ll bring to the elevator.” You huff and shake your head with disdain. “I saw him one morning with a copy of 12 Rules for Life tucked under his arm, and I wanted to snatch it and chuck it at his face.”
“It’s a really gorgeous face. Very friendly,” Rae continues.
She looks at Dina, and then Dina looks at you.
There’s a reason Dina goes with Bombshell-style eyelashes. If you had to guess, she’s on wear number 43 or 44 of approximately 60. They were the right length along the eyeline, but when you first saw them, you thought they were a little too tall. You remember that feeling now, and you almost swear you can feel the wind in her wake after she stares at you for a moment, smiles with just one corner of her mouth, leans forward to place her empty paper plate on the table, loftily says, “Hmm. Friendly. That’s nice. The last guy you had a crush on was always frowning—” and then bats those gigantic bombshells.
Rae lights up in the blast. She lets out a gasp, a giggle, and a grin back at you.
“You know I don’t have crushes,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I don’t have any time for them. I don’t have any use for them.” You shrug. “I don’t have them.”
Dina nods. “So you say.” Her smile turns almost eerie. “More cake for us, then. Right?”
You frown and set your plate down in your lap.
**
Thursday 6:27 AM
“Hold the—!”
You regret calling it out instantly, as your eyes move from Namjoon’s calm fingers separating the door to the smirking lips separating into a smile on his dimpled visage. Everyone else comes into view as the doors re-open. They’d all probably describe his voice as a low, warm, comforting, summer thunderstorm rumble, but all you hear is nails on a chalkboard when he quips, “Morning.”
“Ugh,” you sigh, as you push your way into the throng.
You turn to face those metal doors and realize that you need to bend back a little more in order to help the doors clear your chest. When the doors meet again, you catch Namjoon’s blurry reflection; his chin is aimed down toward your bosom, and when you snap your own chin up to challenge him, he just chuckles.
“No bike?” you mutter. Glancing down, you also notice that he’s hugging only his messenger bag to his body. “No book?”
“I’m sure I’ll find something else to offend you with by the time we get to the ground floor,” he jokes.
You roll your eyes. “Having to see you at all is offensive enough.”
Namjoon grins and says, “Can’t help it if I make an impression.”
As violent as your Namjoon-related daydreams are, you’ve never punched anybody before. You’ve pointed fingers. Poked and prodded chests and shoulders. Even slapped someone once. You wonder if now would be the time to give it a shot, fingers curling inward, knuckles straining against skin.
“Do you really enjoy starting your mornings in a huff?” Namjoon continues. “I like routines, but this whole thing with us is kinda getting old, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I definitely think that,” you murmur.
It doesn’t help that your friends keep replaying your so-called greatest hits. The balloons are a favorite, but since then, there have been more run-ins. More moments in elevators, crammed into shared spaces. One particularly rough day, when his muddy bike tire rolled over your brand new, crisply white, un-creased sneakers. Most recently, a mix-up with the mail, in which he unthinkingly and clumsily opened a package that he hoped was his new hoodie, but actually contained some lingerie you bought on backorder. You’re always thrilled that your beautiful, ebony skin hides your embarrassment; seeing Namjoon blush and mumble something, something, “sorry” is a trophy that you want to gloat about, not take home sheepishly.
You wish he were showing some sort of weakness now, but this morning is bringing you a confident Namjoon, backwards cap happily displaying his flawless forehead and face, his shoulders relaxed and his chest out and proud. “How can we keep the magic alive, then?” he asks.
Your scoff is followed by a more than certain, “Cute doesn’t suit you.”
“Mean doesn’t suit you,” he counters, looking up at the ceiling through his lashes.
The doors finally open once your elevator hits the ground floor, and you speed toward the parking lot outside.
Somehow, Namjoon stays on your tail.
You reach your car, but you don’t dare jump in. Not until you can shake him.
“Yes??” you demand. When Namjoon just looks at you, you add, “What is it?? I’m running late.”
He points to your hood. “There’s a dent.”
“So??” you ask, as you shift your weight.
“Just saying there’s a dent.”
“Yeah,” you acknowledge, “it’s there from when I plowed into the last asshole who annoyed me this early in the morning.”
Namjoon shoulders his messenger bag. “Look, I know this is a long shot, but—”
“Oh, I’d be happy to crash my car into you, if that’s what you’re about to ask,” you simper.
“I need a ride,” he tells you. “My bike’s in the shop for repairs, and that doesn’t look promising.” He gestures to the quickly darkening sky. “I was gonna take the bus, but—”
“Fuck that,” you say.
“Exactly!” Namjoon cheers.
“No, fuck that, as in, you can fuck right off if you think I’m giving you a ride,” you clarify.
“C’mon.” He folds his arms. “There’s gotta be something I can do to get a ride from you.”
“Get a rideshare.”
“I don’t do the apps,” he admits. “I don’t like getting in cars with strangers.”
“You don’t know me,” you point out.
“I know you best,” Namjoon counters. “Out of everyone else who was in that elevator, at least.”
You narrow your eyes and tilt your head as your brain does the calculations. It certainly plays. Everyone tends to keep to themselves unless there’s some sort of problem, and the only reason you know Namjoon at all is because he continues to be one for you.
“Just take the bus, man,” you sigh, reaching for your door handle. “You have your little hat. The rain won’t hurt you.”
“I’ll buy you a coffee?” Namjoon tries, taking a step forward. When you pause, he takes another step forward and shares another suggestion. “Some donuts? Whatever you like.” He shrinks a little. “I hate getting caught in storms.”
You sputter, you’re so angry.
“Use your words,” Namjoon teases, like he already has during a few of your more recent spats.
“Ugh, like I said, I’m late,” you protest.
“How is that any different from literally every other time I’ve seen you?” His eyebrows raise and crinkle. “I promise I’m on the way,” he tries. “Coffee and donuts.” He studies your face. “Weed?” Your stoic face is giving him so little. “Coke?” He pouts. “…Meth?”
You’re glaring at him, but the strangest thing is happening with your lips.
“Ah, meth,” Namjoon laughs, nodding. “Meth it is, then.”
You shake your head, trying to Etch-a-Sketch-erase the smile that crept onto your face when you weren’t on guard.
“Coffee and donuts and meth,” Namjoon summarizes, counting on his fingers. “Anything else?”
“God, fine, just get in!” you groan, slamming the car door behind you.
Namjoon initially presents as a considerate rider. His too-tall body hugs his messenger back to his chest and squishes into your passenger seat. He doesn’t dare touch the seat settings, lest you hit some hidden Eject button and shoot him out through the roof. He doesn’t say anything as you start to play your audiobook, allowing you the opportunity to get in the right headspace for your commute. And he just smiles happily when your eyes meet as you’re checking your side mirrors.
“No Jordan Peterson here. This is a Brené Brown house,” you say dryly, as her voice picks up where she left off, and you move your eyes to your rearview mirror.
“I like her,” Namjoon mumbles quietly, looking out the windshield.
You almost scrape your neck on your seatbelt when you do your double-take. “How can you like both?” you demand.
Namjoon furrows his brow and turns to you. “Who says I like Jordan Peterson?”
“Uh, the fact that you’ve been reading nothing but his books?”
If Namjoon chuckles one more time, you might go ahead with that punch. But it’s his knuckles that stretch against his skin when he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out Daring Greatly. “I teach a psychology seminar,” he explains. “We’re comparing and contrasting modern psychologists.”
You push your lips out. “Oh.” Your glance lingers a moment before you turn back to your steering wheel and turn the key. “So you’re not a poster child for toxic masculinity, after all?”
“I don’t want to be,” Namjoon replies, “but I probably still am in many ways.”
His eyes follow yours as you place your arm behind the passenger seat, twist your body to look out the back window, and, when it’s clear, reverse into the alley.
You sit back in your seat and start heading toward the main road.
“It’s good that you leave room for the known,” you quip. “Where am I going?”
“The community college,” Namjoon replies. “Main entrance is easiest.”
Realizing that he actually is a stop along the way helps you feel better about the detour. But realizing that you’re taking a detour at all, and for Namjoon no less, doesn’t feel great.
“How’d you know you’d be on my route?” you ask.
“Ran into Dina a couple of days ago,” Namjoon says nonchalantly. “We got to talking.”
Dina’s face is so small. You’d definitely do damage with a punch. The bridge of her pretty nose would snap like a twig.
“An enthralling conversation, I bet it was,” you grumble, as you flick on your left turn signal.
Namjoon quickly grabs the handle above his door and braces as you whip around.
“We didn’t cover your tendency to Yoda-speak,” he tells you, adding, “or your penchant for taking hard lefts,” as he winces.
“I do everything hard,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “If you can’t deal, then get out of my damn car.”
“Don’t misunderstand me — I’m grateful for the ride,” he explains.
You huff and slow to a stop at the next red light. You’ve always stared at red lights when you’ve approached them. You like anticipating, choosing to hit the gas as soon as they turn green. But you’ve never felt red lights before. You’ve never felt the stifling heat that they can bring. And that’s because you’ve never been at a red light with Namjoon before. Never felt his questioning eyes on you, laser-focused, just waiting for when you’ll finally turn to face him.
You don’t.
Not even as you pull into the dropoff circle at the community college entrance.
Namjoon re-shoulders his bag and braces once more for the turn. You barely place your foot on the brake, and Namjoon hops out of your car while praying that you won’t tear away with his left leg.
Before he closes the passenger door, he leans on the frame and peers at you.
“I really am grateful for the ride,” he tells you.
“It didn’t even rain,” you complain.
“Another bonus, then,” Namjoon says. “See you later?”
“Hopefully not,” you dig.
Namjoon laughs and closes your door before heading inside.
And you find it hard to explain to cheshire cats Dina and Rae that the reason you’re officially late isn’t really because of the fact that you snoozed your alarm more than a few times, or got picky with your outfit, or decided to give Namjoon a ride, but because, for some reason, you decided to wait until Namjoon made it through the front doors, safe, and dry.
**
Friday 11:36 PM
Date nights never live up to the hype.
You mull over the disappointing details as you type “hype” in your text response to the group chat with Rae and Dina. This Jeon Jungkook dude was perfect on paper, having had the right aesthetic in his profile pics, the right references in his bio, and the right responses to your texts. But once you got to the bar, you realized that it took him too long to warm up. By the end of the night, you wondered if he had any hand in crafting his online persona at all.
You could have fucked him. You would have. If not for the vacant, shy stares. You kept wondering what they would have felt like as his body wrapped itself around yours. That body would have felt incredible in your grasp. But those eyes. Too cold. Too distant, somehow.
You want heat. The kind of heat where the source is too close. The kind that threatens to burn. The kind that pulls the sweat kicking and screaming from your pores. You have a growing appreciation for the irony that your body needs that kind of heat to cool itself down.
The heels you went with are particularly sturdy, and they announce that fact as they clack against the tile, echoing your stomps back to your fortress. Your mind busies itself, starting to pick out which of the drinks in your fridge you’ll go with to delete the non-starter of an evening.
Your apartment lobby feels like Jungkook’s stares: disconcertingly empty.
The elevator call button lights up. You don’t even remember pressing it.
When the doors slide open, you hold your breath. You’re not sure why, but it hurts when the carbon dioxide starts to stretch your lungs. And it hurts just as much, if not more, when you exhale into the unoccupied car.
You turn and face the front of the elevator, thinking about how odd it is that you feel the need to do so even when you’re the only person in the car. Who decided that facing the doors was proper etiquette, anyway? You remember asking yourself the same question when you learned about some kind of experiment that tested this. Participants felt weird when people faced them rather than the doors. The experiment had something to do with the need to follow procedure. The need for conformity.
You realize that it was a psychology study.
“Hold—!”
You aren’t sure if you pressed a button or merely stuck a toe in the gap.
But the doors slide open all the same.
And you find yourself face-to-face with Namjoon.
His solid body is outlined in black, shoulders and torso thick in his long, wool coat, head rounded underneath his Louis Vuitton fitted, eyes hidden by his dark sunglasses. They contrast against his fairer skin, and his white turtleneck sweatshirt, showing off his muscular neck and chest. You might not have recognized him if he hadn’t had his signature dimples in tow.
As you take him in, you suddenly feel the lace of your bra on your skin.
“Thanks,” Namjoon breathes.
“Sunglasses?” you ask with disdain.
He grins at you as he takes off his sunglasses and places them in the smaller messenger bag crossing his body. His rosy cheeks and bloodshot eyes suggest that he’s been doing some partying. When he yawns, you smell the alcohol on his breath, and you picture smoke spiraling into the air.
“Don’t be jealous that I had a better night than you did,” Namjoon replies, leaning back on the wall.
He juts out his hips to make room for the railing behind him, pulling your eyes to his broad torso, his wool coat swinging open like curtains on opening night.
You fold your arms and whip back around, leaning over to the elevator’s panel to press his button as hard as he’s pressing yours.
“You don’t know what kind of night I’ve had,” you grumble.
“Bet I can guess,” he says simply. “It’s not that late, and you’re too dressed up.”
He lets your silence fall, but he won’t let it persist.
“C’mon,” he eggs. “Tell me about—”
When the elevator shakes, then comes to a grinding halt, you stumble backward and jam your elbow into his stomach. You do it by accident, but you kind of count it as a win.
“Sorry,” you mumble, not quite feeling it.
“It’s fine,” Namjoon replies, “but, uh…”
Both of you have moved swiftly past the seemingly nonexistent injury, your eyes instead roving around your surroundings. The elevator car isn’t moving. The overhead, fluorescent white has been supplanted with a dire red glow. Everything is frozen. Placed on pause. And on high alert.
Your fingers wiggle anxiously, and you realize that you’ve dropped your phone on the ground. You bend over to pick it up, and you grimace at the harsh light and the lack of bars keeping you separated from Rae and Dina. You wish you could text them. Call them. Hear their voices. Even if they were mocking.
Instead, you get Namjoon’s concerned, “You got anything?”
“No,” you reply, doubly defeated.
“Fuck’s sake.”
Namjoon steps forward. You start to feel surprisingly warm. It could be the fact that you’re cut off from your air supply, desperate to feel the breeze as you walk down the hall. But it could also be the fact that as Namjoon steps forward, he places his hand on your waist to make sure he doesn’t barrel into you as he examines the elevator panel.
He hesitates before pressing the emergency call button, but a voice greets you both before you shove Namjoon out of the way and punch the button yourself.
Your super’s voice sounds tinny and buzzy through the old speaker. “Is anyone there?”
“Yes!” you cry out. “Me and this idiot!”
Namjoon scoffs and crouches down to get eye-level with the speaker, because in his mind, that’s going to do something. “We think the elevator stopped?” he replies. “Is there something wrong?”
“Is there something wrong??” you mutter under your breath.
“Hello?” your super calls back out to you. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m guessing there are at least a couple of you in there? The cameras picked you up.” You hear some clicking in the background. “There’s something wrong with the comms system, but don’t worry, I’m calling for help!”
“Oh fuck,” you sigh. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“It’ll be alright,” Namjoon tells you. “He just said that they were—”
“I don’t give a shit what he said!” you exclaim. “The last thing that I need is for this terrible night to end like this.”
Namjoon watches you with what you think is pity at first. But then you realize his eyes are softer than that. Filled moreso with curiosity. Worry, even.
You hate surrendering. “Don’t rub it in,” you pout.
He smiles gently, holding your gaze. You wonder if he feels hot, too. You guess so, based on how he slips out of his wool coat, holding it by the collar while he watches you shift your weight from your left to your right hip. His eyes latch there, attempting to follow your curves in those high-rise jeans, but stopped by so many other distractions. A glance at your contemplative face. The sight of your hand delicately slipping your phone into your pocket. Your mean, fiery stare.
Namjoon folds his coat over his arm. “Wasn’t going to,” he says.
He leans back against the side wall of the elevator and slides his body down the slippery metal, no bar keeping his back from slithering down to the floor, ass cushioning against the patterned steel floor, knees bending and forcing his thick thighs to bulge out. He pulls his folded coat off of his arm and sets it next to him, patting it and looking up at you.
“I really want to know,” he says. “Tell me about your night.”
You shift your weight again and fold your arms.
“It might be five minutes, or it might be five hours,” Namjoon reasons. “Might as well get things off your…” You feel his eyes tracing your breasts through your top. “…Chest.”
You stare at him for a little while longer.
And then you decide to sit down next to him, curling your legs under you, pleasantly surprised at how soft the wool of his coat actually is when you place your steadying palm on the edge of the makeshift cushion.
“Girls’ night?” he ventures.
“Date night,” you say miserably.
“Ugh.” Namjoon reaches into the left pocket of his black sweatpants and pulls out a vape pen. “You’ll presumably need this to keep going.”
You let out a laugh.
He offers the vape pen up to you. Pumps it in the air a couple times.
You smile. You lean forward. And you take a hit.
He holds the pen in place and presses his thumb securely on the button. You feel his eyes trace your lips’ every move, from the way they seal around the tip, suck the hit into your mouth, and release the vapor into the elevator car. He licks his own lips when you pull away, and as he brings the pen to his mouth to take his own hit, he nods for you to go on.
“Not much to tell,” you explain. “Just… not what I was expecting.”
“Well, there’s your problem,” he can’t help but point out. But it doesn’t feel like too much of a jab this time. “Expectations,” he clarifies. “Having them always leads to disappointment.”
You nod slowly. “Well. You’re right about that.”
The dire red that you’re basking in feels less like the alarm lighting for an emergency situation and more like the bar in which you had set your sights on Jungkook. It’s admittedly better now that Namjoon is in view instead. His gazes are always so direct and purposeful, even when he’s telling you not to expect anything.
How long have you been looking at each other?
“Anyway, what were you up to tonight?” you ask awkwardly, eyelashes fluttering as you look down and slightly away, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
“Don’t deflect.” Namjoon leans into you, his shoulder touching your upper arm. “I wanna know more.”
“More about how shitty I feel?” you groan.
“No,” Namjoon says softly. “More about how this guy didn’t live up to your expectations.”
You shrug. “Texting was nice. He asked me out for drinks. But he seemed kinda quiet and aloof?” You tilt your head. You wonder how far you’ll go in your description. “His eyes were so big, but…” Psychology majors like this kind of shit, right? “Distant,” you finish.
Namjoon nods rhythmically. He looks out at the cirrus clouds you’ve co-created. “Like the gas giants.”
You crinkle your nose. “The what?”
“The gas giants,” Namjoon goes on. “Past the asteroid belt. Jupiter. Saturn.” He sighs. “Huge and pretty and wondrous, but no known ground to stand on.”
“Sure.” You smile, amused. “Nerd.”
Namjoon beams back at you. “‘Nerd’ must be a compliment if you’re leaving vapid pretty boys like that at the bar.”
You think about the psychology study in the elevator. All those bodies pressed up against each other. No one daring to look each other in the eye.
His pupils meet yours.
“And why would I compliment you?” you ask quietly.
Namjoon’s still beaming when he says, “Well, it seems that I never fail to disappoint you, so maybe I’m the one person who actually meets your expectations tonight?”
The red light and the vapor and the heat are all mixing so well. Is that Namjoon’s sweat that you smell? Why do you want it on your tongue?
“Remains to be seen,” you find yourself saying, your gaze landing on his left dimple.
He’s close.
Very close.
And then he’s part of you, and you actually taste him on your tongue.
When you pull away from that dreamy, pent-up kiss, Namjoon stares at you in awe, slack-jawed. “His loss,” he whispers, before diving back into you.
The high is heady. You hear his hat hitting the floor, and his sunglasses landing inside. You can feel hands, wonderfully warm and large hands, digging into your top, nearly ripping into the lace of your bra that you’re still too aware of. You can feel those hands roving, and air hitting your skin. Stale air, but new air, at the same time. The metal is cold. Welcomingly so.
“Wait,” you sigh.
“This is the bra I saw, right?” he asks. “The package? God, I couldn’t stop picturing—”
“Namjoon,” you sigh, leaning back, now topless, pressed up against the elevator wall.
“I always wondered what it’d be like to hear you say my name like that,” he whispers, kneeling in front of you.
“But, uh, should we be— I mean, I— They could be here any minute—”
“Oh.”
Namjoon has just stripped his sweatshirt off with one hand. The ripples of his muscle look that much more dangerous in this red, hazy glow.
“Do you not want to, then?” he asks.
“Damn it,” you mutter, reaching out for him, and making him infuriatingly chuckle at you again.
Once his tongue gets its fill of your hungry and eager mouth, he seeks to find a path down your neck and into your ample breasts, his jawline in contrast to your body not just because his vanilla dimples pop out against your espresso skin, but also because he is handsomely chiseled and you are wantonly, beautifully soft.
His tongue wraps around your right nipple, and his lips form a seal not unlike the one you had formed around his vape. Not unlike the one he hopes you’ll form elsewhere.
“Shit,” you sigh, arching back to give him whatever else you can.
“You like it?” he asks, palming your left breast and reaching down for the small of your back, forearm guiding your gorgeous ass to rest on his knees, free hand telling your body to straddle him. To make room for him. “Feels good when I lick you like this?”
“Mm-hmm,” you whine, daring to peek at him through your heavy-lidded eyes.
“Think of how good it will feel when I’m here.”
He presses his firm body into your mound, and you feel a jolt up from your clit.
“You gonna make me wait?” you groan.
“I know how much you love the build-up,” he answers, making you whimper.
Every complaint. Every squabble. Merely foreplay.
You really hate when people are right. Especially Rae and Dina.
Namjoon, too. He feels so right. Too right.
He leans up to kiss you again, leaving your lips this time with a sweet, “Don’t be shy. Rock against me. Grind on me. Make a mess. I wanna feel it.”
You nod slowly, locking eyes with him as he pulls away, reveling in the feel of your flesh working against him as he alternates between fondling your breasts and clutching your hips so tightly that you’re sure they’ll turn to dust.
“You gonna come?” he dares you. “Just from this?”
“Ugh,” you whine. “I thought you weren’t gonna rub it in.”
“Mmm,” Namjoon moans. “You sure that’s what you want?”
He places the inside of his wrist on your right thigh, the pad of his thumb right against your clit, but only barely perceptible through your jeans.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you whine.
Namjoon smirks as he presses his strong thumb against you, and you bite your lip to keep from howling.
“How hard up are you?” he wonders aloud.
You find it easier to ignore his questions when he’s making you come.
Squealing, you writhe, sweaty hands staining imprints on Namjoon’s wool coat. When your wrists threaten to slide out from under you, Namjoon grabs them and holds you steady, kissing and swallowing your moans.
“Can’t believe no one’s taken care of you,” he whispers in your ear.
Your eyes narrow momentarily. Too clear. “I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, I know you can,” he grunts huskily. “But—”
“But what?” you ask between panting breaths. “You’re here now?”
“Well,” he says with an easy smile. “Yeah.”
Namjoon hugs you close and turns you, his hands resting on your shoulders and following your arms until both of his hands get to both of your wrists. He raises your arms up and instructs you to hold onto the rail on the back wall.
You watch him warily as he unbuttons your pants, and then you grab the rail tight as he yanks them off of you. He grunts when he sees your matching lacy underwear at an angle, the band at your right hip resting against your right thigh, the band at your left hip closer to your left knee. When he sees your pooled desire in the panel between, he nearly loses it.
“Fuck, your body,” he admires. He pulls your underwear off of your and scoots his lower half down so that his lips can follow you, every turn sinuous, and sinful. Skin sable, supple, and sweet. He smells you, those strong streams of air pulling the invisible hairs on your skin upward, nostrils breathing you in as hungrily as his desire for a taste, which he takes heaping gulps of as he kisses down to your mound. “Gorgeous,” he moans. “Always wondered. Kind of always knew.”
“Don’t do that,” you whisper, trying not to let your attention shift to how many times you’d stared at your ceiling wondering the same. Trying to stay focused on the amazing pressure of his form on yours.
“Let me,” he growls. He peers up at you, his eyes twin stars on the horizon of the landscape of your midnight body. “You like it.” He smiles. “And I like that you like it.”
He dives in, tongue first, lips following soon after, cushioning that chiseled jaw against your pulsing clit, your moans clawing themselves out of you. You’re so wet, overflowing at the way his tongue tip painstakingly paints your flesh, tapping in for more, lips rounding, Adam’s apple bobbing, not just sucking, but suckling, feeding off of the heat and energy you’re giving him.
The tinge of pain at the seal makes you think about how hard you suck on straws.
“Joon,” you sigh through your peak, body thrashing even under his hold.
He rises a little. Grinning. Proud.
Your hand finds its way into his soft hair, fluffy from all his sweat. He worked so hard. You’ve really put him through it.
When you massage his scalp, he moans. Shivers a little. Hums into your thighs.
A soft laugh floats out of you as you admire him, lying there, lazy and happy. “Rae told you about my skills,” you begin.
“Can’t wait to see them in action,” Namjoon says. He looks at you again. “But I want to give you more.”
“Fine,” you tell him. “Then I want more.”
He nods and mumbles something as he fully undresses, and then he helps you to your shaky feet. He turns you around and helps you bend over, propping your weak arms and heavy head on the rail in the back of the elevator, still slippery from your palms.
“OK like this?” he asks, as he palms your ass.
You wiggle it back at him, pushing into him. When he squeezes you, you can’t help but laugh fondly. How amazing it is, that a squeeze could make you feel so wanted.
He slides into you, neither of you needing any more prep, both of you so ready for each other since the first time he’d bumped into you on the elevator with his bike.
He stretches you out, making you plant your stance a little firmer to be able to take it. You hiss and whimper, your breath fogging up that shiny metal, and your sweat washing it away again.
And then he gives you a firm, long, slow stroke that sends you up on your toes.
You moan against the elevator wall, left cheek and the side of your nose smushed up against it, your voice tinny against the metal.
He leans forward and fondles your breasts, pressing his chest onto your back.
And then he starts to pump.
There’s no point in trying to hold onto the rail. You have no more strength, all of it being spent on really feeling Namjoon inside of you, filling you back up with everything he’d drunk from you, pressing into you with such force, and yet holding you with such care, hand under your chin to keep you from bashing your face into the wall with each incredible snap of his hips.
He moves faster.
You try to dig your nails into something, anything. They find homes in your own skin as you claw at your forearms, and your wails echo that self-inflicted pain as much as Namjoon’s gifted pleasure.
“Mmm, I know,” he whispers into your ear, as he reaches down with both hands to wedge his arms between yours, giving you his own skin to dig and claw and latch into. “I know, baby. I know.”
He couldn’t possibly know. Or perhaps he knows all too well. It has to be one of the extremes. Maybe even both at the same time. Otherwise, it couldn’t hurt so damn good.
“Guh… gonna…” you trail off in a moan, shaking your head sadly.
It’s a crazy thing when you can’t control your words. They’re kind of all you have.
Then again, Namjoon is used to taking you to a place where you suddenly lose them.
He holds you even tighter, squeezing not only your luscious ass, but also your breasts, your shoulders, your ribs, your lungs, your guts, the ones he’s pounding sharply into, that warm-up of a long stroke long gone, in its stead a deliberate tunneling deeper inside, his length swelling as his head crashes into your wall again and again and again until you—
“Fuck!” Namjoon cries out as you come, his right hand suddenly letting go of your shoulder and running down your body to your pussy, rubbing you in circular motions to help milk every last bit of your release out of you, “So, so tight, and—”
He falters a little, the sole of his foot slamming down for resolve. He uses it to drive him into you one last time. And then he’s using it to guide his body through his orgasm, pressing your body against the wall, into the railing, nearly embedding you in this cocoon of metal.
Your breaths make Rorschachs on the steel.
You smile, and when your arm regains enough strength, you reach up and trace the border.
Namjoon chuckles, and it doesn’t sound so annoying anymore.
“Good?” he asks.
You’re still out of words. So you draw a smiley face into your last breath, making him snort.
After a relished moment of warmth and delight, he slips out of you, and you surrender not just your will, but your top, wiping yourself, and then him, down with the soft fabric. Laughing, you get back into your bra, one of its straps on its last thread, and your pants, and your shoes. He pulls on his sweats and offers your soaked underwear back to you, which you take and roll into your shirt.
And then he holds up his wool coat.
“You can borrow it for the walk back,” he tells you.
“To yours?” you tease.
“Ideally,” he giggles. He wraps you up in his arms, kissing you. Clumsily mumbling things to you. Telling you how much fun that was. That he’s wanted to do it for a while. That he wants to do it again, and again, and again.
But your super’s voice crackles through the speaker to interrupt that kiss.
“Hello, whoever’s in there, hope you’re doing OK!” he exclaims. “Just want to let you know the firefighters are finally here! We’re gonna get you out! They’re just calling in for backup for a new beam to help hold the door!”
You lock eyes with Namjoon.
And you both smile.