Aubade | J.J.K FF ✔

2.5

you never saw your neighbor as the drinking type--not that you really saw him, though--but drink he did. a lot. whiskey bomb after whiskey bomb. jager bomb after vodka shot. 

he packed a lot of alcohol for a guy who liked to cozy himself up in the apartment with big sweaters. he did away with the sweater this time and left you absolutely drooling over his exposed forearms and the tight curve of his thighs against his form-fitting black jeans.

he was definitely hiding a killer body under those soft, baby boy sweaters. the buttons of his button up shirt strained across his broad chest and small rivers of sweat could be seen from his neck, curving down and down until they disappeared underneath the collar of the expensive white satin.

as much as you hoped, you knew he probably wasn't alone, his body always disappearing to go into the center of the storm and when he returned, there was another button unbuttoned.

can you blame him for getting it on, though? stop acting as if you give a shit.

and so you ignore him for the most part, still sending drinks his way but with the same polite smile reserved for everyone else, the curve of your lips practically tattooed against your face seeing the way that it never slipped.

he didn't pay you much attention after that first moment of recognition as well, giving you almost a carbon copy of your polite smile.

it's not until a group of boys appear over his shoulder with friendly shoves and wide grins that you realize that he came with a group of buddies. 

can't get laid without a group to see your success, amirite?

they all order, one asking for a fruity cocktail that you desperately want to raise a brow at, but don't because you chickened out, and the rest with vodka and one with a coke; you hand him an ice-cold, unopened can that he gives you an appraising grin for.

they're all handsome, the strobe lights highlighting the sharp edges of their jaws that can cut like knives and quirks of grins that leave you breathless. they all look like angels, if angels came to earth to get plastered before going back up to face whatever higher power there is.

"you really got a sex on the beach, hyung?" the boy holding a coke sneers, raising a groomed eyebrow at the blond.

the blond retaliates by hitting the bottom of his can, cackling as coke splashes onto the other's face, the liquid dripping off of that absolutely delectable jawline.

you have to physically look away, forcing your neck to move and look down at the bottles of alcohol. horny much, bora?

"having fun over there with your pansy ass coke, taehyung?" he snickers, giving the boy--taehyung, you assume--a cruel smile.

you leave to one end of the bar to deliver more cocktails before walking back, waiting for more orders somewhere in the middle. you can still hear the little conversation occurring, though.

"my sex on the beach has more alcohol than all of your lame ass drinks," the blond continues, facing the rest of the boys.

"we literally have the same amount of alcohol," a different boy drawls, one of the taller ones with a dimpled smile and an ease that makes your heart tremble. "there's nothing special about your drink other than the fact that it--"

"sounds utterly ridiculous, just like you," taehyung fires at the blond, cutting of the man. "sorry, namjoon hyung."

"you wanna go, little dick," the blond yells, voice higher than your grades, right as you spot a man slipping a little, white pill into a girl's drink, watching intently as she looks back into the gyrating fray.

right before he can hand her drink, you snatch it from him, immediately dumping the drink into a sink and raising an eyebrow at his spluttering face. tapping the shoulder of the woman, you give him an innocent smile.

"he tried to spike your drink," you say, nodding to the man who's trying to feign shock. 

you let the two of them yell it out and return back to your station in the middle of your work space, the girl throwing his flashy red wine onto his shirt and smacking him before leaving, returning almost immediately with a bouncer.

you can feel eyes staring holes into your face, a look so prickly on your skin that it takes everything you have not to stare back. instead, you give the customer that polite smile as he tries to drunkenly flirt with you. 

you let him rest his hand on your arm and pay no attention as his hand moves up, caressing your bicep and his fingers wandering over to lay on the second button of your button down. at this point, you usually would have moved out of the way, given him that infuriating polite curve of your lips and handed him his drink.

but you're not in the right mind, your neighbor's presence seeping into you and a heavy blush--thankfully unseen by the club interior-graces your cheeks, infusing them with pink right across the bridge of your nose and the apples of your cheeks.

the customer unbuttons your second button with a feral grin, and you, rather uncharacteristically, give him a matching grin, letting your fingers linger on his own as you hand him his whiskey on the rocks.

with a wink, he spins away, disappearing into the craziness as your blood pumps an intoxicating beat through your veins, your very skin on fire and a need to be touched deep in your consciousness. 

lonelier than usual, huh bora? you think to yourself with a quiet snort, going back to the group as they call you over, the blond asking for yet another tropical and crazy colored drink with a grin that showed how much he loved teasing his friends.

your neighbor is outright staring at you now, and you don't know what it is--the bass pumping in the background, the weird high you got in this type of setting--that makes you stare right into his eyes.

that's not the first mistake you make that night.